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Say and Seal, Volume 1

<h3 id="id02573" style="margin-top: 3em">CHAPTER XXI.</h3> "I know what I have to do to-day," said Faith the next morning. "Mr. Skip has got the box made, mother, and now I want the stuff to cover it." "Well that's ready—in my pantry, child." Whereupon Reuben offered his services; but all that was given him to do was to carry up Mr. Linden's breakfast. This was hardly well over when Dr. Harrison came. He was shewn into the sitting-room, just as Faith with her arms full of brown moreen came into it also from the pantry. The doctor was not going to lose a shake of the hand, and waited for the brown moreen to be deposited on the floor accordingly. "You are looking more like yourself to-day," he said. "I will call mother," said Faith. Which she did, leaving the doctor in company with the brown moreen. "Mrs. Derrick," said he, speaking by no means without a purpose, "I have cause of complaint against you! What have you done to allure my patient down here against orders?" "He's better here," said Mrs. Derrick with a cool disposing of the subject. "What did you want to keep him up there for, doctor?" "Only acted upon a vigorous principle of Mr. Linden's nature, madam.—If I had ordered him to come, he would have stayed. May I see him?" And Mrs. Derrick preceded the doctor up stairs, opened the door of the room and shut it after him. Mr. Linden was on the couch, but it was wheeled round by the side of the fire now, for the morning was cool. A little heap of unopened letters and post despatches lay before him, but the white paper in his hand seemed not to have come from the heap. As the doctor entered, this was folded up and transferred to the disabled hand for safe keeping. Mr. Linden had that quality (much more common among women than among men) of looking well in undress; but let no one suppose that I mean the combination of carelessness and disorder which generally goes by that name, and which shews (most of all) undress of the mind. I mean simply that style of dress which Sam Weller might call 'Ease afore Ceremony;'—in its delicate particularity, Mr. Linden's undress might have graced a ball-room; and, as I have said, the dark brown wrapper with its wide sleeves was becoming. Dr. Harrison might easily see that his patient was not only different from most of the neighbourhood, but also from most people that he had seen anywhere; and that peculiar reposeful look was strongly indicative of power. "Good morning!" said the doctor. "Do you expect me to behave well this morning?" "Why no—" said Mr. Linden. "My experience hitherto has not led me to expect anything of the sort." The doctor stood before the fire, looking down at him, smiling almost, yet with a keen eye, as at a man whose measure he had not yet succeeded in taking. "What did you come down here for, without my leave? And how do you do? For you see, I mean to behave well." "I came down because I wanted to be at home," said Mr. Linden. "And I did not ask leave, because I meant to come whether or no. You see what a respect I have for your orders." "Yes," said the doctor,—"that is a very ancient sort of respect. How do you do, Linden?" "I suppose, well,—as to feeling, I should not care to go through the Olympic games, even in imagination; and the various sensations in my left arm make me occasionally wish they were in my right." The doctor proceeded to an examination of the arm. It was found not to be taking the road to healing so readily as had been hoped. "I am afraid it may be a somewhat tedious affair," said Dr. Harrison, as he renewed the bandages in the way they ought to be. "I wish I had hold of that fellow! This may take a little time to come to a harmonious disposition, Linden, and give you a little annoyance. And at the same time, it's what you deserve!" said he, retaking his disengaged manner as he finished what he had to do. "I almost wish I could threaten you with a fever, or something serious; but I see you are as sound as that 'axletree' our friend spoke of the other day. There it is! You have learned to do evil with impunity. For I confess this has nothing to do with the exercise of your lawless disposition yesterday. Why didn't you let me bring you, if you wanted to come? That old fellow can't have anything drawn by horses, that goes easier than a harrow!" "Let you bring me!" said Mr. Linden. "Would you have done it against your own orders?" "Under your authority! which is equal to anything, you know." "Well," said Mr. Linden, "will you take a seat under my authority, and then take the benefit of my fire? What is going on in the outer world?" "I haven't any idea!" said the doctor. "Pattaquasset seems to me to be, socially, at one extreme pole of the axletree before-mentioned, and while I am here I feel no revolution of the great mass heaving beyond. It takes away one's breath, does Pattaquasset." "You are making it akin to 'the music of the spheres,'" said Mr. Linden. "Is that what you find in Pattaquasset?" said the doctor. "Your ears must be pleasantly constituted—or more agreeably saluted than those of other mortals. The only music I know of here is Miss Derrick's voice. Does she feed upon roses, like the Persian bulbul?" "I should suppose not—unless roses impart their colour in that way," said Mr. Linden, softly turning the folded paper from side to side. "This is a nice place," said the doctor surveying the room—"and you look very comfortable. I should like to take your invitation and sit down—but I mustn't. Won't you try and put a good opinion of me into the head of Mrs Derrick?" "What an extraordinary request!" said Mr. Linden, laughing a little. "Pray what am I to understand by it? And why mustn't you sit down?