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Say and Seal, Volume 1

<h3 id="id03223" style="margin-top: 3em">CHAPTER XXV.</h3> While Dr. Harrison was sleeping off the effects of his exertions, mental and physical, of the preceding day; and his horses in their stable realized that the reaping of wild oats has its own fatigues; Mrs. Derrick was stirring about with even unwonted activity, preparing for that unwonted breakfast up stairs. An anxious look or two at Faith's sleeping face had assured her mother that the fatigue there had been nothing very serious; and Mrs. Derrick went down with a glad heart to her preparations. There Faith joined her after awhile, and as breakfast time approached, Mrs. Derrick suggested that Faith should go up and see that the table was all right, and receive the breakfast which she herself would send up. Cindy was already there, passing back and forth, and the door stood open to facilitate her operations. If Faith had felt curious as to the success of Sam Stoutenburgh's efforts at concealment, her curiosity was at once relieved. The room as she saw it through the half-open door was bright with firelight and sunshine; the spoons and cups on the little table shone cheerily in the glow; and all things were in their accustomed pretty order and disorder. But the couch was empty, and Mr. Linden stood by the mantelpiece, leaning one arm there, his face bent down and covered with his hand. Faith had no need to knock—the door being open and Cindy in full possession; but as her light step came near the fire he turned suddenly and held out his hand to her without a word. Then gently pushing her back to the corner of the couch, Mr. Linden bade her "sit down and be quiet—" and he himself took a chair at her side. She could hardly tell how he looked—the face was so different from any she had ever seen him wear. For a minute she obeyed orders; then she said, though with an eye that avoided meeting his, "I mustn't be quiet, Mr. Linden—I must see to the breakfast table." If his first motion was to hinder that, he thought better of it, and suffered her to go and give her finishing touches; watching her all the time, as she felt, but without speaking; and when Cindy shut the door and tramped down stairs, the room was very still. Only the light crackling of the hickory sticks in the chimney, and those soft movements about the table. If ever such movements were made with pleasure—if ever a face of very deep peacefulness hovered over the placing and displacing of knives and forks, plates and salt-cellars,—it was then. Yet it was not a very abstracted face, nor looked as if the outward quiet might be absolutely immovable. The last touch put to the table, Faith glanced at the hickory sticks on the fire; but they wanted nothing; and then her look came round to Mr. Linden, and the smile which could no longer be kept back, came too; a smile of touching acknowledgment. "Miss Faith, will you come and sit down?" She came, silently. One deep breath she did hear, as Mr. Linden arranged the cushions and with gentle force made her lean against them, but either he did not feel himself able to touch directly what they were both thinking of—or else thought her not able to bear it. His tone was very quiet, the rest of his hand upon her hair hardly longer than it had been yesterday, as he said, "What will my scholar be fit for to-day?—anything but sleep?" For a moment it was a little more than she could bear, and her face for that moment was entirely grave; then she smiled up at him and answered in a tone lighter than his had been, "Fit for anything—and more fit than ever, Mr. Linden. I only rest here because you put me here." The next remark diverged a little, and was given with darkening eyes. "How DARED he take you with those young horses!" "He thought he could do just what he pleased with them—" said Faith, shaking her head a little. "And with you—" was in Mr. Linden's mind, but it came not forth. "Where is your mother?—does she know?" "Mother's coming," said Faith raising herself from the cushions,—"as soon as she sends up the breakfast. She doesn't know yet. I told Sam not to tell you, Mr. Linden. "How do you do to-day?" She answered him with a bright fair glance and in a tone as sweet as happiness could make it, "Very well!" Mr. Linden's eyes went from her to the opening door and the entering dishes. "Sara was not in fault, Miss Faith,—I heard you come home." In the train of the dishes came Mrs. Derrick, and looked with a little amaze at Mr. Linden off the couch and Faith upon it. But if the first didn't hurt him, she knew the second wouldn't hurt Faith, with whose appearance her mother was not yet quite satisfied. And when they were all at the table, Mrs. Derrick might wonder at those words of very earnest thanksgiving that they were all brought together again, but they needed no explanation to any one else. In all her life Faith had never known just such a breakfast. That sweet sense of being safe—of being shielded,—of breathing an atmosphere where no evil, mental, moral, or physical, could reach her,—how precious it was!