Say and Seal, Volume I

"She is—" her brother said, with a tender, half smiling half grave expression. And for a minute or two he was silent—then spoke abruptly.

"Miss Faith, what have you done with your 'Philosophe'? You know, though the rooms in the great Temple of Knowledge be so many that no one can possibly explore them all, yet the more keys we have in hand the better. For some locks yield best to an English key, some to a French; and it is often pleasant to take a look where one cannot go in and dwell."

She flushed a good deal, with eyes downcast as she stood before him; then answered, with that odd little change of her voice which told of some mental check.

"I haven't done anything with it, Mr. Linden."

"That requires explanation."

"It isn't so hard as one of your puzzles," she said smiling. "I mean to do something with it, Mr. Linden, if I can; and I thought I would try the other day; but I found I didn't know enough to begin—to learn that yet."

"What other key are you forging?"

"What other key?" said Faith.

"I mean," he answered with a tone that shewed a little fear of going too far, "what do you want to learn before that?"

"I don't know," said Faith humbly.—"I suppose, English. It was a grammar of yours, Mr. Linden, a French grammar, that I was looking at; and I found I couldn't understand what it was about, anywhere. So I thought I must learn something else first."

"Never was philosopher so put in a corner!" said Mr. Linden. "Suppose you take up him and the dictionary and let me be the grammar—do you think you could understand what I was about?"

The blood leapt to her cheek; part of her answer Faith had no need to put in words, even if he had not seen her eyes, which he did. The words were not in any hurry to come.

"When you have been teaching all day already"—she said in a tone between regretful and self-reproving. "It wouldn't be right."

"Mayn't I occasionally do wrong?—just for variety's sake!"

"You may—and I don't doubt you would. I was thinking of my own part."

"I am glad you don't say you have no doubt I do," said Mr. Linden. "I suppose you mean that I would if sufficient temptation came up, which of course it never has."

Faith looked an instant, and then her gravity broke up. "Ah, but you know what I mean," she said.

"You will have to furnish me with a dictionary next," he said smiling. "Look at my watch—Miss Faith, how can you have tea so late, when I have been teaching all day?—it isn't right,—and cuts off one's time for philosophizing besides."

Faith ran into the house, to tell the truth, with a very pleased face; and tea was on the table in less time than Cindy could ever understand. But during tea-time Faith looked, furtively, to see if any signs were to be found that little Johnny Fax had been made to yield up his testimony. Whether he had or no, she could see none; which however, as she justly concluded with herself, proved nothing.

The new grammar was far easier understood than the old. Although Mr. Linden unfolded his newspaper, and informed Faith that he intended to read 'uninterruptedly'—so that she 'need feel no scruple about interrupting him'—yet he probably had the power of reading two things at once; for his assistance was generally given before it was asked. His explanations too, whether Faith knew it or not, covered more ground than the French exigency absolutely required,—he was not picking this lock for her, but giving her the grammar key.

But Faith knew it and felt it; and tasted the help thus given, with an appreciation which only it needed to do all its work; the keen delight of one seeking knowledge, who has never been helped and who has for the first time the right kind of help. Indeed, with the selfishness incident to human nature, she forgot all about Mr. Linden's intention to read uninterruptedly, and took without scruple or question, all the time he bestowed upon her. And it was not till some minutes after she had closed her books, that her low, grateful "You are very good, Mr. Linden!" reached his ear.

Now the fact was, that Faith had been much observed that afternoon,—her reading-dream on the steps had been so pretty a thing to see, that when Squire Deacon had seen it once he came back to see it again; and what number of views he would have taken cannot be told, had he not been surprised by Mr. Linden. Naturally the Squire withdrew,—naturally his enlarged mind became contracted as he thought of the cause thereof; and not unnaturally he walked down that way after tea, still further to use his eyes. The house was in a tantalizing state. For though the light curtain was down, it revealed not only the bright glow of the lamp, but one or two shadowy heads; and the window being open (for the evening was warm) low voices, that he loved and that he did not love, came to his ear. Once a puff of wind floated the curtain in—more tantalizing than ever! Squire Deacon could see Mr. Linden bending aside to look at something, but what the Squire could not see; for there came the edge of the curtain. In a warm state of mind he turned his face homewards, proclaiming to himself that he didn't care what they did!—the result of which was, that in ten minutes more he was knocking at Mrs. Derrick's door, and being promptly admitted by Cindy entered the parlour just as Faith had shut up her book and uttered her soft word of thanks.

