Say and Seal, Volume I
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The doctor's plan about the Aquarium was excessively distasteful to Mrs. Derrick. She read the meaning and grounds of it, which Faith entirely failed to read; but then to give them to her was hardly an advisable thing. So the Aquarium came, after a few days; and Faith having found that Mr. Linden could give her some help, if necessary, in the care of it, relieved her mind of all concern about the responsibility and took the full good of the trust. In a sunny window it was placed, and many a happy minute between the times of other things Faith stood or sat there to watch the unfolding and shrinking Anemones, and the restless, eager, wild lives of the other and more distinctly animal inhabitants of this little section of Ocean. The only uncomfortable thing about it was that other people sometimes saw it and heard how it came there; and other people, Faith knew, drew very ridiculous inferences from nothing. And though ridiculous they were disagreeable. But however, she knew best how it came there and how simple a matter it was; and it was never the way of her simplicity to trouble itself overmuch about ridiculous things.
Another person, it may be remarked, knew how it got there; and he found it pleasant to come and see it some times. This was generally in the afternoon, now, when Mr. Linden was not at home and Faith was not occupied in household duties. Pleasant talks were held over the Aquarium; for there was never an end of things that might be told of old and new discoveries connected with what was in it. The conversations diverged often to other matters, religious or scientific as the case might be; and were clever, bright, interesting, or amusing accordingly—and invariably.
And so the time wore on towards the 29th. But in the fourth week of Mr. Linden's return to school duties, Faith began to have a new lesson—or rather she had it once and practised upon it many times. That once was at the end of a Wednesday afternoon, in exquisite Indian summer weather; when other subjects being dismissed for the time, Mr. Linden gave his scholar an interesting and precise account of the process of respiration; passing thence to the obvious benefits of fresh air, and finally requesting her to put on her things and come out and take them. After which, it may be observed, Faith was never heard to say that studies were "a great deal better than fresh air,"—often as the walk was repeated.
The other lessons made beautiful headway. Even the French talks at dinner. That was harder to Faith than any other trial to which she had been put. She shrank from it with great shrinking. But the desire to please her teacher overcame even fear. Rather than not do that,—Faith ventured, right or wrong; and once fairly launched, of course, with his good help and her own endeavours, soon got into smoother sailing.
Mr. Linden and the doctor now met not often; the doctor making his visits, as has been said, during school time. They met oftenest where the doctor went seldomest,—in those rooms where Dr. Harrison did sometimes let his profession call him, where Mr. Linden was drawn by somewhat beyond profession. Sometimes this intercourse was only of the eye,—sometimes they walked home together; the curious friendship between them deepening, as it seemed, from all sources.
Come home when Mr. Linden would, his room looked as if somebody had just stepped out of it. The fire was always in its best beauty; the hearth guiltless of ashes; the temperature genial whatever the weather out of doors might be; the books, the papers, the table, in their wonted order or disorder, as fresh as if dust never fell. But the fairy of the place was always out of sight.
CHAPTER XXXI
The 29th of November came on Wednesday, which permitted Mrs. Stoutenburgh to have her dinner at an earlier hour than would else have been possible. To this dinner the two older guests were invited—the boys were only to come to supper; and four o'clock was the time.
Till near three, studies and reading were in full force, but then other duties claimed attention.
"If I could only sit next you at dinner, Miss Faith," Mr. Linden said as he shut up the books, "we could talk French all the time!—but there is no hope of that. And Miss Faith—" he said as she turned to go upstairs, "do you know that all the things on my table are not in their proper place?"
Very much wondering, Faith was for a moment at a loss.
"What is wrong, Mr. Linden?"
"I would not give it so harsh a name, Miss Faith—only I thought perhaps you would go in there before I come up and see that all is left just as usual,—if you would be so good."
Faith went up, querying with herself whether Cindy could perhaps have been in there and committed some dire damage—or what it could be.
What could it!—if ever a room was scrupulously in order, that was; and the table—it had not been stirred, nor a book upon it, since Faith's arranging hands had been there. Even writing implements were not laid about, as they often were,—the table was just as usual. Unless–
Yes, in front of the books stood a glass of water, and therein one dark velvet rose, truly of a "Cramoisi supérieure," failing to support itself upon its own green leaves, laid its face half coquettishly and half wearily upon dark sprigs of heliotrope and myrtle. Thence it looked at Faith. And Faith looked at it, with a curious smile of recognition, and yet of doubt,—whether that could possibly be what he meant. But she was to see that all things were "left just as usual;" it did not admit of a serious question. So lifting the glass and the rose, Faith and it went off together.
Faith's best dress, of course put on for this occasion, was a black silk. She had thought that a little extravagant at the time it was got; but Mrs. Derrick would have it. It was made with the most absolute plainness, high in the neck, where the invariable little white ruffle graced the white throat; but the sleeves were short, and similar white ruffles softened the dividing line between them and the well rounded fair arms. Her hair was as usual, her feet were as usual, only the shoes were of fresh neatness; but when Faith had with eyes that saw only them, not herself, fastened the rose and myrtle on the bosom of her dress, a little figure stood there that in its soft angles and exquisite propriety of attire would have been noted in any circle of splendour, and might have satisfied the most fastidious lover of elegance. Wrapped up and hooded Faith went down stairs, and Mr. Linden put her in the Stoutenburgh carriage, which rolled off to the mansion of the same name in a very short space of time.