—after those hours of fear and sorrow. If her two companions had visibly joined hands around her, she could not have felt the real fact more strongly. And another hand was nearer and more precious still to her apprehension; even the one that made theirs strong and had brought her within them. Faith's face was a fair picture, for all this was there. But Faith's words were few. How many Mr. Linden's would have been, of choice, cannot be known; for Mrs. Derrick's mind was so intent upon the last night's expedition, so eager to know how the poor woman was, and what she said, and where she lived; and how Faith enjoyed the drive, and what made her get so tired,—that he had full occupation in warding oil the questions and turning them another way. In compliance with her wishes he had taken his usual place on the couch, and there made himself useful both with word and hand; the particular use of breakfast to him, was not so apparent. It was over not a bit too soon; for Cindy had not finished the work of removing it before she brought up word that the doctor was come and wanted to see Mis' Derrick. Faith judged the enquiry was meant for herself and ran down stairs accordingly. The doctor was satisfied that she was none the worse of her ride with him, but had brought a very serious face to the examination. "Have you forgiven me, Miss Derrick?" "I have nothing to forgive, sir!" Faith told him with a look that gave sweet assurance of it.—"I am not hurt. I am very glad I went." "May I say," said the doctor, and he looked as if he was uneasy till he had said it,—"that you misjudged me yesterday from that woman's words. I did not choose to interrupt her—and the severity of your remarks to me," he said with a little smile which did not want feeling, "took from me at the moment the power to justify myself. But Miss Derrick, I have not done what you seemed to suppose—and fairly enough, for she gave you to understand it. I never set myself to overthrow her belief in anything. I have hardly held any conversation with her, except what related to her physical condition; if I have said anything it has been a word intended to quiet her. I saw her mind was very much disturbed." Faith had looked very grave, with eyes cast down, during the hearing of this speech. She raised them then, at the end, and said with great gentleness, "There is but one way to give quiet that will stand, Dr. Harrison." "I am sure you are right," he said looking at her with an unwonted face, nearer to reverence than Dr. Harrison was often known to give to anything "I hope you will go and see that poor creature again and undo any mischief my careless words may have done." "Won't you undo them yourself, Dr. Harrison?" "I will endorse yours, so well as I can!" he said. "But won't you see her again?" "If I can,—I will try to go." "May I see Mr. Linden?" was the next question in a lighter tone; and receiving permission the doctor moved himself up stairs. He entered Mr. Linden's room with a quiet, composed air, very different from the jaunty manner of yesterday; and applied himself with business quiet to Mr. Linden's state and wants. And the reception he met was not one to set him a talking. It was not tinged with the various feelings which the thought of him had stirred in Mr. Linden's mind that night and morning,—if they lived still it was in the background. The grasp of his hand was firmer than usual, the tone more earnest, which said, "I am very glad to see you!"—and yet the doctor felt that in them both there was more—and also less—than mere personal feeling. He had nearly finished the arrangements of Mr. Linden's arm when he remarked, "Did you hear the result of our expedition yesterday?" A grave 'yes,' answered him. "You see," said the doctor, "I couldn't manage the wind!" But to that there was no reply. "It was just that," said the doctor. "Those horses had been taking whiskey, I believe, instead of oats; and the wind just made them mad. They ran for pure love of running!—till a little villain threw up his hat at them—and then indeed it was which could catch the clouds first." If the doctor wanted help in his account, he got none. He drew back and took a survey. "What's the matter, Linden?—you look more severe at me this morning than Miss Derrick does;—and I am sure she has the most reason." "I have a prudent fit come over me once in a while," said Mr. Linden goodhumouredly, but with a little restless change of position. "I'm afraid if I talk much upon this subject I shall get out of patience—and I couldn't lay all the blame of that upon you." "What blame—do you pretend—to lay upon me, as it is?" said the doctor not illhumouredly. "There'll be no pretence about it—when I lay it on," said Mr. Linden. "Enact Macduff—and lay on!" said the doctor smiling. "Let it suffice you that I could if I would." "The shadows of strokes suffice me!" said the doctor. "Am I a man of straw? Do you take me for Sir Andrew Aguecheck? 