Say and Seal, Volume I

"Maybe you wouldn't like to be seen out on Sabbath?" said Mrs. Derrick, with sudden thought. "Because if you wouldn't, Faith, I'll go myself to Sally's—can or no can."

"No, mother—" she said brightly,—"I would like to go. If I know I am doing right, I don't mind about being seen. I wish people had as good reason for telling tales about me, as they have for some others."

"I guess your class 'll fill up,—" said her mother, with her fond, wistful look at the only thing she had in the world.

It was the fairest, still, sweet afternoon, when after church Faith got the medicine for Sally Loundes and set out to take it to her. So fair and lovely, that Faith hardly considered much the features of the road she travelled; in that light any piece of ground was beautiful. The road was very lonely after a little part of the village had been gone through. It left the main street, then bid farewell to a few scattering distant houses and approached what was called Barley Point;—a barren piece of ground from which a beautiful view of the Sound and the ocean line, and perhaps porpoises, could be had. But at the foot of this field the road turned, round the end of that belt of woods spoken of; and getting on the other side of it ran back eastward towards the Lighthouse point. Between the woods and the sea, on this side, was a narrow down that the farmers could make little of; and here the road, if desolate, had a beauty of its own. On Faith's right was this strip of tolling downs, grown with nothing but short grass and low blackberry vines; and close at hand, just beyond its undulating line, the waves of the sea beating in. Very little waves to-day, everything was so quiet.

At the Lighthouse point, a mile or more on, was a little settlement of fishermen and others; but only one house stood on the way, and that hardly disturbed the monotony or the solitude; it was so little, so brown, and looked so of a piece with the barren country. That was Sally Loundes' house. Faith met nobody till she got there.

When Faith came out of the house, the sun's place warned her she would have no time to spare to get home. She set off with quicker pace, though nowise concerned about it. There was no danger of anything in Pattaquasset. But she had gone only a little part of her wild homeward way when she met Mr. Simlins. Now Mr. Simlins was accustomed to take an afternoon Sunday stroll and sometimes a long one; so it was no matter of surprise to meet him, nor even to meet him there, for Mr. Simlins was as independent in his choice of a walk as in everything else. But he was surprised.

"Hullo! my passenger pigeon," he exclaimed. "Why are you here all alone, in this unfrequent place?"

"It's a very nice place," said Faith. "And it's not disagreeable to be alone—though I am willing to meet you, Mr. Simlins."

"Haven't been quarrelling with anybody, have you?"

"No," said Faith, giving an amused look to this view of the subject."Do I look quarrelsome, Mr. Simlins?"

"I don't know how you look!" said the farmer. "I aint anything of an exposition. You'll have to ask somebody else. There's some words too hard for me to spell and pro-nounce. Where have you been?"

"Just to carry Sally Loundes some medicine mother had for her."

"Where are you goin' now?"

"Home."

"Goin' alone?"

"Why, yes. Why not?"

"Don' know," said Mr. Simlins,—"only I'm going part way, and I'll see nothin' happens to you as long as I'm in your consort."

It was a wild place enough to make company pleasant. Dark clumps of forest-trees on one hand grew near together, and the spaces between, though cleared, looked hardly less wild; for vines and sumach and ferns had taken possession. The sun's rays yet lay warm on the rolling downs, the sere grass and the purplish blackberry vines, and sparkled on the waves beyond; but when Mr. Simlins and Faith struck into the woods for a 'short cut,' the shadowy solitude closed them in on all sides. Softly their steps moved over the fallen pine leaves, or rustled through the shreds of autumn finery that lay beneath oak and maple, and nothing else but birds and squirrels broke the stillness till they were near the further edge of the wood. There they heard a soft murmur of voices.

"Who lives here?" said Mr. Simlins.

But Faith held her breath.

