Say and Seal, Volume I

"Do you mean that you intend to forsake Pattaquasset entirely?" saidFaith, noticing the comfortable supply of ducks in the Squire's bag.

"Well I can't just say—I'm not free to certify," said the Squire. "I said I thought it was worth my while to go, and so I do. I should like to know from your lips, Miss Faith, whether you'll make it worth my while to come back."

Faith was very glad it was so dark.

"I don't see how I can touch the question either way, sir," she said gently and with not a little difficulty.—"Wherever you are, I hope you'll be very happy, and very good, Squire Deacon."

"I should like something a little better grown than that, ma'am," said the Squire, striking his gun on the ground. "I can't just tell whether that's wheat or oats. It's likely my meaning's plain enough."

Faith was dumb for a minute.

"I believe I understood you, sir," she said in a low voice. "I meant to answer you."

"Well what's to hinder your doing it, then?" said Squire Deacon.

"I thought I had done it," said Faith. "I have nothing to do with the question of your coming or going anywhere, sir,—and can't have,—except to wish you well, which I do heartily."

"That's your ultimate, is it, Miss Faith?"

"No, sir," said Faith, conquering the beating of her heart. "SquireDeacon, I want to see you in heaven."

And she stretched out to him her little hand frankly over the side of the wagon.

Squire Deacon took it for a moment—then dropped it as if it had burnt his fingers. And then with a voice in which whether sorrow or anger prevailed Faith could not tell, he said—

"Well—I don't blame you,—never did and never shall. Cunning's been too much for me this time." And he took up his gun and strode off, just as Mrs. Derrick opened the house door and came out to take her place in the wagon again.

"Dear mother!" said Faith,—"why didn't you come sooner!"

"Why I couldn't, child!" said Mrs. Derrick. "That woman always will tell one every pain and ache she's had since the year one. What's the matter?—why didn't you tie Crab and come in, if you were lonesome."

Faith was silent.

"What's the matter?" repeated her mother,—"have you been getting sick after all I said to you?"

"Squire Deacon has been here talking to me," said Faith in a low tone.

"Well then you had company, I'm sure. What did he talk about? Come,Crab!—get on, sir!"

"He says he is going away from Pattaquasset, and he lays it to me, mother," she said after some hesitancy again.

"What does he lay it to you, for?" said Mrs. Derrick. "I don't believe he's going away, to begin with."

"He wanted me to say something to bring him back again," said Faith lower yet.

"O is that all!" said Mrs. Derrick composedly. "I knew that gun was loaded, long ago. Well what's the harm if he did?—it's not dangerous."

"I'm sorry," said Faith. "But mother, do make Crab get on!—it's time."

"It's not late," said Mrs. Derrick. "And don't you fret about Sam Deacon, child,—he always was a little goose—till he got to be a big one; but you needn't think he'll ever shoot himself for love of you,—he loves himself better than that."

And at this point, Crab—roused by the thought of his own supper—set off at a good round trot which soon brought them home. There was nobody there, however, not even Cindy; so the need of haste did not seem to have been urgent. Faith soon had the kitchen fire in order, and her clams in the pot, and was for the next half hour thoroughly busy with them. Then she made herself ready for tea, and the mother and daughter sat together by the lamp, the one with her knitting the other with her book. But the extra half hour was already past.

"Faith," said Mrs. Derrick at last, "why wouldn't Mr. Linden do the other thing you asked him to?"

Faith looked up suddenly from her book, as if not understanding the question; then her head and her voice drooped together.

"I haven't asked him yet, mother."

"I didn't know but he'd some objection," said Mrs. Derrick. "Well I wish he'd come—I want my supper. I'm as tired as tired can be, paddling round there in the mud. How did you like your lantern, child?" she said as the clock struck half past seven.

Faith raised her head and listened first to the clock and for any sound that might be stirring near the house; then answered,

"I haven't looked at it, mother."

"What do you think of having supper?"

"Before Mr. Linden comes, mother?—well, if you like it, I'll get you yours—the clams are ready."

"I don't care," said her mother,—"I'm more sleepy than hungry. I'll just lie down here on the sofa, Faith, and you can wake me up when you hear him." And disregarding the cooked clams in the kitchen, Mrs. Derrick went to sleep and dug them all over again.

The clock ticked on,—softly, steadily, from the half hour to the hour, and from the hour to the half. Out of doors there was nothing stirring, unless the owl stirred between his unmusical notes, or Mr. Skip's dog did something but howl. Hardly a wagon passed, hardly a breath moved the leaves. Cindy, on her part, was lost in the fascination of some neighbouring kitchen.

And Faith at first had been lost in her study. But the sounding of eight o'clock struck on more than the air, and she found, though she tried, she could not shut herself up in her book any more. Mrs. Derrick slept profoundly; her breathing only made the house seem more still. Faith went to the window to look, and then for freer breath and vision went to the door. It was not moonlight; only the light of the stars was abroad, and that still further softened by the haze or a mistiness of the air which made it thicker still. Faith could see little, and could hear nothing, though eyes and ears tried well to penetrate the still darkness of the road, up and down. It was too chill to stay at the porch, now with this mist in the air; and reluctantly she came back to the sitting-room, her mother sleeping on the sofa, her open study book under the lamp, the Chinese lantern in its packing paper. Faith had no wish to open it now. There was no reason to fear anything, that she knew; neither was she afraid; but neither could she rest. Half past eight struck. She went to the window again, and very gravely sat down by it.

She had sat there but few minutes when there came a rush of steps into the porch, and Cindy burst into the little sitting-room, almost too out of breath to speak.

"Here's a proclamation!" she said—"Mr. Linden's been shot at dreadful, and Jem Waters is down to fetch Dr. Harrison. I'm free to confess they say he aint dead yet."

With which pleasing announcement, Cindy rushed off again, out of the room and out of the house, being seized with a sudden fear that Jem Waters would forestall her in spreading the news. The noise had awaked Mrs. Derrick, and she sat looking at Faith as if she was first in her thoughts. Faith stood before her with a colourless face, but perfectly quiet, though at first she looked at her mother without speaking.

"Come here, pretty child," said her mother, "and sit down by me."

"Mother," said Faith,—but she would not have known her own voice,—"something has happened."

But the way Mrs. Derrick's arms came round her, said that she too had heard.

"Where can he be, mother?" said Faith gently disengaging herself.

"I don't know, child."

Faith was already at the door.

"Faith!" her mother said, following her with a quick step,—"stop, child!"

Faith put back a hand as if to stop her—she was listening.

There was not a sound. Faith went down the steps and stood at the gate. Not a sound still; and her mother said softly, "Faith, you must not go out."