—here is something to rejoice your heart with a few of the aforesaid upheavings of Society;" and he handed the doctor an unopened foreign newspaper. "Absolutely irresistible!" said the doctor, and he broke the cover, took a chair and sat down before the fire; where for awhile to all appearance he also made himself 'comfortable'; and certainly turned and returned and ran over the paper in an artistic manner. "After all," said he, "it's a bore! this alternation of knocking each other down which the nations of the earth practise,—and the societies,—and the men! It's a pugilistic world we live in, Linden. It's a bore to keep up with them,—for one must know who's atop—both in Europe and in Pattaquasset—where you are just now the king of men's mouths—And all the while it don't a pin signify, except to the one who is atop;—I beg your pardon!" "How long must I, being 'atop,' lie here? All this week?" "What will you do if I say more than that?" "Why I'll listen respectfully. Do you know I like to see you sitting there?—Here is another paper for you." The doctor looked at him with an odd, frankly inquisitive smile; but he only took the paper to play with it. "I wonder if I may ask a roundabout favour from you?" "You may ask anything—" said Mr. Linden. "I would rather have it in a straight-forward form." "Can't," said the doctor, "because it is crooked. I suppose at this hour every lady in Pattaquasset expects that her friends will not call her away from her affairs; and I stupidly forgot to deliver my message when I had a moment's chance this morning. Now as it is possible you may see this—if she cannot be called the silver-footed Thetis, she is certainly the silver-tongued—you would know how to address her?" "Thetis!—probably, when I see her." "I may presume you will know her when you see her,—and that brings me to my point. I have got some good microscopic preparations which I am to have the pleasure of exhibiting to-night to some friends of my sister. Now it would greatly add to her pleasure and mine, if this mortal Polyhymnia will consent to be of the number—and this is what I was going to ask you, if you please, to communicate to her or to her mother, in whose good graces, as I told you," said the doctor with a funny smile, "I don't think I have the honour to stand high. Sophy would have written this morning, but I gave her no chance. I will call for Miss Derrick this evening if she will allow me." Mr. Linden took out his pencil and made a note of the facts. "First," he said, "I am to communicate, then you are to call, after that to exhibit. Do you call that crooked?—why it's as straight as the road from here to your house." Dr. Harrison looked—and for a minute did not anything else. "For your arm, Linden," he said then getting up from his chair, and a smile of doubtful comicality moving his lip a little—"we shall know better about it in two or three weeks; but certainly I think you must be content to stay at home for double those—that's undoubted." Mr. Linden gave the doctor a quick glance, but the smile which followed was 'undoubted' in another way. "When two opposing forces meet at right angles, doctor," he said, "you know what happens to the object. Not contented inertia." "Contented! no, very likely,—not when it is this object. But you will find a third force will establish the inertia." "What is your third force?" "The necessity of the case," said the doctor seriously. But to that Mr. Linden made no reply. The conversation had been kept up not only against weakness but against pain, and he lay very still and colourless for a long time after the doctor closed the door. Meanwhile Faith, busy at her brown moreen, made her mother's job of mending seem like embroidery; but by degrees Mrs. Derrick's face became thoughtful, and she said, rather emphatically, "Child, have you been up to see Mr. Linden to-day?" Faith's hammer dropped, and her hands too. "No, mother," she said, looking at her. "Why child!"