Say and Seal, Volume II

by Susan Warner; Anna Bartlett Warner

CHAPTER XXXVI.

It was the month

"When beechen buds begin to swell,
And woods the blue bird's warble know,"—

the month of the unbending of Nature—of softening skies and swelling streams and much underground spring work. As for instance, by the daffodils; which by some unknown machinery pushed their soft, pliant leaves up through frozen clods into the sunshine. Blue birds fluttered their wings and trilled their voices through the air, song sparrows sang from morning to night, and waxwings whistled for cherries in the bare tree tops. There the wind whistled too, "whiles," with the fall approbation of snow birds and chickadees,—the three going out of fashion together.

It was a busy month at Miss Bezac's—two weddings at Pequot and one in Pattaquasset kept her hands full,—and Faith's too. Just now the great point of interest was the outfit of Miss Maria Davids—the wedding dress, especially, being of the most complicate and ornamented description. Miss Bezac and Faith needed their heads as well as their hands, Miss Maria's directions with regard to flowers and furbelows being somewhat like the Vicar of Wakefield's in respect of sheep—only Miss Maria was willing to pay for all that went on, whereas the Vicar wanted the sheep for nothing.

Thus they stood, the two friends and co-workers, with the dress spread out on a table, contriving where the flowers should go and how many it would be possible to put on. Miss Maria's box of Pequot flowers on a chair near by, was as full as her directions.

"It would be better to take the box and turn it right over her after she's dressed, and let 'em stick where they would!" said Miss Bezac in some disgust. Whereupon, dropping her grave look of thought, Faith's laugh broke up the monotony of the occasion.

"Well that's good any way," said Miss Bezac. "And I'm sure everything's 'any way' about this dress. But I won't have you about it a bit longer,—you're tired to death standing up."

"I'm not much tired. Miss Bezac, let the lilacs have the bottom of the dress, and the roses and lilies of the valley trim the body.—And it will be like a spotted flower-garden then!" said Faith laughing anew.

How little like her occupation she looked,—with her brown stuff dress, to be sure, as plain as possible; her soft brown hair also plain; her quaint little white ruffles; and that brilliant diamond ring flashing wherever her hand went! N.B. A plain dress on a pretty person has not the effect of plainness, since it lets that better be seen which is the highest beauty.

Up Miss Bezac's mountain road came a green coach drawn by two fat grey horses; the coachman in front and the footman behind being in the same state of plethoric comfort. They addressed themselves to the hill with no hasty approbation yet with much mind to have their own way, and the hill yielded the ground step by step. At Miss Bezac's door hill and horses made a pause.

"Coaches already!" said Miss Bezac,—"that's a sign of summer, as good as wild geese. And you'd think, Faith, not having had much experience, that it was the sign of another wedding dress—but nothing worse than a calico wrapper ever comes out of a coach like that."

"Why?"—said Faith looking amused.

"The people that drive such coaches drive 'em to town for a wedding dress," said Miss Bezac sagely. "There's a blue bird getting out of this one, to begin with."

While she spoke, a tiny foot emerged from the coach, and after it a dress of blue silk, which so far from "standing alone" followed softly every motion of the wearer. A simply plain shirred spring bonnet of blue and white silk, made the blue bird comparison not altogether unapt,—the bird was hardly more fair and dainty in his way than the lady in hers. She stood still for a minute, shading her eyes with her hand, and looking off down the road; a slight, delicate figure, with that sort of airy grace which has a natural poise for every position,—then she turned abruptly and knocked at the door.

Now it was Miss Bezac's custom to let applicants open and shut for themselves, her hands being often at a critical point of work; so in this case, with a refractory flower half adjusted—while Faith was in the intricacies of a knot of ribband, she merely cried, "Come in!" And the young lady came—so far as across the threshold,—there she stopped. A quick, sudden stop,—one little ungloved hand that looked as if it had never touched anything harsher than satin, clasped close upon its gloved companion; the shawl falling from her shoulders and shewing the bunch of crocuses in her belt; the fair, sweet, high bred face—sparkling, withal flushing like a June rose. For a minute she stood, her bright eyes seeing the room, the work, and Miss Bezac, but resting on Faith with a sort of intenseness of look that went from face to hand. Then her own eyes fell, and with a courteous inclination of her head, she came for ward and spoke.

