Say and Seal, Volume I
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"Talk to me?" Mr. Linden repeated, looking at her. "About professions?"
"No indeed!" said Faith, first astonished and then smiling,—"I mean very different things. About religion, and what he thinks of it?"
Rather soberly the words were received, and soberly answered, not at once.
"Do not let him say much to you on that last point, Miss Faith."
"How can I help it, Mr. Linden?" she said instantly.
"Forbid him, if need be. If he asks for information, and you choose to give it, that is one thing,—you are not obliged to hear all the skeptical views and arguments with which he is furnished. Your statement of the truth has nothing to do with the grounds of his unbelief."
"But—"
Faith got no further. She stood thinking of that afternoon's talk, and of the certain possible hindrances to her following such advice.
"I am talking a little in the dark, you know," Mr. Linden said,—"I am only supposing what he may say and ask you to say; and I do not think much of such conversation between any parties. Press home the truth—and like David's pebble it may do its work; but in a fencing match David might have found it harder to maintain his ground. And his overthrow would not have touched the truth of his cause, nor perhaps his own faith—yet the Philistine would have triumphed."
"Thank you, Mr. Linden," she said with a grateful smile. "That is just the truth. But, do you think Dr. Harrison is—exactly a Philistine?"
"Not in all respects," he said smiling. "What do you mean by aPhilistine?"
"I thought you put him in the place of that Philistine," she said.
"Yes, for the illustration. But I do not know him to be strictly a champion of unbelief, although he avows himself on that side. His conversations with me have left me uncertain how far he would go."
Faith was silent and looked thoughtful.
"Have I touched any of your difficulties? May I hear any more?"
"No—" she said. "I believe you have said all you can say. And it is good for me."
"I have not said all I could say, but it is not easy for me to talk to you about it at all. You see, Miss Faith," said Mr. Linden smiling, "there cannot be such an anomaly in nature as a philosophical bird—so what am I to do?"
Faith smiled a little and thought that as long as he gave her the benefit of his philosophy, it did not much matter. Which recondite view of the subject she did not put into words.
The days began to roll on smoothly once more, subsiding into their old uneventful flow. The flow of talk indeed had not quite subsided; but as nothing came to throw any light on the point of the unknown sportsman who chose his sport so strangely, curiosity took a modified, condensed form; and the whole matter was stowed away in people's minds as the one Pattaquasset mystery. Happy Pattaquasset!
Even Mr. Linden's protracted confinement to the house made little difference to most, he had been so little seen when he was able to be out: only the boys had had his daylight hours; and where he had spent those times of twilight and evening when he was not at home, no one knew but the poor unknown class who mourned his absence as they had blessed his presence, in secret. The boys were not silent,—but they had the indemnification of going to see him, and of watching—or sleeping—in his room at night, according to their various dispositions. There came all his scholars on Sunday,—met by Faith on her contrary way; there came the whole school by turns, and at all hours. Indeed when once the embargo upon visiters was taken off, the supply was great!—and without careful measures on the part of Mr. Linden, French exercises would have been put aside with a witness. But he made two or three rules, and carried them out. In the first place he would see nobody before dinner, except the doctor; nor anybody after tea, save the same privileged individual. In the second place, when he was able to be out of his room without too much fatigue, the lessons were carried on down stairs,—in the dining-room generally, as being more private. There could both parties come and go without observation; and often when Mrs. Derrick was entertaining a roomful, a sudden fall of the thin partition would have revealed the very people they were discussing, deep in some pretty point of information. Pretty those lessons were! Faith's steps,—arithmetical, geographical, or what other,—were swift, steady, and sure; herself indefatigable, her teacher no less. If Mr. Linden had not quite come to be in her eyes "an old school book," she was yet enough accustomed to his teaching and animadversions to merge the binding in the book; and as to him, she might have been one of his school boys, for the straightforward way in which he opened paths of knowledge and led her through. The leading was more careful of her strength, more respectful of her timidity,—was more strictly leading than pushing,—that was all. Of course in two weeks, or even in four, the best of teachers and scholars could make but a beginning; but that was well made, and the work went steadily on from thence—despite "teaching all day," despite the various other calls for time and strength.
