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Say and Seal, Volume 1

<h3 id="id00596" style="margin-top: 3em">CHAPTER VI.</h3> While Mr. Somers was enjoying his cup of unexpected tea at Mrs. Derrick's, Squire Deacon and Miss Cilly had a sociable tête-à-tête over theirs; for Joe Deacon, who was in the full enjoyment of some fourteen years of boyhood, scarcely made a third in the conversation until his appetite was satisfied. Conversation indeed hardly existed during the first portion of the meal. Miss Cilly poured out her tea and broke her biscuit with a certain prim sort of elegance which belonged to that young lady—as at least she believed. But sipping tea and nibbling biscuit went on in company with thoughts. "Sam, what are you bothering yourself about Mr. Linden for?" "How long since you was made a trustee?" said the Squire, beginning his sentence with an untranslatable sort of grunt, and ending it in his teacup. "Give us the sugar bowl down this way, Cilly," said Joe,—"this apple sarce is as sour as sixty." "I've been your trustee ever since you was up to anything," said his sister. "Come Sam—don't you begin now. What's made you so crusty?" "It aint the worst thing to be crusty," said the Squire, while Joe started up and seized the sugar bowl. "Shews a man's more'n half baked, any how." Miss Cilly vouchsafed a rather sour smile to these manifestations of disposition on the part of both her brothers. "Well, what has he done?" "Sure enough," said the Squire, (he kept his small stock of big words for company) "what has he done? That's just what I can't find out." "What do you want to find out for? What ails him?" "Suppose he hasn't done nothing"—said the Squire,—"is that the sort o' man to teach litteratur in Pattaquasset?" "Lit—what?" said his sister with an arch of her head. "Anything you've a mind to," said the Squire sulkily. "I wouldn't say anything against Mr. Linden's literature, if I was you; because it's my belief, Sam, it'll stand any pecking you make at it. What's given you such a spite at him? You're a goodnatured fellow enough in general." "The whole temperature of Pattaquasset's come about since he come," replied the Squire comprehensively. "He's a gentleman!" said Miss Cilly bridling again. "He won't hurt anybody's manners—not the best—if they was to copy him." "He didn't hurt mine," said Joe patronizingly. "To be sure I didn't go to him long." "Do the boys like him, Joe?" "Well I daresay they wouldn't if they could help it," said Joe, "if that's any comfort. Some other folks likes him too,—besides Sam." "Aint he a good teacher?" "Firstrate—" said Joe, "taught me all I ever learned. I didn't go but four weeks, and Sam thought 'twarn't no use for me to hold on any longer. My! Cilly—he'd make you roll up your eyes in arithmetic!" "Now Sam Deacon, what do you expect to do by all this fuss you're making?" said his sister judicially. "What's the use of cross-examining a man at that rate?" said the Squire restlessly. "When I do anything, you'll know it." "You'll make yourself a fool, one of these fine mornings; that's what I count upon," said Miss Cecilia. "He's a match for you, I have a presentiment, Sam." "He won't be for you," said the Squire with some heat. "There's Mr. Simlins goin' along," said Joe, who having finished his supper was gazing out of the window. "O my! if he was cut up into real simlinses, what a many there'd be!" "You hush, Joe!" said his sister wrathfully. "He's comin' in." And Mr. Simlins' tall figure did indeed come through the gate and up the walk, from which a very few more steps and minutes brought him to the tea table. "Well, Mr. Simlins!" said Miss Cecilia as she gave him his cup,—"you've got back. I heard you were returned." "Yes!" said the farmer deliberately stirring his tea,—"I've got back! And I'm glad, for one. I've been visiting my relations in New Jersey; and I've made up my mind that the Simlinses made a good move when they come to Connecticut." "You found them all well?" said Miss Cecilia politely. "Well, no, I didn't," said Mr. Simlins. "How's a man to find five hundred and fifty people all well? 