Say and Seal, Volume I

Which bit of excellent eulogy might also have been true of Quapaw creek and the bridge over it, which they reached in seasonable time. Quapaw creek was here a little bit of a river, and the bridge over it was an insignificant little bridge—'no count,' in Squire Deacon's language. But now, of all times in the year, the little bridge was already full of more than it could hold, literally, for it couldn't hold what was upon it. A heavy farm-wagon loaded with some sort of produce had got fairly upon the bridge some hour or two before and then broken through; men and teams had for the present deserted it, and there was the way pretty effectually blocked up. What was to be done? They were not more now than a mile or two from home, but to go back and round by the nearest way would be several miles. The water was not very broad, nor generally deep; but the banks and the bed of the stream were uneven and strewn with rocks and stones, small and great. It was fordable, certainly; a good rider might cross well enough; but a good rider would scarce choose to trust an unskilful one there. What was to be done?

"We shall have to go back, Mr. Linden," said Faith;—"and you mustn't mind my riding fast now, or mother will be uneasy."

Mr. Linden took the case into consideration.

"Will you mind riding before me, Miss Faith?"

"What, sir?" she said, not understanding.

"Will you let me take you across?"

"How can you, Mr. Linden?" she said, looking a little startled, and flushing.

"Very easily—on my horse. Stay where you are a minute, and let me try the ford." And not waiting for an answer to that, he rode down the bank and into the stream. It was easy enough, for a man who knew what to do with his horse's mouth; not easy, nor perhaps safe for another. The footing needed to be chosen by the hand of the rider; so chosen it was good. Mr. Linden rode to the other side and came back.

"Will you try, Miss Faith?"

"Yes," she said, putting her horse in motion,—"I am not afraid. I will follow you. It will be better than going round." But his horse did not stir.

"I shall not follow you, Miss Faith,—and yet if you cross it must be before me. No other way is safe for you."

"Well, we can go round, can't we?" said Faith.

"Yes," he said,—as the sun dropped down behind the low horizon, and the cool shade fell on everything but the tree tops. "You know it is about six times as far. Are you afraid of my horse?"

"No, not when you hold him. I will do just what you please, Mr.Linden," she said, though her colour mounted.

"Then do not be afraid of me," he said, dropping his own bridle and gently disengaging the hand from hers. "Please take your foot out of the stirrup, Miss Faith—" and the transfer was made in a moment: she was lifted across the little space between the two horses, and seated in front of Mr. Linden, and held fast.

"Are you afraid?" he repeated, looking gravely down at her.

"No sir.—Not a bit, Mr. Linden," she said, throwing a little more warmth into her words, for the first had been spoken somewhat under breath. So leaving the one horse fastened to a tree-branch, the other set forward with his unwonted burden, which indeed at first he did not much approve; pricking his ears, and sidling about, with some doubtfulness of intent. But being after all a sensible horse, and apprehending the voice and rein suggestions which were made to him, he began to pick his way slowly and carefully among the stones on the bank, and then through the stones in the river; setting down his feet with great judgment and precaution, and paying no heed to the rushing and splashing of the little stream, except by his ears—which certainly worked, for once. And so the dangerous "pass" was soon behind them, and Mr. Linden dismounted and lifted Faith down, and seated her on a grey stone on the bank, while he went back for her horse. Which crossing, it may be observed, was accomplished much quicker than the last. The twilight was falling fast, and the little river, and the two horses as they forded its swift current, looked shadowy enough; set off by the white foam on both. The evening wind began its fitful stir, and swept the dry leaves past Faith's feet, and shook the cedar boughs above her head; and so she sat there, and watched the crossing.

"I have had the best picture to-day, Mr. Linden," she said, when she was placed in the saddle again. "You ought to have seen the river, and you and the two horses coming over it, in this light, as I did. You don't know how pretty it was. Now you'll let me ride fast, won't you?—for mother will be looking for us."

"As fast as you please—but after all, you have not seen my picture," he said smiling.

Faith profited by the permission given and put her horse to a pace that proved she was very much in earnest to prevent that "looking for them" on Mrs. Derrick's part. She got out of the trot into a canter—or her horse did—and then away they flew; too fast to see or be hindered by any more friends or foes; till they drew bridle at home.

It was too late to have the reading before tea. So to have tea as speedily as possible was the next object. And then they adjourned to the fire-lit sitting-room, where Faith lighted the lamp in uncertainty whether reading or studies was to be the next move. Mr. Linden, however, went for his book—a little old volume, of which Faith had never taken notice; and began, without doubt, the prettiest description of a garden that ever was written;—

"How vainly men themselves amaze,
To win the palm, the oak, or bays:"—etc.

The reader paused a moment, to tell more particularly what these leafy honours were, and then went on.

"Fair Quiet, have I found thee here,
And Innocence, thy sister dear?
Mistaken long, I sought you then
In busy companies of men.
Your sacred plants, if here below,
Only among the plants will grow.
Society is all but rude
To this delicious solitude."

At which words precisely, the spirit of contrariety opened the door and ushered in Dr. Harrison. All he saw, was Mr. Linden with a book, in one easy-chair; Mrs. Derrick with her knitting in another; and a little further off, Faith, sitting on her low cushion and apparently doing nothing. Probably for that reason the doctor made up to her first. He sat down beside her, and enquired in a low tone how the fishes were? Faith answered that they were well; only one of them had been eaten up by the others.

"You are a little tired and are feeling remarkably well to-night," the doctor went on. "What have you been doing?"

"I have been trying to do my duty," Faith said colouring and laughing.

"Don't you always do that?" said Dr. Harrison looking at her enquiringly.

"But I didn't know what it was till to-day."

"You are doing what is very uncommon with you," said the doctor—"fighting me with my own weapons." His smile was pleasant though acute; but Faith coloured exceedingly.

"I can't tell you exactly what duty I mean," she said, "but Mr. Linden can."

"Do you take your notions of duty from him?"

"To-day,"—said Faith with a smile, sweet and with spirit enough too.

"I maintain that duties are facts, not notions," said Mr. Linden.

"Hum—" said the doctor turning,—"Now you are too quick for me. May one not have a notion of a fact?"

"One may. What are your notions about society and solitude?"

"Of duty in those regards?"

"Not at all,—your notions of those facts."

"Confused—" said the doctor,—"Incomprehensible—Melancholy—andDistracting!"

He had got up and assumed the position he seemed to like, a standing-place on the rug, from whence he could look down on everybody.

"What do you say to this?—

'Two paradises were in one,
To live in Paradise alone.'—

I suppose that meets your 'notions.'"

"No," said the doctor,—"not unless Eve were the paradise. And even then, I shouldn't want her any more to myself than to let all the world come and see that she was mine."

"It is a grave question," said Mr. Linden, "whether paradise becomes smaller by being divided. In other words, whether after sharing it with Eve, Adam still retained the whole of it for himself!"