And Faith was as docile and obedient as Johnny Fax himself, and as far as those qualities went, very much in the same way. If the denial of Phil's information and Mr. Linden's manner the day after her overturn, had raised a doubt as to the real abstractness of his regard for her, Faith's modesty and simplicity put the thought well into the background. She did not care to look at it or bring it up; in the full, happy, peaceful hours she was enjoying she had enough, for the present; and so Faith went on very much after her old fashion. A little quieter, perhaps, when not called out of it; a little shyer of even innocently putting herself forward; but in speech or action, speaking and acting with her wonted free simplicity.
The only breaks in these weeks were one or two visits to Mrs. Custers, and the doctor's comings and goings. He could not be shut out.
The Monday evening after the doctor's absence at Quilipeak, the little party were as usual in the sitting-room; and a pretty chapter of Physical Geography was in process of reading and talk, when the doctor's quick wheels at the door announced not only his return but his arrival. And Mr. Linden announced to his scholar, that it was needful now to return to the surface of the earth and attend to the flow of conversation—and to put the book in his pocket.
"Are you glad to see me back?" said the doctor as he took the hand of his patient. He looked rather glad himself.
"If I say yes, that will be to confess that I have reason. You perceive my dilemma," Mr. Linden said, but with a smile that was certainly as kind and trustworthy as any the doctor had seen since he went away.
"Do you mean—that you have no reason to be glad?" said Dr. Harrison slowly, eying the smile and giving it, to judge by his own, a trustful regard.
"Certainly not! It's a comfort to have somebody at hand who is ready to fight me at any moment," said Mr. Linden.
"What have you been doing since I went away?"
"Reading, writing, and considering the world generally."
"From this Pattaquasset centre!"
"Why not?—if lines meet and make it one."
"How do you get the ends of the lines in your hands!" said the doctor. "A centre, I feel it to be—but very like the centre of the earth—socially and politically. You see, I have just emerged to the surface, and come down again. Who has taken care of you?"
"I feel quite equal to the task of taking care of myself, thank you, doctor."
"You don't mean to say, man, you have dressed your arm yourself?"
"What do you suppose my powers are equal to?"
"That is a matter," said the doctor, "upon which I stand in doubt—which gives me an uncomfortable, troublesome sort of feeling when I am in your presence. It must be superstition. I suppose I shall get the better of it—or of you!—in time. Meanwhile, who has dressed your arm for you?"
The answer was given very quietly, very simply, not very loud. "The lady whom you had the honour of instructing in the art, Dr. Harrison."
"Did you do it well?" said Dr. Harrison somewhat comically, wheeling round before Faith.
She was a contrast; as her face looked up at him, rather pleased, and her soft voice answered,—"I think I did, sir."
"I don't doubt you did! And I don't doubt you would do anything. Are you preparing to be another Portia? And am I to be Bellario?"
"I don't know what you mean, Dr. Harrison."
"Do you know the story of Portia?—in the Merchant of Venice?"
"I never read it."
"She was a dangerous character," said the doctor. "Portia, MissDerrick, wishing to save not the life but the character and happinessof a—But what a way this is to tell you the story! Is there aShakspeare here?"
"We haven't it," said Faith quietly.
"I'll bring the play the next time I come, if you will allow me," he said sitting down by her;—"and indoctrinate you in something more interesting than my first lesson. How shall I thank you for doing my work for me?"
"It became my work."
"I am in your debt nevertheless—more than you can know without being one of my profession. I have some thing that I wish to submit to your inspection, and to take your advice upon, too. It will be fit to be seen, I hope, by the day after to-morrow. If I could I would bring it here—but as that is not possible—Will you go to see it?"
"Where is it?"
"Not far; but it will cost you the taking of a few steps."
Faith declared she had hardly time to go to see anything; but was obliged finally to yield to persuasion, and Thursday was the day fixed. The thing, whatever it was, however, was not ready when the day came, and the exhibition was put off indefinitely.