'Taint nature. How's things with you, Squire?" "Wheat's done well—corn middlin'," replied the Squire, while Joe got behind his sister's chair and whispered, "There's another name in the diction'ry sounds like your'n, though they aint spelled just alike." "Goin' to school, Joe?" growled Mr. Simlins. "No sir," said Joe. "Mr. Linden teached me all he knowed in a jiffy,—and all I know, too." "Well—are the other boys learnin' yet?" said Mr. Simlins, as he spread a slice of bread pretty thick with butter. "S'pose so"—said Joe,—"all they kin." "It's hard work!" said Mr. Simlins. "I feel it now! Never ploughin' made my back ache like learnin'. I wonder whatever they made me school trustee for, seein' I hate it like pison. But s'pose we mustn't quarrel with onerous duties," said the farmer, carrying on sighing and bread and butter and tea very harmoniously together. "I shouldn't mind takin' a look at your last copy-book, Joe, if it would be agreeable." "O Mr. Linden kep' that," said Joe unblushingly, "'cause it was so good lookin'." "He was so fond of you?" said Mr. Simlins. "How come he to let you go?" "I staid away," said Joe, drumming on the back of Miss Cecilia's chair. "Cilly's got the rest of the copy-books—she likes the writin' too." "Joe, behave yourself!" said his sister. "Mr. Simlins knows better than to believe you." "Did you ever get flogged, Joe, for bad writin'?" said the farmer. "Worse'n that!" said Joe, shaking his head,—"I've had to do it over!" "Now you've got to do it over for me," said Mr. Simlins. "You write your name for me there—the best you kin—and 'Pattaquasset, Connecticut'—I want to see what the new school's up to." "No"—said Joe—"I aint agoin' to do it. You ask one of the other boys. It wouldn't tell you nothin' if I did, 'cause I learned writin' afore,—and I didn't go to him but four weeks, besides." And Joe at once absented himself. "Is it workin' as straight with all the rest of 'em as it is with him?" said Mr. Simlins. "You and me's got to see to it, you know, Squire—seein' we're honorary individuals." "Yes," said Squire Deacon, rousing up now Joe was gone—he had a wholesome fear of Joe's tongue—"Yes, Mr. Simlins,—and it's my belief it wants seein' to—and he too." "Joe,"—said Mr. Simlins. "Ne-ver fear—he'll see to himself." "Here's some of his writin'," said Joe, returning with a spelling book. "All the boys gets him to write in their books." And laying it down by Mr. Simlins, Joe took his final departure. "What do the boys want him to write in their books for?" growled Mr. Simlins, surveying the signature. "I believe," said Miss Cecilia, "he is very popular in the school." "Well, Squire," pursued Mr. Simlins, "can Joe clinch this?" "He aint with me—if that's what you mean," said Squire Deacon. "A man's writing don't prove much." "Don't go no furder," said Mr. Simlins assentingly. "Well Squire—if you'll go furder I shall be wiser." And freed from the fear of contradiction, the Squire had not the least objection to going further. "He's not the man to have here," said Squire Deacon,—"I saw that the first day I saw him. I tried him,—and he didn't toe the mark." "How did you try him?" growled Mr. Simlins. "I'd like to know how much he's up to. I haint found it out yet." "I tried him, sir," said the Squire, "I tried him with a classical story. Now Miss Faith gave in at once, and said she didn't know what it was; but t'other one made believe as though he knew all about it. And if a man aint classical, Mr. Simlins, what is he?" "I aint classical," growled Mr. Simlins again, "but then I don't set up for to be. I s'pose that makes a difference, Squire; don't it?" "Some people's more than they set out to be, and some people's less," replied the Squire. "Well,—does he set up for to be classical in school? What does he teach 'em?" "I reckon he sets up for 'most everything he ever heard spoke of, Mr. Simlins. Teach 'em? why he teaches 'em out of all sorts o' superflus books!" "Does!" said Mr. Simlins with a surprised look. "Our boys don't want none o' your superficies. They've got their bread to make. Give us an invoice o' them books, Squire." "Just you look at 'em for yourself, Mr. Simlins—then you'll know. Step down there some day in school time and look over the boys. Now I can understand figurs with any man, but what's the use o' crosses and straight lines and Vs turned wrong side up?" Mr. Simlins pushed back his chair and rubbed his chin. "Well Squire—you and me are trustees—what in your judgment and opinion had we ought to do, in these precedents?" "Get rid on him—I say," replied the Squire promptly. "Then here he is, leadin' all the girls round town, and for all any one of 'em knows he's a married man." "Humph I think so?