'horribly valiant' after his fashion. What have I done, man?" He stood, carelessly handsome an handsomely careless, before the couch, looking down upon Mr. Linden as if resolved to have something out of him. A part of the description applied well to the face he was looking at—yet after a different fashion; and anything less careless than the look Mr. Linden bent upon him, could not be imagined. It was a look wherein again different feelings held each other in check,—the grave reproof, the sorrowful perception, the quick indignation—Dr. Harrison might detect them all; and yet more, the wistful desire that he were a different man. This it was that answered. "What have you done, doctor?—you have very nearly given yourself full proof of those true things which you profess to disbelieve." "How do you know that I disbelieve anything?" said the doctor, with a darkening yet an acute look;—"much more that I profess to disbelieve?" "How do I know whether a ship carries a red or a blue light at her masthead?" "You don't, if she carries no light at all; and I do not remember that I ever professed myself in your hearing on either side of the 'things' I suppose you mean." "What do you say of a ship that carries no light at all?" "Must a ship always hang out her signals, man?" "Ay—" said Mr. Linden,—"else she may run down the weaker craft, or be run down by the stronger." "Suppose she don't know, in good truth, what light belongs to her?" "It is safe to find out." "Who has told you, Linden, that I believed or disbelieved anything?" "Yourself." "May I ask, if any other testimony has aided your judgment, or come in aid of it?" "No," said Mr. Linden, looking at him with a grave, considering eye. "I am not much in the habit of discussing such points with third parties." The doctor bit his lip; and then smiled. "You're a good fellow, Linden. But you see, I can afford to say that now. I have you at advantage. As long as you lie there, and I am your attending physician—which latter I assure you I look upon as a piece of my good fortune—you can't, knock me down, if you feel disposed. I am safe, and can afford to be generous. As to the lights," said the doctor taking up his hat, "I agree to what you say—and that's more of a concession than I ever made on the subject before. But in the atmosphere I have lived in, I do assure you I have not been able to tell the blue lights from the red!" "I believe you," said Mr. Linden,—"nor was it altogether the fault of the atmosphere. Even where the colour is right, the glass is sometimes dim. What then?" "What then? why the inference is plain. If one can not be distinguished from the other, one is as good as the other!" "And both shine with a steady clear light upon the heavenward way?" "There's no question of shining," said the doctor half scornfully, half impatiently. "If they shew colour at all, it is on a way that is murky enough, heaven knows!" "Then what have they to do with the question?" said Mr. Linden,—"you are applying rules of action which you would laugh at in any other case. Does the multitude of quacks disgust you with the science of medicine?—does the dim burning of a dozen poor candles hinder your lighting a good one? You have nothing to do with other people's lights,—let your own shine!" Dr. Harrison stood looking at his adviser a minute, with a smile that was both pleased and acute. "Linden"—said he,—"it strikes me that you are out of your vocation." "When I heard that account last night,"—Mr. Linden went on—and he paused, as if the recollection were painful,—"the second thing I thought of was your own words, that heaven is not in 'your line.'" "Well?—" said the doctor swinging his hat and beginning to pace up and down the room, and speaking as if at once confessing and justifying the charge laid to him,—"Now and then, I believe, a bodily angel comes down to the earth and leaves her wings behind her—but that's not humanity, Linden!" "True servant of God, is as fair a name as angel," said Mr. Linden; "and that is what humanity may be and often is. 'Though crowns are wanting, and bright pinions folded.'" "I don't know—" said the doctor. "I shouldn't have wondered any minute yesterday to see the pinions unfold before me." Which remark was received in silence. "If such an angel were to take hold of me," the doctor went on meditatively,—"I believe she might make me and carry me whither she would. But I wonder if I shall be forbid the house now!"—He stopped and looked at Mr. Linden with a face of comic enquiry. "You may come and see me," said Mr. Linden, with comforting assurance. "Do you think I may?" said the doctor. He sat down and threw his hat on the floor.—"What shall I do with Mrs. Derrick? She will want to send me off in a balloon, on some air journey that will never land me on earth!