CHAPTER XXIX
Those weeks, like others, came to an end. And then Mr. Linden gave notice to all and sundry of his scholars, that his time of seclusion was at an end—only giving way to advice so far, as to accept the daily use of Squire Stoutenburgh's close carriage, until his health should be in a more assured state. Monday morning he was to take up his old routine of school duties; though none too fit for it, in the estimation of some people,—the doctor said it was a month too soon. And no one could look at him and forget the last month's work,—a little exertion made the work very apparent; and as they sat at breakfast Monday morning, Mrs. Derrick made up her own mind privately that Dr. Harrison should have found some means to keep him in the house and from work yet longer. But the result of her meditations was not put in words; the effect betrayed itself in the extra care bestowed upon cups of coffee—the only thing within her reach.
It was a cold morning, true November, with its driving grey wind clouds, through which the cool sunbeams straggled fitfully; with trees shorn of their golden honours, and brown branches waving and twisting in the wind, and only mere specks of blue here and there overhead. The gulls sailed to and fro above the Mong as if they rejoiced in the fierce gusts of northern wind; the vessels shortened sail, or ran under bare poles. The wind shook the village windows, and poured dry leaves in every porch, and swept up the world generally—not much to the comfort of the same. In Mrs. Derrick's little eating-room indeed, it was warm enough, and the floor swept after another fashion; yet even there did the wind rush in, whenever the kitchen door opened, after Cindy and the hot cakes.
"Mr. Linden," said Faith after her eye had gone exploringly to the window, the wind and the clouds,—"I wish you would give the boys only half a day to-day!"
"I fancy you could have your wish seconded thirty times," he said smiling. "No—not thirty times, but perhaps twenty."
"I don't think those wishes would be worth minding; but I think mine is, Mr. Linden. I mean the reason of it."
"I think yours is—if I could mind it. What is the reason, Miss Faith?"
"I am afraid you are not quite fit for a whole day's work. In school," she added smiling.
"You don't know what you are asking!—if I stay at home I shall talk nothing but French the whole afternoon."
"Well," said Faith laughingly, "I should only be still. I could bear that."
"I couldn't—and you wouldn't. But you need not be uneasy, MissFaith—I must not be at home."
She looked grave, but said no more.
The wind was not more busy out of doors that day, than the people within. Diligent and quick hands moved about in dairy and kitchen; and a quick and diligent spirit as earnestly—(for in Faith's mind it was all one work; that was on the way to this)—dealt with problems and idioms in the study room that Faith liked best and where she was most secure. But long enough before dinner she was helping Mrs. Derrick in the kitchen again.
"Mother," she said, "you can't think how I dread to see Mr. Linden come home to-day! He won't speak one word of English to me."
"I guess he would, if you wouldn't speak one word of French to him," said Mrs. Derrick sagaciously. "What are you afraid of, child?"
"I am afraid just of that," said Faith sighing. "Of having to speak those French words."
"Why you've been reading them to him, I'm sure," said her mother. "I didn't know anybody was afraid of him but me, Faith. But if you don't like it, why don't you tell him so?"
Faith however negatived that proposition with a dubious shake of the head; which meant, probably, that neither Mr. Linden nor herself would be satisfied with such a mode of procedure; and confined her present attentions to the dinner preparations. In which and other matters she became so engaged that she forgot her fears; and going into the dining room some time after with a dish in her hands and finding Mr. Linden there, Faith asked him earnestly and with great simplicity, "how he felt after his morning's work." Then remembering, or reminded by something in his face, she started away like a deer before any answer could be given; and only came back demurely with her mother,—to receive his grave reverence and "Me voici, mademoiselle!"—given just as if he had not seen her before. The half grave half laughing flash of Faith's eye spoke as much of amusement as of fear; yet afraid she certainly was, for she did not so much as speak English to her mother. The language of the eye was all she ventured; nor that boldly. It had to come, however, fear or no fear, the English might be dispensed with but not the French. She could not but try to understand the remarks or bits of in formation which were given her—sometimes gravely sometimes laughing; and if Mr. Linden was evidently waiting for an answer—what could she do but try that too! He was an admirable dictionary, very quick at seeing and supplying her want of a word, and giving his corrections of her phraseology and pronunciation so gently and by the way, that fear partly lost itself in interest. His own speech was singularly smooth and perfect; and whenever Faith found herself getting frightened, she was sure to be assailed with such a volley of swift flowing syllables, that she could do nothing but laugh,—after which Mr. Linden would come back to the slower utterance which she could better understand. After all, Faith's words that first time were few, and it may safely be asserted that she did not in the least know what she was eating, and made no sort of a dinner. Of that last fact her instructor was well aware, but as his first "Mais mademoiselle, mangez!" received but little attention, he postponed that point till just as he was going away, and then made a rather stringent request to the same effect.