—What do the folks say of him?" said Mr. Simlins. "There's Mrs. Derrick—what does she say of him—he's in her house, she ought to have an idee. And Faith—now I'd take that gal's judgment on a most anything—What do they think about him, Squire?" "Never asked 'em a word," said the Squire stoutly—"nor heard 'em say one, neither. But he gets fur'n letters all the time, Widow Stamp says—and female writin' too. Who knows but he's got a wife in some fur'n country?—or two"—added the Squire, without specifying where the plural belonged. "I'm a justice of peace, Mr. Simlins, and this shouldn't be let go on." Mr. Simlins looked up from under his brows with a queer look at his host. "If he has two, he must want the school—bad!"—said he. "Well Squire, I'll go along and see what can be done. If I was you, mean time, I'd not say much to no one. There's Judge Harrison, you know;—we can't act without him. Good night t'ye! Squire, I guess he haint two?—Anyhow, I wouldn't let fly no warrants till I saw my bird sitting somewhere. It's bad to have 'em hit in a wrong place." And it was well it was darkish and nobody to look at him; for Mr. Simlins went grinning pretty much all the way between Squire Deacon's house and the house of Mrs. Derrick, where Mr. Linden was entertaining his shadow in the moonlit porch. "Good even to you!" growled Mr. Simlins as he came up. The grin was gone, and the farmer stood with his wonted solemnity of face and manner. "Where's the rest o' your folks?" "The rest of my folks are a good way off, Mr. Simlins," said the person addressed, giving the questioner his hand; while his shadow exchanged civilities with the shadow of Mr. Simlins. "When did you come back? I am glad to see you?" "I'm glad to see myself," said Mr. Simlins. "There's no State like Connecticut, sir. Where's your bringin' up place? "No one place has had that honour, Mr. Simlins,—I have been brought up from one to another." "Not Connecticut, eh?" "Not altogether—I am here just now, as you see,—getting a part of my education. I am one of the Say and Seal people in a way. Won't you come in, Mr. Simlins?" "Well—I'd as lief see Faith and Mrs. Derrick as a'most any other two folks in Pattaquasset,—but they're a long ways off, you say?" "No further than the parlour, I believe." Mr. Simlins was willing to go as far as the parlour, and so the party on the porch adjourned thither. A bright lamp lit the room, by which Faith was mending stockings; while Mrs. Derrick sat in an easy chair a little further off, rocking and knitting. "Well," said Mr. Simlins, "when the sun goes down I think it is time to knock off work; but womenkind don't seem to think so." "I guess when the sun goes down your work's knocked off, Mr. Simlins," said Mrs. Derrick. "Fact, Mrs. Derrick, when I'm to home; but when a man's visiting he has to work night and day. Moonlight's moonlight now. I declare, in Jersey I thought it was broad sunshine.—You haven't been down to my place yet, Mr. Linden?" "No sir, not within the gate." "The Simlins' have held that place, sir, off and on, for nigh three hundred years. We're a good many Simlins'—and we're a good set, I'll say it! a pretty good set. Not thin-skinned, you know,—we can take a scratch without bein' killed—but we never would stand bein' trampled on. We're soft-hearted too; plenty o' what I may call tendrils, ready to take hold of anything; and when we take hold we do take hold. We cover a good deal of ground in the country, here and elsewhere—in the various branches. My mother was a Mush, and my grandmother was a Citron; a good families those, sir; can't do better than take a wife from one of them, Mr. Linden, if you are so disposed;—you haven't got one already, have you?" "What, sir?" said Mr. Linden, with more sharpness than he often shewed, and which made Mrs. Derrick drop her knitting and look up. "I thought you wasn't a married man—are you?" said Mr. Simlins, the grin just shewing itself again on his face. "Is that one of the charges brought against me?" said