—Mrs. Derrick began,—then she stopped and began again. "I guess he'd rather see you than that box, child,—if the doctor hasn't talked him to death." "Mother, do you think he would like to have me come up and see him?" "Like it?" said Mrs. Derrick, her mind almost refusing to consider such an absurd question. "I'm sure he likes to see you when he's well, Faith. Didn't he like it last night?" Faith looked a little bit grave, then she hastily pushed her brown moreen and box into a somewhat more orderly state of disorganization, and went up stairs, with a quick light step that was not heard before her tap at Mr. Linden's door. And then receiving permission she went in, a little rosy this time at venturing into the charmed region when its occupant was there; and came with her step a little lighter, a little slower, up to the side of the couch and held out her hand; saying her soft "How do you do, Mr. Linden?" He was lying just as the doctor had left him, with the unopened letters, and the white paper which Faith felt instinctively was her own exercise. But eye and hand were ready for her. "Courageous Miss Faith!" he said with a smile. "And so, 'She's gentle and not fearful'?" She smiled, with an eye that took wistful note of him. "How do you feel to-day, Mr. Linden?" "Not very well—and not worse. Miss Faith, do you know that we have a great deal to do this week? You may lock up your stocking basket." "Please let me do something for you, Mr. Linden?" she said earnestly. "That's just what I'm talking about. Do you think, Miss Faith, that if you brought that low chair here, and set the door wide open so that you could run out if you got frightened at my grim appearance, you would be willing to philosophize a little?" "Not to-day, Mr. Linden," said Faith. "Don't speak so! I haven't any stocking basket in the way. Can't I do something that would do you some good?" "It would do me a great deal of good to get up and set that chair for you, but that is something I must ask you to do for me. I see you want coaxing"—he added, looking at her. "Well—if you will do half a dozen things for me this morning, you shall have the reward of a letter and two messages." Faith looked down doubtful,—doubtful, whether to do what would please herself, and him, would be just right to-day; but the pleading of the affirmative side of the question was too strong. She gave up considering the prudential side of the measure, thinking that perhaps Mr. Linden knew his own feelings best; and once decided, let pleasure have its full flow. With hardly a shade upon the glad readiness of her movements, she placed the chair and brought the book, and sat docile down, though keeping a jealous watch for any sign of pain or weariness that should warn her to stop. And from one thing to another he led her on, talking less than usual, perhaps, himself, but giving her none the less good a lesson. And the signs she sought for could not be found. Weary he was not, mentally, and physical nature knew its place. Last of all, the little exercise was opened and commented upon and praised—and she praised through it, though very delicately. "Have I tired you?" he said, as the town clock struck an hour past the mid-day. "Oh no!—And you, Mr. Linden?" In what a different tone the two parts of her speech were spoken. "I have not hurt myself," he said smiling. "Perhaps by and by, this afternoon, you will let me see you again. Dr. Harrison threatens to keep me at home for two or three weeks, and I want to make the most of them,—I may not have such a time of leisure again." And then Mr. Linden gave the doctor's message—a message, very strictly, and as near as possible in the doctor's own words, receiving as little tinge as it well could from the medium through which it passed. "The other message," he said, giving her a letter, "you will find there." "A message?"—said Faith doubtfully and flushing with pleasure—"isn't this one of your sister's letters?" "Yes. Mayn't she send you a message?" A very modest and very happy smile and deepening blush answered that; and she ran away with a sudden compunctious remembrance of Mr. Linden's dinner. After dinner Faith had something to do in the kitchen, and something to do in other parts of the house, and then she would have read the letter before all things else; but then came in a string of company—one after the other, everybody wanting the news and much more than could be given. So it was a succession of flourishing expectations cut down and blasted; and both Faith and her mother grew tired of the exercise of cutting down and blasting, and Faith remembered with dismay that the afternoon was wearing and Mr. Linden had wished to see her again. She seized her chance and escaped at last, between the adieu of one lady and the accost of another who was even then coming up from the gate, and knocked at Mr. Linden's door again just as Mrs. Derrick was taking her minister's wife into the parlour. Her first move this time on coming in, was to brush up the hearth and put the fire in proper order for burning well; then she faced round before the couch and stood in a sort of pleasant expectation, as waiting for orders. "You are a bright little visiter!" Mr. Linden said, holding out his hand to her. "You float in as softly and alight as gently as one of these crimson leaves through my window. Did anybody ever tell you the real reason why women are like angels?" "I didn't know they were," said Faith laughing, and with something more of approximation to a crimson leaf. "'They are all ministering spirits,'" he said looking at her. "But you must be content with that, Miss Faith, and not make your visits angelic in any other sense. What do you suppose I have been considering this afternoon?