So the afternoon passed on, and blew itself out, and the sun went to bed and night began to light her candles. Faith, standing at the window (it was too cold to be out) saw the red gleam fading from earth and sky, and the cold bright stars coming one by one into view. Then the boys began to pass by,—some together and some alone; walking or running home, or playing ball by the way. Mr. Linden's carriage was a little behind them all, but he came at last, and gave her a bow and a smile from the gate though she thought herself standing too far back to be seen.
"Now Mr. Linden," said Faith when he came in,—"I am so glad to speak to you again! How do you do?" The question was not lightly given.
"Miss Faith, did you finish your dinner?"
"No—" said Faith hesitating,—"but I am going to have some tea by and by. Aren't you well tired, Mr. Linden?"
"Pretty well—Why didn't you?"
"I wanted to be doing something else,"—said Faith, giving the easy chair a little push into place, and then brightening up the fire. "I shall have tea in here to-night, Mr. Linden. But we must wait a little while for it, for Cindy is out. You won't be sorry to rest first."
She was summarily, though very respectfully put in the easy chair herself.
"By what rule of right and wrong did you do anything else first? Do you know, Miss Faith, I did not finish mine either—I wanted another piece of bread, and could not get it!"
"Why not, Mr. Linden? I am sure there was bread on the table. But I am glad if you are hungry, for I have got something that you like. Now please rest!" she said springing up and beginning to arrange the table.
"I am sure I asked you for it politely," he said with a smile, as he yielded to her "please rest." "What have you been about all day?"
"I have been learning my lessons—and trying how well I could get on by myself."
"Get on by yourself?" he said rather slowly and inquiringly. "In what?"
"In the books—in my studies, Mr. Linden."
"Are you tired of my help, Miss Faith?"
She gave all her eyes to the answer, both in their sweetness and their gravity. "Do you think I could let you spend all your time upon me, Mr. Linden, when your whole day is given to such work? I'll come to you for help whenever I can't get on without it," she said with a smile, not exactly an enjoying one,—"but I know I can do a good deal by myself."
His eyes were given to the answer too, a little intently, but the smile that followed was different.
"I think you will let me do what I shall do, Miss Faith."
"I suppose that!" said Faith with a bright gleam in her eyes. She went out to see if Cindy had come back; but returned immediately, sat down and looked gravely into the fire.
"What is the use of startling people in that way?" Mr. Linden said, looking at her. "I didn't know but you were going to send me to take up my abode at Mrs. Seacomb's!"
"Startling, Mr. Linden!" said Faith opening her eyes at him. "I said it because I thought it was right. I didn't think it was pleasant."
"Well," said he, "we were agreed upon that point. Now Miss Faith, as my time is precious, and I cannot well give any of it to people who have enough of their own—would it disturb you if I were to read aloud a little here for my own amusement?"
She changed her place to come nearer, without saying anything, but with a face of quiet delight only half revealed.
"What do you think of the relative and respective charms of Mirth and Melancholy, Miss Faith?—I mean their charms to inward perception, not outward sight."
"The pleasure of them?" said Faith.
"Yes—pleasure and satisfaction."
"I never thought there was any pleasure in Melancholy," said Faith smiling at the idea, but smiling inquiringly too.
In answer, Mr. Linden opened his book and gave her the Allegro and Penseroso,—gave them with not only a full appreciation, but with a delicate change and suiting of voice and manner—and look, even—that made them witching.