Mr. Linden, a little too roused himself to pay much heed to Mr. Simlins' questions. "Well I didn't know as you'd think it a 'charge,'" said Mr. Simlins with an unchanged tone. "I guess you mean to make it true some day, don't you?" The question fell unheeded—the charge did not; it touched him deeply; touched the proud sense of character; though no words gave evidence of the fact. "Faith, child," said Mrs. Derrick in that moment of silence, her whisper as low as she thought would reach across the table, "ought we to be here?" But a very emphatic, "Yes!" from the window, prevented the need of Faith's answer. "I was only recommending," said Mr. Simlins, "in case you wanted help to make up your mind. The Citrons are all gone to New Jersey—there's a few of the Mushes ramblin' round Connecticut yet. Well Mr. Linden—I hope you and your boys get on commodiously together?" "Just look into that basket on the table, and see what one of em brought him to-night," said Mrs. Derrick. "Those are Stoutenburgh Sweetings, Mr. Simlins." Mr. Simlins looked at the Sweetings and then looked towards the window. "I'd like to hear you speak a little on that point," he said. "Fact is, there's been some winds blowin' about Pattaquasset that aint come off beds o' roses; and I'd like to find where the pison is and clap a stopper on it for the future. It's easy done." Mr. Linden looked up with his usual expression, only the smile was grave and a little moved, and answered, "I could say a good deal on that point, Mr. Simlins. Yet I had rather you should ask the boys than me." "Don't want to ask the boys nothin', bless you!" said Mr. Simlins. "What I want to say is this;—what's the matter between you and the Squire? I've been askin' him, and he says you learn the boys to make a V wrong side upward—I can't make nothin' of that," said Mr. Simlins, with again the approach to a grin;—"'taint over easy to tell whether his Vs are one side up or 'tother. Now I'd like to know from you where the hitch is. The Squire aint likely to set the Mong in a configuration just yet—but if he's swingin' a torch round, I'd jest as lief put it out afore the sharks fly." "But Mr. Simlins, don't you think it is rather hard measure to ask me why people dislike me?" "Well—I don't see as I do," said Mr. Simlins placidly;—"'cause I know pretty well it's some chymistry idee of his own; and if I could get hold of it, you see, I should have a better handle. I guess the school never went on better than it's goin'; he don't know beans." "How do you know that I do?" said Mr. Linden smiling. "Why don't you ask him? I think at least half his ill will arises from a mistake." "Have asked him," said Mr. Simlins—"just come from there;—but he's pretty much like them V's we were speakin' about; don't spell nothin'. What's his mistake about then? if I knowed that, I could bring things to a concert." "Why," said Mr. Linden with grave deliberation, "suppose he wants to buy your house? and takes a walk up that way to set forth his terms." "Well—suppose he does"—said Mr. Simlins attentively. "He finds you and Judge Harrison in the porch, you talk about the crops and the weather, and he tells you he wants your house. What do you say to him?" "I tell him I don't sell it to no one but a Simlins—nor that neither till I can't live in it no longer myself." "Is that your fault—or Judge Harrison's?" said Mr. Linden, setting the basket of Stoutenburgh Sweetings on the little table in the full light of the lamp. "Miss Faith, if those are 'sweetenings,' they may as well do their office." The farmer sat with his elbows on his knees, touching the tips of his fingers together in thoughtful fashion, and softly blowing the breath through his lips in a way that might have reached the dignity of a whistle if it had had a trifle more of musicalness. "Is them the sort of lessons you give in school?" he said at length without stirring. "Why?" said Mr. Linden with a little bit of a smile. "Ingen-uous," said Mr. Simlins. "It's as good as a book, Mrs. Derrick," added he glancing up at the rocking chair, "is Squire Deacon wantin' to buy your house?" "My!" said Mrs. Derrick, again laying down her knitting, "can't he be content with his own? I hope he don't want ours," she added, some fear mingling with her surprise. "Miss