—while you have been spoiling the last Pattaquasset story by confessing that I am alive?" "Did you hear them coming in?" said Faith. "I didn't know when they were going to let me get away.—What have you been considering, Mr. Linden?" "The wide-spread presence and work of beauty. You see what a shock you gave my nervous system yesterday. Will you please to sit down, Miss Faith?" Faith sat down, clearly in a puzzle; from which she expected to be somehow fetched out. "What do you suppose is beauty's work in the world?—I don't mean any particular Beauty." Faith looked at the crimson leaves on the floor—for the window was open though the fire was burning; then at the fair sky outside, seen beyond and through some other crimson leaves yet hanging on the large maple there,—then coming back to the face before her, she smiled and said, "I don't know—except to make people happy, Mr. Linden." "That is one part of its use, certainly. But take the thousands of wilderness flowers, and the thousands of deep sea shells; look at the carvings on the scale of a fish, which no human eye can see without a glass, or those other exquisite patterns traced upon the roots and stems of some of the fossil pines, which were hid in the solid rock before there was a human eye to see. What is their use?" To the wilderness and to the deep sea, Faith's thought and almost her eye went, and she took some time to consider the subject. "I suppose—" she said thoughtfully—"I don't know, Mr. Linden." "Did you ever consider those words which close the account of the Creation—'God saw everything that he had made, and behold, it was very good'." "That is what I was going to say!" she said modestly but with brightening colour,—"that perhaps he made all those things, those you spoke of, for himself?" "For himself—to satisfy the perfectness of his own character. And think how different the divine and the human standards of perfection! Not the outward fair colour and proportion merely, not the perfect fitness and adaptation, not the most utilitarian employment of every grain of dust, so that nothing is lost,—not even the grandest scale of working, is enough; but the dust on the moth's wing must be plumage, and the white chalk cliffs must be made of minute shells, each one of which shines like spun silver or is figured like cut glass. Not more steadily do astronomers discover new worlds, than the microscope reveals some new perfection of detail and finish in our own." Faith listened, during this speech, like one literally seeing 'into space,' as far as an embodied spirit can, for the first time. Then with a smile, a little sorrowful, she brought up with, "I don't know anything of all that, Mr. Linden! Do you mean that chalk is really made of little shells?" "Yes, really—and blue mould is like a miniature forest. You will know about it"—he said with a smile. "But do you see how this touches the standard of moral perfection?—how it explains that other word, 'Be ye also perfect'." Faith had not seen before, but she did now; for in her face the answer flashed most eloquently. She was silent. "That is the sort of perfection we are promised," Mr. Linden went on presently,—"that is the sort of perfection we shall see. Now, both glass and eye are imperfect,—specked, and flawed, and short-sighted; and can but faintly discern 'the balancings of the clouds, the wondrous works of him that is perfect in knowledge.' But then!— 'When sin no more obstructs our sight, When sorrow pains our hearts no more, How shall we view the Prince of Light, And all his works of grace explore! What heights and depths of love divine Will then through endless ages shine!'" The words moved her probably, for she sat with her face turned a little away so that its play or its gravity were scarce so well revealed. Not very long however. The silence lasted time enough to let her thoughts come back to the subject never very far from them. "You are tired, Mr. Linden." "By what chain of reasoning, Miss Faith?" "I know by the sound of your voice. And you eat nothing to-day. Do you like cocoa, Mr. Linden?" she added eagerly. He smiled a little and answered yes. "Then I shall bring you some!" Faith stayed for no answer to that remark, but ran off. Half an hour good had passed away, but very few minutes more, when her soft tap was heard at the door again and herself entered, accompanied with the cup of cocoa and a plate of dainty tiny strips of toast. "Aunt Dilly left some here," she said as she presented the cup,—"and she says it is good; and she shewed me how to make it. Aunt Dilly has lived all