And if ever a hearer was bewitched, that was Faith. She lent her ear to the music, her eye to the eye, her thought to the thought, in utter forgetfulness of all else. At first she listened quietly, sitting where she was, looking sometimes at the fire, sometimes at the reader; but then she abandoned herself to full enjoyment, left her chair for a low seat near Mr. Linden, almost at his feet; and with upraised face and intent eye and varying play of lip, devoured it all. Sometimes the poetry certainly got beyond the bounds of her stock of knowledge; but that mattered not; for whenever the reading failed, the reader filled up all the gap and Faith listened to him. Precisely what it was to have just such a hearer, was best known to the reader himself; but he closed the book silently. Faith's comment was peculiar.
It wasn't made at first. Her look had come round slowly to the fire and slowly subsided. After sitting a minute so, she made her remark.
"But Mr. Linden, none of that seemed much like Melancholy to me?"
"That may be called the ideal of Melancholy," he said smiling.
"What is an 'ideal'? But oh," said Faith starting up, "it is time to have tea!—What is an 'ideal,' Mr. Linden?"
It was impossible not to laugh a little—but equally impossible to take that laugh amiss.
"The particular mental standard of perfection by which every person measures other people and things; and as that is generally more perfect than reality, the ideal is supposed to exist only in the idea."
She stood pondering the answer, with a somewhat humbled brow.
"I think I know," she said shaking her head a little,—"but I shall have to ask what exactly you mean by a standard, Mr. Linden. By and by—I must see to Cindy now."
And she ran off. Cindy presently brought in the tray; and Faith followed, arranging and setting in order everything. The tea did not immediately follow, perhaps the fire had got low, or Mrs. Derrick was not ready, for Faith did not seem expectant. She stood on the rug before the fire, looking into it very soberly and consideratively. There was a little abstraction in her figure and air. Suddenly she faced round where she stood.
"Do you feel very tired indeed to-night, Mr. Linden?"
"Not very—now," he said smiling. "I have been resting. I was a little more tired than usual when I came home."
Slowly and deliberately she came round behind his chair and stood leaning upon the back of it.
"Mr. Linden—I want to ask you something."
The tone was low and peculiar. It was a very common thing for her to be more or less moved by a little timidity; but now plainly Faith was afraid. It changed her voice, beyond the slight sweet touch that timidity often gave it.
"You know I like to have you, Miss Faith."
"I wanted to ask—if you would like,—or if you wouldn't dislike—if you would have any objection, to read and pray at night—here, with us,—and let Cindy and Mr. Skip come in?"
"I will, certainly," Mr. Linden said: "how could I have any objection? Miss Faith—will you please to come round here and sit down?—Why are you so much afraid of me?" She did not leave her position.
"I didn't know whether you would like it," she said in a very low voice. "I asked mother to ask you, but she wouldn't—though she said she would like to have you do it. I wanted it particularly for mother's sake."—The last words were said little above a whisper.
"I don't see where the fear came from, yet."
She was quite still, quite motionless, behind his chair. He turned a little, so as to see her face, and laid his hand upon hers.
"Will you come round here and tell me, Miss Faith? I shall not let you stand up all the evening."
She was looking, when he saw her, with the least bit of a smile upon a mouth all unbent, and eyes that were full; a very happy, stirred face. It quieted down as soon as he turned; except the smile which played rather more.
"Tell you what, Mr. Linden?" she said not leaving her place.
"What have I done to make myself such an ogre?"
"What is an ogre, Mr. Linden?"
"A ferocious sort of anomaly that everybody is afraid of."
"I don't know what you've done, Mr. Linden," she said half laughing. "I am not enough afraid to hurt anything."
"Enough to hurt me—I don't care about any other thing."
A grave glance of her eye was regretful enough.
"But it's true, Mr. Linden! I was a little afraid to ask what I wasn't sure you would like—that was all."
"Well," he said with a reassuring smile, as he got up and took hold of both her hands and brought her out of position, "I am not much hurt yet—but I desire that the fear may not increase. And therefore, Miss Faith, I want to have you sit here in the firelight, so that I can keep watch of it."
She smiled, as if it were beyond his ken now, but her words went to another point.