Faith," said Mr. Linden, "do you think if I gave you an apple you would give me a knife?" "I hope he don't," growled Mr. Simlins as he rose up. "I never heerd that he did. Miss Faith—them Stoutenburgh Sweetings is good eatin'." Faith after setting a pile of plates and knives on the table, had taken up her stocking again. "Yes Mr. Simlins—I know they are." "Then why don't you eat one?" "I don't want it just now, Mr. Simlins—I'd rather finish my work." "Work!" said the farmer taking an apple. "Well—good evening! I'll go and look after my work. I guess we'll fix it. There's a sight o' work in the world!" With which moral reflection Mr. Simlins departed. "There'll be more work than sight, at this rate," said Mr. Linden when he came back from the front door. "Mrs. Derrick, how many stockings does Miss Faith absolutely require for one day?" "Why I don't know sir—and I don't believe I ever did know since she was big enough to run about," said Mrs. Derrick, her mind still dwelling upon the house. "Miss Faith, my question stands transferred to you." "Why you know," said Faith, intent upon the motions of her needle,—"I might require to mend in one day what would last me to wear a good many—and I do." "But, 'The day is done—and the darkness Falls from the wing of night.'" "I never mend stockings till then," said Faith smiling over her work. "Are Sam's apples good?" "By reputation." "I thought you were trying them! Why you asked me for a knife, Mr. Linden—and I brought it." "I'm sure I gave you an apple. Perhaps you thought it was a ball of darning cotton." "No, I didn't," said Faith laughing. "But what use is my apple to your knife, Mr. Linden?" "Not much—it has served the purposes of trade." "But what is the purpose of trade, Mr. Linden, if the articles aren't wanted?" "I see you are dissatisfied with your bargain," he said. "Well, I will be generous—you shall have the knife too;" and Mr. Linden walked away from the table and went upstairs. The parlour was very still after that. Faith's needle, indeed, worked with more zeal than ever, but Mrs. Derrick rolled up her knitting and put it in her basket, sighing a little as she did so: then sat and thought. "Faith, child," she said after a long pause, "do you think the Squire would ever take our house?" Faith hesitated, and the answer when it came was not satisfactory. "I don't know, mother." Mrs. Derrick sighed again, and leaned back in her chair, and rocked; the rockers creaking in rather doleful sympathy with her thoughts. Then an owl on a tree before the door hooted at the world generally, though Mrs. Derrick evidently thought his remarks personal. "I can't think why he should do that to-night, of all nights in the year!" she said, sitting straight up in her chair. "It never did mean good. Faith—what should we do if he did?"—this time she meant the Squire, not the owl. "Mother!"—said Faith, and then she spoke in her usual tone.—"We'd find a way." "Well!—" said Mrs. Derrick, rocking back and forth. Then she started up. "We've got to have biscuits for breakfast, whether or no! It's good I remembered 'em!" And she hurried out of the room, coming back to kiss Faith and say, "Don't fret, pretty child, whatever happens. Go to bed and to sleep,—I'll make the biscuit." And alert and busy she left the parlour. Faith's sleep was quiet, but not unbroken. For at that time when all well-disposed people, young or old, are generally asleep (in such a well-ordered community as Pattaquasset) it pleased the younger portion of said community to be awake. Yet they were well-disposed—and also ill! For repairing in a body to Mrs. Derrick's house they gave her nine cheers for her lodger,—thence departing to Squire Deacon's, they gave him as many groans as he could reasonably want for himself. After which the younger part of the community retired in triumph. It was said, by one adventurous boy, that falling in with Mr. Simlins they impressed him—that his voice helped on the cheers, but not the groans: and indeed the whole story needs confirmation. Faith heard the groans but faintly, owing to the distance, but the cheers were tremendous. It is painful to add that Joe Deacon was vociferous in both parties. <div style="break-after:column;"></div>

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