"I was told," she said, advancing slowly to the table, and still with downcast eyes,—"I was told that—I mean—Can you make a sunbonnet for me, Miss Bezac?" She looked up then, but only at the little dressmaker, laying one hand on the table as if to support herself, and with a face grave enough to suit a nun's veil instead of a sunbonnet.

Faith's eyes were held on this delicate little figure with a sort of charm; she was very unlike the Pattaquasset models. At the antipodes from Miss Essie De Staff—etherial compared to the more solid proprieties of Sophy Harrison,—Faith recognized in her the type of another class of creatures. She drew back a little from the table, partly to leave the field clear to Miss Bezac, partly to please herself with a better view.

"A sunbonnet?" Miss Bezac repeated,—"I should be sorry if I couldn't, and badly off too. But I'm afraid you'll be, for a pattern,—all I've got are as common as grass. Not that I wish grass was uncommon, either—but what's the stuff?"

"When I came out this morning," said the lady, glancing at Faith and then down again, "I did not expect to come here. And—I have brought no stuff. Can you send some one down to the village?—this young lady, perhaps.—May I take her with me now?"

"Why of course you may!" said Miss Bezac delightedly.—"Just as much as if I was glad to get rid of her—which I aint,—and am too,—for she's tired to death, and I was just wishing somebody that wasn't would take her home. Or some horses."

There was a sweet amused play of the lips in answer to this lucid statement of facts, and then turning towards Faith, the stranger said, "Will you go?"—the words were in the lowest of sweet tones.

"Where do you wish me to go?" said Faith, coming a step forward.

"With me—down into the village."

"I will go," said Faith. "Then I will take these two mantillas, Miss
Bezac,—and you shall have them the day after to-morrow."

The straw bonnet and shawl were put on in another minute, and not waiting for her gloves she followed the "blue bird" to the carriage, rather pleased with the adventure.

The little ungloved hand took firm hold of hers as they stepped out of Miss Bezac's door, and but that the idea was absurd Faith would have thought it was trembling. Once in the carriage, the two side by side on the soft cushions, the orders given to the footman, the coach rolling smoothly down the hill, the stranger turned her eyes full upon Faith; until the tears came too fast, quenching the quivering smile on her lips. Her head dropped on Faith's shoulder, with a little cry of, "Faith, do you know who I am?"

A sort of whirlwind of thoughts swept over Faith—nothing definite; and her answer was a doubtful, rather troubled, "No."—

"I know who you are!" said the stranger. "You are Mignonette."

"Who told you so?" said Faith, drawing back from her to look.

"Some one who knew!"—the face was lovely in its April of mischief and tears.

Faith's face grew very grave, with doubt, and bewilderment, and growing certainty, and drew yet further off. Rosy blushes, more and more witchingly shy, chased in and out of her cheeks; till obeying the certainty which yet was vague, Faith's head stooped and her two hands covered her face. She was drawn back into the stranger's arms, and her hands and face (what there could) were covered with kisses.

"Faith, is it strange your sister should know?—and why don't you let me have the rest of your face to kiss?—I haven't half seen it yet. And I'm sure Endy would not like to have his message delivered in these out of the way places."

Even as she spoke, the hands quitted the face, veiled only by the rosiest consciousness; and laying both hands on the stranger Faith gave her warm kisses—on cheeks and lips; and then looked at her, with eyes alternately eager and shy, that rose and fell at every new stir of feeling.

"How did you come here?"—she said with a sort of soft breathlessness. The eyes that looked at her were as intent, a little laughing, a little moved.

"How did I come here?—Faith, I knew you at the first glance,—how came you not to know me?"

"I—could not!" said Faith. "How came you here?"

"Here? in Pattaquasset—how I love the name! Faith, I shall expect you to take me to every place where Endecott set his foot when he was here."

Faith's eye gave a little answering flash. "I don't believe I know them all. Then—" she checked herself—"But how did you come here? You—were in Germany."

"Then what?—please answer me first."

How Faith blushed!—and laughed; but she grew very grave almost immediately.

"Please answer me!" she said.

"Yes, I was there—and I could not help coming here," Miss Linden answered. "To leave him there, after all! But I could not help it, Faith. When he determined to spend the year there—and I never saw him look so grave over a determination—it was for one reason alone. You know what?"