her life with a brother who has lived a great part of his life with a French wife—so Aunt Dilly has learned some of her ways—and this is one of them." But Mr. Linden looked as if he thought 'the way' belonged emphatically to somebody else. "And so I am under the rule of the blue ribbands still!" he said as he raised himself up to do honour to the cup of cocoa. "Miss Faith, do you know you are subjecting yourself to the penalty of extra lessons?" "How, Mr. Linden?" "Don't you know that is one of the punishments for bad conduct? It's a great act of insubordination to bring one cocoa without leave." She laughed, and then paid her attentions to the fire again; after which she stood by the hearth to see the cocoa disposed of, till she came to take the cup. "Are you in pain, much, Mr. Linden?" she asked as she did this. "Not mental—" he said with a smile; "and the physical can be borne Miss Faith, that cocoa was certainly better than I ever had from the hands of anybody's French wife. You must have improved upon the receipt." "When Dr. Harrison comes for me this evening, shall he come up and see you again?" "If he wishes—there is no need else." "How did it happen, Mr. Linden?" she said with a very serious face. "On this wise, Miss Faith. I, walking home at a rather quick pace, was suddenly 'brought to' as the sailors say, by this shot in my arm. But as for the moment it affected the mind more than the body, I turned and gave chase,—wishing to enquire who had thus favoured me, and why. But the mind alone can only carry one a certain distance, and before I had caught my man I found myself in such danger of fainting that I turned about again, and made the best of my way to the house of Mr. Simlins. The rest you know." "What did the man run for?" "There is no thread in my nature that just answers that question," said Mr. Linden. "I suppose he ran because he was frightened." "But what should have frightened him?" "The idea of my displeasure probably," said Mr. Linden smiling. "Have you forgotten my character for cruelty, Miss Faith?" "But—" said Faith. "Why should he think he had displeased you? He wasn't near you, was he?" "Why I am not supposed to be one of those amiable people who like to be shot," said Mr. Linden in the same tone. "But how near was he, Mr. Linden?" "Within gunshot range, of course—the precise distance is not easily measured at such a moment." "But if he was not near," said Faith, "how could he think that his shot had touched you? He couldn't see it—and your running wouldn't seem like a man seriously injured?" "He might think I disapproved of discharging a gun at random, in the public road." "You don't suppose it could have been done on purpose, Mr. Linden!" she said in a changed awe-stricken tone. "I have no right to assume anything of the kind—there are all sorts of so-called accidents. But Miss Faith! if you look so frightened I shall begin to think you are an accomplice! What do you know about it?" he added smiling. "Nothing—" she said rather sadly, "except a little look of something, I don't know what, in your face when you said that, Mr. Linden." "You must not look grave—nor think twice about the matter in any way," he said with a sort of kind gravity that met hers. "Is there light enough for you to read that first chapter of Physical Geography, and talk to me about it?—it is your turn to talk now." "Do you mean, aloud?—or to myself, Mr. Linden?" she asked a little timidly, "I mean, to me." Faith did not object, though her colour rose very visibly. She placed herself to catch the fading light, and read on, talking where it was absolutely necessary, but sparing and placing her questions so as to call forth as few words as possible in reply. And becoming engaged in the interest of the matter she almost forgot her timidity;—not quite, for every now and then something made it rise to the surface. The daylight was fading fast, sunlight had already gone, and the wood fire began to throw its red gleams unchecked; flashing fitfully into the corners of the room and playing hide and seek with the shadows. A little rising of the wind and light flutter of the leaves against the glass, only made the warm room more cheerful. Faith made the fire burn brightly, and finished the chapter by that, with the glow of the flickering flame dancing all over her and her book in the corner where she sat. But pages of pleasure as well as of prettiness, all those pages were. "Thank you, Miss Faith," Mr. Linden said as she closed the book. "I only wish I could give you a walk now in this bright evening air; but I must wait for that." A little tap at the door came at this point to take its place in the conversation. It was Mrs. Derrick. "Child," said the good lady, "here's Dr. Harrison down stairs." And stepping into the room, Mrs. Derrick walked softly up to the couch, and not only made enquiries but felt of Mr. Linden's hand to see if he had any fever. Faith waited, standing a little behind the couch head. "I'm not quite sure—" she said,—"your