It was something of a transition! But after a moment's shadow of surprise on her face, Faith came forward and gave the Squire her hand. She would have let him then explain his own errand; but as he did not seem very ready to do that, or to say anything, Faith stepped into the breach.

"How is Cecilia, Mr. Deacon? I have not seen her in a long time."

"She's firstrate," said the Squire, colouring up; for Mr. Linden's "how do you do again, Squire Deacon?" not only implied that they had lately met, but that the occasion was not forgotten.

"It's a sort of suffocating evening," added the Squire, wiping his forehead. "I don't recollect so warm an October for a year or two. Cilly's been out of town, Miss Faith, and since she come back she's been complainin' of you."

Faith was near saying that she hoped the warm weather would last tillThursday; but she remembered that would not do, and changed her ground.

"I am sorry anybody should complain of me. Is that because I didn't go to see her when she was away?"

"I'm sure the rest of us could have stood it, if you had come when she was gone, Miss Faith," said the Squire gallantly. "Seems to me we haven't seen you down to our house for an age of Sundays."

"I will try to come of a week day," said Faith. "I think you never saw me there Sunday, Mr. Deacon."

"I suppose an age of Sundays must be seven times as long as any other age," said Mr. Linden. "Isn't that the origin of the phrase, Squire Deacon?"

"Very like," said the Squire—who didn't care to be interrupted. "I don't know much about originals,—when a man has a position to fill, sir, he can't study knick-knacks. What a handsome book, Miss Faith! such a becoming colour."

"Don't you like the inside of books too, Mr. Deacon?" said Faith.

"I daresay I should that one," said the Squire,—"the outside's like a picture—or a view, as some people call it. Looks just like a grain field in spring. What's the name of it, Miss Faith?"

Half prudently, half wickedly, Faith without answering took the book from the table and put it in Mr. Deacon's hand.

The Squire's face looked like anything but a grain field in spring then—it was more like a stubble in November; for opening the book midway and finding no help there, he turned to the title page and found the only English words in the book, in very legible black ink.

"So!" he said—"it's his'n, is it!"

"Yes, it is mine," said Mr. Linden,—"almost any man may have so much of a library as that."

The Squire glanced suspiciously at Faith, as if he still believed she had something to do with it; but he did not dare press the matter.

"Miss Faith," he said, calling up a smile that was meant to do retrospective work, "have you heard tell of the queer things they've found down to Mattabeeset?"

"What things, Mr. Deacon?"

"Some sort o' bird's been makin' tracks down there," said the Squire leaning back in his chair, with the look of one who has now got the game in his own hands; "makin' tracks criss-cross round; and they do say the size on 'em might have come out of the ark, for wonder."

"How large are they, Mr. Deacon? and what sort of bird is it?"

"Well if I was a descendant of Noah, I s'pose I could tell you," said the Squire with increased satisfaction,—"I'm sorry I can't, as it is. But if you're curious, Miss Faith (and ladies always is in my experience) I'll drive you down there any day or any time of day. I want to see 'em myself, that's a fact, and so does Cilly. Now Miss Faith, name the day!"

The shortest possible smile on Mr. Linden's face at this sudden and earnest request, did not help Faith to an answer; but the Squire was happily forgetful for the moment that there were more than two people in the room, and leaning towards Faith he repeated,

"The sooner the quicker, always, in such cases! because folks can never tell what may happen."

"No," said Faith, "they cannot—especially about weather; and I have got some particular work to attend to at home, Mr. Deacon, before the weather changes. I wish you and Cecilia would go down and bring us a report. I should like that. But for the present Mr. Skip and I have something to do."

"It's good you want Mr. Skip, for I don't," said the Squire, stiffening a little. "Is that one of the new-fashioned ways of saying you won't go, Miss Faith?"

"What's your objection to Mr. Skip?" said Faith pleasantly. "I am glad nobody else wants him, for we do."

"Well, I say I'm glad you've got him," said the Squire, relenting under the power of Faith's voice. "But what ails you Miss Faith, to go tackin' round like one o' them schooners against the wind? Aint it a straight question as to whether you'll take an excursion to Mattabeeset?"