Say and Seal, Volume I

"Mother," said Faith finding her opportunity, "I asked Mr. Linden, and he will do that."—A little shadow came over Mrs. Derrick's face.

"Well, child?" she said gently.

"Mother—I have asked him,—will you speak to Mr. Skip and Cindy?"

"I can't child—" said her mother, with the same tone and look. "I'll go in myself, but I can't try to do any more."

"Dear mother—" said Faith,—"I wish you would!"

Her mother turned and kissed her, but the difficulty was clearly not one to be overcome. The whole subject seemed to bring up some painful association.

"He'll call them in himself, if you ask him, child."

"Would it be right to ask him, mother?"

"Why yes!" said Mrs. Derrick—"I don't see why not. One of you must."

With this thought Faith went back to the sitting-room. Clearly there was some strong feeling against her being the one, for after a little sober silent waiting, she spoke.

"Mr. Linden—would you rather I should ask Cindy and Mr. Skip to come in?—or will you?"

He knew, better than she did, how well the question shewed her own wish, and how simple a matter it was to him.

"I will, Miss Faith, if you please. Is this the hour you have fixed upon?"

"I think so," she said,—"if you like it; because by and by they will be sleepy." And Mr. Linden at once proceeded to the kitchen.

A busy murmur of tongues, and bright firelight glancing from keyhole and crevice, guided him through the narrow passage which, sooth to say, he had never trod before, to the door of the kitchen; the latch of which yielded on slight persuasion, and Mr. Linden walked in. Supper was over there, too, and the dishes were washed and put away, and Cindy with dishcloth in hand was rubbing down the kitchen table. In one corner of the hearth sat Mr. Skip on a half bushel measure, a full corn basket beside him, an empty one in front, his hands busy with the shelling process; this hard work being diversified and enlivened with the continual additions he made to a cob house on the hearth. But, cob in hand, Mr. Skip paused when Mr. Linden came in, and looked up at this unusual apparition from under an extraordinary hat which drooped on all sides of his face, as if like its wearer it had long given up all idea of keeping up appearances. The face itself was strong, shrewd, apt. And so Mr. Skip looked at Mr. Linden. Cindy on her part, did nothing but wring the dish cloth and shake it out again, entirely oblivious of the greeting with which Mr. Linden favoured both parties; and she listened to the words he said about the corn, as if they had been Greek—double distilled. Those words were few.

"Mr. Skip," he said then, "I think that so long as God keeps us here together every day, we ought to thank him for it together every night. I want you and Cindy to come into the parlour and let us begin to do it now."

"Hey?" said Mr. Skip, between want of understanding and want of belief in the testimony of his ears. Mr. Linden repeated his words, with a composed distinctness that could leave no manner of doubt.

"Well!"—said Mr. Skip. "What do you want us for to do?"

"Come into the parlour."

"I s'pose we'll be to come,"—said Mr. Skip, dropping his cob and getting up and straightening himself. "Will you have us in now?"

"Yes," Mr. Linden answered, and led the way.

"Go along, Cindy!" said Mr. Skip in undertone. "S'pose it don't take fur to see into this."

Cindy obeyed, but without seeing 'fur' into anything—even the parlour, though she tried for it. There was not very much to see. Mrs. Derrick (with a little shadow of recollective sorrow) had placed the old Bible by the lamp, and now sat leaning her head on her hand and did not look up as they came in. Faith's face was one of grave joy; but the gravity was so quiet that the joy was beyond the ken of so dull a vision as Cindy's. She sat with clasped hands on a low seat beyond the fire. And Cindy at last fixed her attention upon Mr. Linden, with only an occasional roll of her eyes towards Mr. Skip.

It was a long time since such a service had been in that house,—a time at first swept by a storm of sorrow, then calmed and quieted into a stillness which had grown more and more bright, year by year. Whatever sunshine those years had seen, came from Faith; but that other faith, which should make even her more precious, had been unknown. And the words of the reading and prayer to-night, were to Mrs. Derrick like the renewing of things so long past, that she could scarce bear it; and different as Mr. Linden was from any one she had ever known, that Christian family likeness almost, to her feeling, transformed him.