Faith did not assent nor dissent, but her eyes were swallowing every word.

"It seemed then as if it might not much lengthen his absence, and would ensure its being the last. And by-the-by, fair ladye, Endecott said I might make the most of you before he got home; for then he meant to have you all to himself for six months, and nobody else should have a sight of you."

As far as they could go, Faith's eyes fell; and her new sister might study the fair face and figure she had not had so good an opportunity of studying before. Perfectly grave, and still to her folded hands.

"After he was fairly launched in his work," Miss Linden went on, "Aunt Iredell began slowly to grow better; and as the winter passed she took the most earnest desire to come home—to America. Nothing could shake it; and the doctors approved and urged that there should be no delay. Then, Faith, I would have stayed,—but she was exceedingly dependent upon me, and most of all, Endecott said I ought to come. I believe he was glad to think of my being here for another reason. He came with us to Paris—it happened just then that he could come—and put us on board the steamer. But we were three days in Paris first,—O such pretty days!" she added smiling. "I'll tell you about them another time."

The downcast eyes were lifted and rested for a minute on the sparkling face before them. If a little warm light in their glance meant that all was "pretty" about which those two had to do, it said part at least of what was in Faith's mind.

"Now I am to be your neighbour for a while," said Miss Linden. "Aunt Iredell was ordered out of town at once, and last night we came up to Pequot,—so you must not wonder if you see me every other day after this. O how good it is to see you! Do you know," she said, wrapping her arms round Faith again, and resting the soft cheeks and lips upon hers, "do you know how much I have to say of this sort, for somebody else?"

"You are not going back to Pequot to-day?" said Faith softly.

"May I stay in Pattaquasset till to-morrow?"

"If I can take good enough care of you!" said Faith, kissing her half gladly, half timidly.

"And may I go home with you now?"

"Where are we going?" said Faith looking out.

"My dear, you ought to know! but I do not. I told them to drive about till I gave contrary orders. Now you must give them." And the check string brought the horses to a stand and the footman ditto. A half minute's observation enabled Faith to give directions for reaching the main Pattaquasset road and taking the right turn, and the carriage rolled on again. There was a little pause then, till Faith broke it. A rich preparatory colour rose in her cheeks, and the subject of her words would certainly have laughed to see how gravely, with what commonplace demureness, the question was put.

"Was Mr. Linden well, when you came from Germany?"

"Faith!" was his sister's prompt reply. Faith's glance, soft and blushing, yet demanded reason. Whereupon Miss Linden's face went into a depth of demureness that was wonderful. "Yes my dear, Mr. Linden was well—looking well too, which is an uncommon thing with him."

"Is it?"—said Faith somewhat wistfully.

"Not in the way I mean," said her new sister smiling,—"I thought nothing could have improved his appearance but—Mignonette. And I suppose he thought so himself, for he was never seen without a sprig of the little flowers."

Faith's look in answer to that was given to nothing but the ground, and indeed it was worthy to have been seen by only one person.

"Faith," said Miss Linden suddenly, "are there many French people in
Pattaquasset?"

"No,—not any. Why?"

"Because Endecott gave me a message to you, part of which I did not understand. But I suppose you will, and that is enough."

"What is it?" said Faith eagerly.

"You would not understand the other part, to-day."

Faith went back to her thoughtfulness But as the carriage turned into the Pattaquasset high street she suddenly faced round on Miss Linden, flushing again before she spoke.

"Pet," she said a little timidly—it was winning, this air of timidity that was about her,—"don't say—don't tell Mr. Linden where you found me."

"Faith! does he not know? is it something new? O dear child, I am very sorry!"—and Miss Linden's other hand came caressingly upon the one she held.

"Don't be sorry!—" said Faith, looking as fearless and sonsy as any real piece of mignonette that ever shook its brown head in the wind;—"I wouldn't tell you, only you must see it. You know, perhaps, that mother lived by a farm.—Last summer the farm was taken away and we had nothing left but the house. We had to do something, and I took to dressmaking with Miss Bezac—where you found me. And it has been very pleasant and has done very well," said Faith, smiling at Miss Linden as honestly as if the matter had been of music lessons or any other accomplishment. Miss Linden looked at her—grave and bright too. Then with a sparkle of her eyes—"I won't tell Endecott now, but some time I will tell him over what sort of a wedding-dress I found you poring. But my dear child!—" and she stopped with a look of sudden thought that was both grave and gay. Faith's eyes asked what the matter was.