In solitary grandeur Faith was ushered into Mrs. Stoutenburgh's bedroom, where first the fire kept her company, and then Mrs. Stoutenburgh herself came in from another door and both unwrapped her and wrapt her up! But when all that could be done was done, Mrs. Stoutenburgh ran off again, and told Faith, laughing, that she hadn't seen her yet—and was all ready for her in the parlour. Faith being left to herself stepped out into the passage, where Mr. Linden was standing with folded arms before a window that looked out upon the closing November day. Faith came softly up beside him.
"I've seen Mrs. Stoutenburgh," she said, "but she says she hasn't seen me. Are your flowers right now, Mr. Linden?"
"Miss Faith! why do you wear velvet shoes?"—he said turning full upon her. "You have not been down stairs?"
"No, certainly. I saw Mrs. Stoutenburgh up here."
"Then shall I have the pleasure of taking you down?—I see nothing that is not right," he added smiling.
It was rather an odd new thing to Faith, to be taken down, or in, anywhere. The form of having a gentleman's arm was something rather startling. But she did not shew it. Down stairs they went, into the glowing parlour, where Faith was met and greeted by Mrs. Stoutenburgh de nouveau.
"Ah Miss Faith!" said the Squire as he gave her his salutation, "how extravagant you are to add roses to roses in that style! Don't you know it's a waste of material?"
"No, sir. I shall use it all up."
"I should like to see you after you get through!" said Mr. Stoutenburgh laughing. "Ask Mr. Linden if it's not waste."
Mr. Linden however entirely declined to assent to any such proposition,—nay, even hinted that if any one was to be charged with wasting roses just then, it was the Squire himself.
"Yes, I think so too!" said Mrs. Stoutenburgh,—"but how funnily you always see through things and turn them about!"
"Roses are not very opaque things to see through," he answered smiling, while Mrs. Stoutenburgh rescued Faith and putting her arm round her drew her off towards the sofa. Where Faith was glad to get at a distance from the rose-consumers. She felt rather nervous.
"Where is Sam?" she asked. "This is his day, isn't it?"
"He was here a minute ago," said his mother,—"I guess he ran off when he heard you coming. He takes fits of being bashful once in a while,—they don't last long. Your mother wasn't afraid to let you come with our horses, was she?"
"No ma'am," Faith said,—"not at all. But she hasn't got back her old trust in horses and carriages generally. I wish she had."
"I don't—" said Mrs. Stoutenburgh,—"they're not to be trusted generally, child. Has your horse got well yet?"
"Not well. Mr. Skip says he's better, but we can't use him."
"Well I wanted to talk to you about that—Mr. Stoutenburgh's been at me to do it this month. You know we've always got more horses on hand than we can use—and there's one of 'em that would just suit you. Won't you let him stand in your stable this winter?—and give Crab a chance."
"O no, Mrs. Stoutenburgh!—thank you!" said Faith. "I dare say Crab will get better—it won't be necessary; and you know we don't ride much in winter. You're very kind to think of it."
"There you are—as usual!" said Mrs. Stoutenburgh. "I'm always afraid to ask you anything, you keep such magnifying glasses. But now Faith, listen to reason. Not ride in winter!—why it's the very time for riding, if there's snow; and you could drive Jerry, or your mother could, just as well as Crab—he's as quiet as he can be. At the same time," said Mrs. Stoutenburgh with a little dance in her eyes, "if anybody else drives him, he can go a little faster."
"I'll tell mother how good you are, Mrs. Stoutenburgh. It isn't my business to give answers for her. But did you ever see me drive?"
"Not horses," said Mrs. Stoutenburgh laughing.
"Not anything else, I am sure? I used to want to go after the cows, but mother never would let me."
But whatever Mrs. Stoutenburgh meant she did not explain, for dinner was announced, and the Squire came up to take possession of Faith again; receiving his wife's little whispered "I've done it!" with all her own satisfaction.
In the dining-room Sam was at last visible, but the bashful fit had not gone off, and Faith's black silk was even more distracting than her white muslin. Her greeting of him was simple enough to have been reassuring.
"I hope you will be as happy a great many times as you are to-day, Sam," she said as she shook hands with him. "On the 29th of November, I mean."
Perhaps Sam thought that doubtful—perhaps impossible,—perhaps undesirable. At all events his words were few; and though he was permitted the post of honour at Faith's side, he did not do much for her entertainment at first.
The dinner itself, service and style and all included, was sufficiently like the Squire and his wife. Handsome and substantial, free, bountiful, and with a sort of laughing air of good cheer about it which more ceremony would have covered up. There was no lack of talk, either,—all the company having the ability therefor, and then, at least, the inclination. But if Mr. Linden now and then called Sam out of his abstraction, so did the Squire attack Faith; giving her a little sword play to parry as best she might.