It was a very simple matter to him, truly,—why not?—Why should it ever be anything else? or why, when the fear of God is on the tongue should the fear of man be in the heart? Yet it was even more the love of God than the fear, that his hearers perceived that night. Simple in word and tone and manner, it was the simplicity of a feeling so full and strong that it needed no capillary tubes of speech to carry it upward. The prayer ended, and the retreating steps on their way along the kitchen passage, Mrs. Derrick came up to Faith, and putting her arms round her kissed first one cheek and then the other—then turned and left the room. And Faith sat still, with that joy filling her heart so full that her head bent with the weight of it.

One other comment she was destined to hear that night.

"I must say, Miss Faith," said Cindy, "I like these new notions firstrate! I always did say my prayers afore I went to bed, and I'm free to confess this saves a deal of trouble."

CHAPTER XXX

The quiet of that very peaceful evening was for a short time interrupted by a call from Dr. Harrison. The doctor came, he said, to see how Mr. Linden felt after his day's work; and to tell Faith that his exhibition was in readiness for her and only waited a sunny day and her presence. It was agreed that if the sun did not fail of shewing himself the next afternoon, Faith should not.

Tuesday was fair, and the afternoon came on brilliant with sunbeams. But the doctor's steps did not reach Mrs. Derrick's door by some minutes so soon as he had purposed they should.

Passing down the main street of Pattaquasset, Dr. Harrison descried before him the well known figure of Squire Stoutenburgh, and the less familiar outlines of Squire Deacon. And the doctor's near approach procured him the favour of an introduction to the latter gentleman,—either because the Squire desired it, or because the other Squire was tired of his companion and wanted to be off—which he was, as soon as the introduction was over. For in Mr. Stoutenburgh's eyes the buttonhole of Dr. Harrison's soft coat was no more precious (to say the least) than that of his own grey Rough and Ready.

"Squire Deacon is anxious about the state of Mr. Linden's health, doctor," he said,—"I refer him to you."

The doctor made a slight inclination, graceful as all his inclinations were, but also slight; intimating that he would have the honour of satisfying Mr. Deacon's inquiries but desired nothing more of him.

"How's he getting along?" said Squire Deacon—feeling the social duty thus imposed upon him.

"There is hope that he will be restored to his pristine state of strength in the course of a few weeks, sir."

"A few weeks!" said Squire Deacon. "Why he's in school again, ain't he?"

"He has gone in a carriage," said the doctor, who for some unaccountable reason had taken a fit of perversity,—"I understand he was in school yesterday."

"Did you know him afore he come here, doctor?"

"I had not that honour, sir, till I came here myself."

"Well I never saw anybody as did," said Squire Deacon.—"I s'pose he comes from somewhere."

"I doubt it," said Dr. Harrison with the slightest possible elevation of his eyebrows for an instant. Squire Deacon, however, was not just the fool Dr. Harrison took him for; of which fact a little gleam in his eyes gave notice.

"'Taint extraordinary you don't like him, doctor," he said carelessly. "Mr. Linden's a fine man, but 'most any pair o' wheels is one too many in some roads."

"I never followed a wheelbarrow, sir," said the doctor. "I suppose, from your allusion, you have. May I be honoured with your further commands?"

"Wheelbarrows have only one wheel, mostly," said Squire Deacon composedly.

"You know better than I, sir. Might I enquire why you are anxious about the state of Mr. Linden's health?"

"Don't know as I said I was anxious—" said Squire Deacon. "When a man's lived in a place as long as he has, it's nothing wonderful if folks ask whether he's going to hold on. All the women in my house think he's dead and buried, now."

"Ah! He's a favourite in that line, is he?"

"Other lines just as much—for all I know," said the Squire. "Can't say I ever just went in for all Mr. Simlins says nor all Parson Somers says, neither,—can't help that, doctor, if he is one o' your folks."

"What have you against him?"

"I don't say nothing against him," said Squire Deacon,—"except he's a fine man. Maybe you think that is."