—or find some other vanishing medium most prompt and irrevocable—all as a penalty for my having ventured to leap a fence in company with her daughter!" But the prudent fit had perhaps come back upon Mr. Linden, for except a sudden illumination of eye and face, the doctor's speech called forth no opinion. "The best driver on earth can't be a centaur, man! Horses in these days will have heads of their own." But then the doctor rose up and came gracefully and gravely again to take his friend and patient's hand. "I agree to all you say!" said he, looking down with a goodhumoured wilful expression to Mr. Linden's face;—"and I know no other man to whom I would own as much, after such words and such silence as you have bestowed on me. Good-bye. But really, remember, a man is not answerable for all his horses—or all his wits—may do." The doctor went; and then there was an interval of some length. Faith had found several things to do in her down stairs department, which she would not leave to her mother; especially after the shock Mrs. Derrick's mind and heart had received from the communication of what had happened the day before. So it was a little later than usual when the light tap was heard at Mr. Linden's door and Faith and a cup of cocoa came in. She set the cup down, and then went out again for a dish of grapes and pears—Judge Harrison's and Farmer David's sending—which she brought to the table. "I didn't know which you would like best, Mr. Linden;—so I brought both." "I should like to be waiting on you," he said,—"Miss Faith, you ought not to be waiting on me. I shall bestir myself and come down stairs." There was expression in the kind of happy silence that answered him, as she offered the cocoa. "I don't know where to begin to talk to you this morning," said Mr. Linden,—"everything demands the first place. Miss Faith, when you feel that you can, will you tell me all about yesterday? I wish I could give you this couch again, but I suppose in prudence I ought to lie still." She saw him served with what he would have; then sat down, and a shadow of sweet gravity came over her. "The ride out was all very pleasant. There wasn't much talk, and I could just enjoy everything. It's a long way, Mr. Linden," she said glancing at him—she spoke generally with her eyes bent somewhere else;—"it must be ten or twelve miles, for we went very fast; and it was beautiful, with the wind and the driving clouds and shadows. So I enjoyed all that part, and wasn't afraid of the horses, or not much afraid—though they went very fast and I saw they felt very gay. I liked the going fast and I thought the doctor could manage them." She paused. "Are you sure you want to talk of this now?" Mr. Linden said. "You know we have other things to do—this can wait till you choose." "I like to tell it," she said with another quick glance and a quick breath,—"but the visit comes next—and I don't know how to tell you of that. Mr. Linden, I wish you could see that woman!—And if you can't soon, I must,—somehow." "If I can't—or if I can, I will find you the 'somehow,' if you want to go. And if you will let me," he added. "Is she really dying?" "She says so—" Faith said low. And was silent a bit. "Then we set out to come home, and all went very well till we were half way on the road; but then the horses seemed to grow more frisky than ever—I think the wind excited them; and Dr. Harrison had his hands full, I could see, to hold them in, especially after we turned Lamprey's corner and the wind was in their faces. I think it was something suddenly flung over the fence, that started them off to run—and then they ran faster and faster, and reins and bits were of no use at all." Faith was excited herself, and spoke slowly and low and with hindered breath. "I saw they were getting more and more furious,—and there were a few minutes, Mr. Linden, when I thought I should maybe never see home again.—And then I thanked you in my heart." "Me?" he said with quick emphasis, and looking at her. Faith did not look at him, but after a pause went on very quietly. "I mean, on earth I thanked you. The end of it was, they took a new fright at something, I believe, just at the top of a hill; and after that it was all a whirl. I hardly knew anything—till I found myself lying on the ground in the meadow. The horses had jumped the carriage and all clean over the fence. The fence was just below the foot of the hill; the road took a turn there.—Sam told you the rest—didn't he, Mr. Linden?" He said "yes," and not another word, but lay there still with those closely shielded eyes; and lips unbent from their usual repose, with grave humbleness and grief and joy. The silence lasted till Faith spoke again. And that was some little space of time. A shade graver and lower her tone was when she spoke. "I shall never forget after this, that it is 'part of a Christian's sailing-orders to speak every vessel he meets.'