hand's a little warm, sir—but then it's apt to be towards night,—and maybe mine's a little cool. If you could only go to sleep, it would do you so much good!" And Mr. Linden laughingly promised to try, but would not guarantee the success thereof. Faith went down stairs, a little afraid that she had been doing harm instead of good, and at the same time not seeing very well how she could have helped it. She found Dr. Harrison in the sitting-room, and gave her quiet reasons for not going out with him. The doctor declared "he should be in despair—but that he had hope!" and having made Faith confess that she would like to see his microscope, gently suggested the claims of the next two evenings; saying that he must be in Quilipeak for a day or two soon himself, and therefore was not impatient without reason. Faith did not know how to get off, and gave the doctor to understand that she might be disengaged the next night. Having which comfort he went up to see Mr. Linden. Then followed Mr. Linden's tea, with cresses and grapes which Dr. Harrison had brought himself. "Mother," said Faith, when the two ladies were seated at their own tea-table,—"did Dr. Harrison dress Mr. Linden's arm again to-night?" "Yes child—and I guess it was good he did. I think Mr. Linden was almost asleep when I went up." "Do you know how to do it, mother? if it was wanted when the doctor is not here?" "I don't know—" said Mrs. Derrick thoughtfully,—"no, child, I don't know how—at least not so I'd like to try. Do you, Faith?" "No, mother—but could you learn?" "Why—I suppose I could, child," said her mother, as if she disliked to admit even so much. "But I'd about as lieve have my own arm shot off—I'm so dreadfully afraid of hurting people, Faith—and I always was afraid of him. Why can't the doctor do it? he can come six times a day if he's wanted—I guess he don't do much else." Faith said no more on the subject, but hurried through her tea and sat down by the lamp in the sitting-room to read her letter. A minute or two she sat thinking, deeply, with her cheek on her hand; then dismissing everything else she opened the precious paper at last. It was another Italy letter, but took her a very different journey from the last. A little graver perhaps than that, a little more longing in the wish to use eyesight instead of pen and ink; and as if absence was telling more and more upon the writer. Yet all this was rather in the tone than the wording—that was kept in hand. But it was midway in some bright description, that the message to Faith broke forth. "Tell Miss Faith," she said, "that I would rather have seen her roasting clams down at 'the shore,' than anything I have seen since I heard of it,—which is none the less true, that I should have wanted to stand both sides of the window at once. And tell her if you can (though I don't believe even you can, John Endy) how much I love her for taking such care of one of my precious things. I feel as if all my love was very powerless just now! However—you remember that comforting old ballad— 'Where there is no space For the glow-worm to lye; Where there is no space For receipt of a fly; Where the midge dares not venture, Lest herself fast she lay; If love come he will enter, And soon find out his way!' So, Miss Faith, you may expect to see me appear some time in the shape of a midge!—Endecott will tell you I am not much better than that now." So far Faith got in reading the letter, and it was a long while before she got any further; that message to herself she went over again and again. It was incomprehensible, it was like one of Mr. Linden's own puzzles for that. It was so strange, and at the same time it was such a beautiful thing, that Mr. Linden's sister should have heard of her and in such fashion as to make her wish to send a message! Faith's head stooped lower and lower over the paper, from her mother and the lamp. It was such a beautiful message too—the gracious and graceful wording of it Faith felt in every syllable; and the lines of the old ballad were some of the prettiest she had ever seen. But that Faith should have love sent her from Italy—and from that person in Italy of all others!—that Mr. Linden's sister should wish to see her and threaten to do it in the shape of a midge!—and what ever could Mr. Linden have told her to excite the wish? And what of this lady's precious things had Faith taken care of?—'such care' of! "Mother!"—Faith began once by way of taking counsel, but thought better of it, and went on pondering by herself. One thing was undoubted—this message in this letter was a matter of great pleasure and honour! as Faith felt it in the bottom of her heart; but in the midst of it all, she hardly knew whence, came a little twinge of something like pain. She felt it—yes, she felt it, even in the midst of the message; but if Faith herself could not trace it out, of course it can be expected of nobody else. <div style="break-after:column;"></div>

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