"No, I will not tell him now," Miss Linden repeated,—"it is so little while—he could not know it in time for anything but his own sorrow. But Faith! I am going to make one of those mantillas!"—and she looked a pretty piece of defiant resolution.

"You shall do what you please," Faith said gayly. "But—will you stop them?—there is the house."

The coach came to a stand before Mrs. Derrick's little gate and the two ladies alighted. Miss Linden had been looking eagerly out as they drove up—at the house, the fence, the little garden courtyard, the steps,—but she turned now to give her orders, and taking Faith's hand again, followed her in, looking at every inch of the way. Faith drew the easy-chair out before the fire, put Miss Linden in it, and took off her bonnet and shawl. She staid but to find her mother and introduce her to the parlour and her guest; and she herself ran away to Mr. Linden's room. She knew that the brown woodbox was near full of wood which had been there since his sudden departure nine months ago. It was well dried by this time. Faith built a fire and kindled it; made the bed, and supplied water and towels; opened the blinds of one or two windows, laid books on the table, and wheeled up the couch. The fire was blazing by that time and shone warm and glowingly on the dark wood and furniture, and everything wore the old pleasant look of comfort and prettiness. Then Faith went for her guest.

"You will know where you are," she said a little vaguely,—"when you open the cupboard doors."

Miss Linden stood still for a moment, her hands folded, her lips again taking their mixed expression.

"And that is where he lay for so long," she said. It was a mixed remembrance to Faith; she did not like to answer. A moment's silence, and she turned her bright face to Miss Linden.

"Let me do what I can for you," she said with that mixture of grace and timidity.—"It isn't much. What may I now, Pet?"

"You did a lifetime's work then, you dear child!—and how I used to hear of it." And putting her arm round Faith's waist Miss Linden began to go slowly about the room, looking at everything—out of the windows and into the cupboards. "If you could have known, Faith—if you could have seen Endecott in some of the years before that, you would have known a little how very, very glad I was. I hardly believed that he would ever find any one who could charm him out of the solitary life into which sorrow had led him."

"I didn't do it!" said Faith simply.

"What do you suppose did?"

"I think he charmed himself out of it,"—Faith said blushing.

Miss Linden laughed, holding her very fast. "You are clear from all charge of malice prepense," she said. "And I will not deny his powers of charming,—but they are powerless upon himself."

"Do you think so?" said Faith. "A charm comes at the rebound, doesn't it sometimes?"

"Does it? How do I know?"

Faith laughed a little, but very softly. "Now shall I leave you for a little while?" she said.

"Will you be busy, or may I come down when I like?"

"I am going into the kitchen,—You wouldn't like to follow me there?"

"If I have leave—I am in the mind to follow you everywhere."

"Come then!" said Faith joyously.

Miss Linden might not be accustomed to seeing kitchens, or she might! there was no telling from her manner. Certainly that kitchen was a pleasant one to see. And she "followed," as she had said, wherever Faith went and watched her whatever she did, conversation going on meanwhile amusingly enough. Faith was making some cakes again; and then concocting coffee, the Pattaquasset fête dish in ordinary; while Mrs. Derrick broiled the chicken. With a great white apron enveloping her brown stuff dress, and her arms bared, running about the kitchen and dairy in her quick still way, Faith was a pretty contrast to the "blue bird" who smiled on her and followed her and talked to her throughout. Then the cakes were baking, and Faith came back to the sitting-room; to set the table and cover it with all dainty things that farm materials can produce. And if ever "Pet" had been affectionately served, she was that night, and if ever a room was fresh and sweet and warm and glowing, the fire-lit room where she went to sleep afterwards was such a one.

But before that, when they had done tea, and talk and motion had subsided a little, Miss Linden brought a low seat to Faith's side, and taking that left hand in hers looked silently at the ring for a few minutes,—then laid her cheek down upon it in Faith's lap. Faith's lip trembled; but she only sat still as a statue till the cheek was lifted up.