"There's mortality here, where I thought there was nothing but animals and vegetation," said Mr. Simlins stepping softly and cautiously forward. "Let's see—don't make no noise more'n the leaves 'll let you. I shouldn't think anything would come to a meetin' here but a wood-chuck—and they're skeered if they see a shadow."

On that side the trees ceased abruptly, and the open sunshine of a little clearing replaced them; and there were the speakers.

Tallest among the group sat Mr. Linden, and around him—in various attitudes of rest or attention—a dozen boys basked in the sunshine. Most of them were a size or two smaller than his morning class at the Sunday school, though several of those were stretched on the grass at the outskirts of the circle, as honorary members. Little Johnny Fax, established in Mr. Linden's lap, divided his attention pretty evenly between the lesson and the teacher; though indeed to his mind the separate interests did not clash.

The little glade was very green still, but sprinkled with the autumn leaves which came floating down at every breath; and the bordering trees stood some in deep green hemlock and some in paler pine, and thrust out here and there a glowing arm into the sunlight. The boys—listening and looking,—some playing the part of young Nebuchadnezzars, some picking and breaking up the asters and golden rod within their reach,—giving little side nods of assent to each other, or bending a more earnest gaze on Mr. Linden; pushing back their caps—or pulling them down with a quick brush across the eyes;—the hand with which Johnny Fax stroked back from Mr. Linden's forehead any stray lock of hair which the wind displaced, or laid on his shoulder when there was nothing else to do;—made altogether a picture the like of which Mr. Simlins had not seen before—nor even Faith. The sun might leave the clearing and betake itself to the tree-tops, and thence to the clouds,—there was light there which came from a higher source.

Not Faith's silent attention was more silent and motionless than that of her companion; he did not move or stir. But her deep, deep, rapt gravity formed part of the subject of his contemplations, for one or two keen sidelong glances fell upon it. Else, his eyes were busy uninterruptedly with the scene and took in the whole effect of it; hers hardly wavered from one point.

A little stir among the boys roused both the lookers-on from their muse; but they stood still again at the first notes of a hymn—as Mr. Linden's deep voice began, and the young choir with its varied treble chimed in.

"I want to be an angel,
And with the angels stand,
A crown upon my forehead,
A harp within my hand;
There, right before my Saviour,
So glorious and so bright,
I'd wake the sweetest music,
And praise him day and night.

"I never should be weary,
Nor ever shed a tear,
Nor ever know a sorrow,
Nor ever feel a fear;
But blessed, pure, and holy,
I'd dwell in Jesus' sight,
And with ten thousand thousand
Praise him both day and night.

"I know I'm weak and sinful,
But Jesus will forgive,
For many little children,
Have gone to heaven to live.
Dear Saviour, when I languish,
And lay me down to die,
Oh send a shining angel
To bear me to the sky!

"Oh there I'll be an angel,
And with the angels stand!
A crown upon my forehead,
A harp within my hand.
And there before my Saviour,
So glorious and so bright,
I'll wake the sweetest music,
And praise him day and night!"

The two listeners stood still while the hymn was singing, still as the air; but Mr. Simlins got no more sight of Faith's face. They stood still when the hymn was finished, as if they lingered where the last vibrations had been. But as a general stir among the hymn party proclaimed that they would soon be on the move, the two who had watched them, as if by consent, turned short about and silently picked their way back through the darkening wood to the nearest point of road they could reach. It was far from home, and even out of the wood the light was failing; they walked with quick steps. Mr. Simlins could get glances now at Faith's face, but though it was quiet enough, he seemed for some reason or other in a disagreeable state of mind. It made itself manifest at length in a grunt of considerable power.

"Ugh!—this is a complexious sort of a world to live in!"—was his not very clear remark. The contrast of the tone of the next words was striking.

"Dear Mr. Simlins, there is something better."

"What do you call me 'dear' for?" growled he. "You never did before."

"I don't know," said Faith. "Because I want you to be as happy as I am."

"Be you so happy?" said the farmer inquisitively.