—I think I shall never forget it again." Mr. Linden did look then at the little craft that had begun her voyage so undauntedly under the Christian colours, though what he thought of her he said not; apparently his own words were not yet ready, though he spoke. "'Be strong and of a good courage; be not afraid, neither be thou dismayed: for the Lord thy God is with thee whithersoever thou goest.'" Faith spoke no more. She sat in the absolutest quiet, of face and figure both; looking into the fire that played in the chimney, with a fixedness that perhaps told—in the beginning—of some doubtfulness of self command. But the happy look of the face was in nowise changed. A knock at the door was the first interruption, a knock so low down that the latch seemed quite too high to match it; but by some exercise of skill this was lifted, and Johnny Fax presented himself. He looked very wide awake, and smiling, and demure, as was his wont, though to-day the smiles were in the ascendant; owing perhaps to the weest of all wee baskets which he held in his hand. Coming close up to Mr. Linden, and giving him the privileged caress, Johnny stood there within his arm and smiled benignly upon Faith, as if he considered her quite part and parcel of the same concern. Who smiled back upon him, and enquired "where he had come from?" Johnny said "From home, ma'am," and looked down at his tiny basket as if it were a weight on his mind that he did not know how to get rid of. "Johnny," said Mr. Linden, "what have you got in that basket?" "You couldn't guess!" said Johnny with a very bright face. "I couldn't guess!" said Mr. Linden. "Don't you suppose I can do anything?" "Yes—" said Johnny shaking his head,—"but you can't do that." "Then I shall not try," said Mr. Linden, "and you'll have to tell me." Johnny put his face close down by Mr. Linden, and whispered, but not so low that Faith could not hear— "It's two white eggs that my black hen laid for you, sir!" "Well I never should have guessed that!"—said Mr. Linden smiling. "I didn't suppose there was a hen in the world that cared so much for me. I don't believe she would if she was not your hen, Johnny."—Which last sentence Johnny understood just well enough to feel delighted; and stood with a glad little face while his teacher opened the basket, and taking up first one egg and then the other, commented upon their size and whiteness. "As soon as I can get out I shall come and see that hen," said Mr. Linden, drawing the child closer and giving him another kiss—which Johnny thought was worth a whole basket of eggs;—"so you must tell her to have her feathers in good order. Now what have you to say to Miss Faith?" "O she talks to me," said Johnny. "Does she?" said Mr. Linden,—"is that the division of labour? What does she talk about, Johnny?—let me see how well you remember." It was said with a little acknowledging look that he was asking that to which somebody would demur—but also with a wilful assumption that somebody would come to no harm. So though Faith flushed and started, she sat back in her seat again without making any word interposition. Johnny stood and thought—for he was a real little literalist. "She talked about heaven—" he said slowly,—"and how to get there,—and said she was going—and we must too. That's what she said Sunday. And at Judge Harrison's she said she was glad I'd got a red ribband—and down to Neanticut she told me to run away." "I'm sure that was a gentle way of dismissing you," said Mr. Linden, stroking the child's forehead. "Well Johnny—are you trying to follow her in that way to heaven she told you of?" The "yes" was given without hesitation, and came with strangely sweet effect from those childish lips. Then after a minute Johnny added, as if he feared some misunderstanding, "It's the same way you told me, sir." "Yes, I trust you will see me there too," Mr. Linden said, with a rather moved look at the little face before him. What made Faith, at those last words of Johnny's, jump up and spring to the fire? And after a most elaborate handling of the sticks of wood, she did not come back to her seat, but stood still with her back turned to the couch and the little witness who was testifying there. He was not called upon for any more evidence, however. Mr. Linden talked—or let him talk—about various important things in Johnny's daily life and experience and gave a promise that he himself would be at school as soon as the doctor gave his permission. Mrs. Derrick's soft knock and entrance came now, she herself looking in good truth as if a "tear-storm" had passed over her. But she brightened up a little at the sight of Faith. "Pretty child!" she said, coming up to her, "and so you're here? I couldn't rest any longer without seeing just where you were." Faith put one hand on her shoulder as she stood, and then clasped the other upon that. "Pretty child!" her mother repeated, in a tone that spoke more of pain than pleasure—and Faith could feel the shudder that passed over her then. But she controlled herself. "Do you know it's dinner time, Faith? How is Mr. Linden?" "There he is," said Faith smiling. "I don't know, mother." "He don't look to me as if he had ever been asleep," said Mrs. Derrick,—but whether that shewed want of sleep, or the reverse, was, as Mr. Linden remarked, quite doubtful. Mrs. Derrick looked at him, met his smile—then her whole heart answered to something it said. "Oh Mr. Linden! think of her being in such danger!" and there was a minute of deep silence. "Nay!" he answered softly—and the face was beautiful in its changing expression,—"think of her being so safe!" Mrs. Derrick could bear neither word nor look after that. The two ladies went down together, leaving Johnny to dine with his teacher. <div style="break-after:column;"></div>

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