"Miss Faith," he said, "do you know to what a point you are, day by day, winding up the curiosity of this town of Pattaquasset?"
"I, sir!" said Faith, apparently, by her eye and air, occupying the place of the centre of motion to all this curiosity;—the point of absolute rest.
"My dear," said the Squire, "they say two things about you! The first is that you never go out! Now don't trouble yourself to contradict that, but just tell me the reason. We're all friends here, you know."
"Why I go out very often indeed, Mr. Stoutenburgh!" said Faith.
"Didn't I tell you not to contradict me? Ah Miss Faith!—young ladies never will take advice! Well—the first thing is, as I said, that you never go out. The second," said the Squire laughing, "is—that you do!"
"Well sir," said Faith merrily,—"they can't both be true—and there isn't anything very bad about either of them. Nor very curious, either, I think."
"What I should like to know," said Mr. Linden, "is, who keeps watch at the gate?"
"Squire Deacon does, for one," said Sam promptly. "I see him there often enough."
"When you come to relieve the guard?" said Mr. Linden smiling. And the laugh was turned for the moment, rather to Sam's confusion.
"So that's what the Squire's come back for, is it?" said Mr.Stoutenburgh. "I thought somebody was to blame for his going away."
"Nobody was much to blame," said Mrs. Stoutenburgh.
"I had a long talk with Sam the other day—Sam Deacon, I mean," said the Squire, "and he was keen to get acquainted with Dr. Harrison. And as the doctor came along just then, I gave him a chance. I guess the doctor blessed me for it!—I did him. By the way, Miss Faith, I s'pose you've got acquainted with the doctor by this time?"
"Yes sir—very well—" Faith said quietly, though she felt the ground uneasy and unsafe.
"Well what sort of a chap is he?—up to anything besides running away with all he can lay his hands on?"
"Don't you know him, Mr. Stoutenburgh?"
"Can't say I do, Miss Faith,—it rather strikes me he's not anxious I should."
"How can he be anxious, sir, when you are not?" said Mr. Linden. "Isn't that expecting too much?"
The Squire laughed.
"I don't expect too much of him," he said,—"and don't you expect too little. After all, I'd as soon take a boy's mind as a man's—and he aint popular among the boys. I thought he would be, after that exhibition—but he aint."
Which remark Mr. Linden knew to be true, though he did not say so.
"Well, Mr. Stoutenburgh! if you don't like him why do you talk about him?" said his wife. "Faith—you can play blind man's buff, I'm sure?"
"Wait a bit,—wait a bit," said the Squire—"I'm not ready to be blinded yet, if she is. You ladies are always in such a hurry! Now Mr. Linden and I want to have our ideas cleared up. What sort of a man is the doctor, Miss Faith? You say you know him 'very well,'—do you like him 'very much'?"
This shot brought Faith to a stand and obliged her, to be sure, to 'shew her colours,' which she did bravely. Nevertheless she faced the Squire and answered steadily.
"I like him a good deal, Mr. Stoutenburgh—in some respects very much."
"Hum—" said the Squire, as he cut a persuasive piece of duck and put it on her plate. "Well wouldn't you like to tell me, my dear, what you mean by 'some respects'?—That's Mrs. Stoutenburgh's word, and I never could find out yet."
"I suppose it means different things in different cases," said Faith smiling.
"Did you ever?"—said the Squire, taking a general survey of the table, which began with Faith and ended with Mr. Linden, "Aint that half of creation up to anything? I tell you what, Miss Faith, if I'd been in that meadow 'tother day, I'd have made Mazeppa of the doctor in no time,—Sam hasn't learnt to put his history in practice yet. And besides," said the Squire, with a peculiarly slow, innocent enunciation, "he never likes to do anything that would displease Mr. Linden!"
"Mr. Stoutenburgh!" said his wife, though she was laughing merrily herself, "Can't you be quiet? Faith, why don't you answer me?"
"What, Mrs. Stoutenburgh?"—Faith turned towards her a face from which, gentle as it was, the smile had disappeared.
"You play blind man's buff, don't you, dear?"
"When I can," said Faith.
"The real question, Miss Faith," said Mr. Linden, whose grave unmoved look—unmoved unless by a little fear that she might be annoyed—would have been some help to her during her cross-examination if she had seen it,—"the real question is, whether you are willing to play to-night."
"I am as willing as can be," said Faith.
"I don't know whether they'll want to play it," said Mrs. Stoutenburgh, "but they may; and Sam's never content unless I'm in the fun, whatever it is."
"Of course Miss Faith will play," said the Squire,—"she never refuses to please anybody."
"Mr. Linden said he would," said Sam.
"But how shall you and I manage, Faith?" said Mrs. Stoutenburgh. "They'd tell us in a minute by our dresses—as there are only two of us."
Faith pondered this difficulty with an amused face.
"Sam must lend us some of his jackets or coats, Mrs. Stoutenburgh. Our heads are the worst,—or mine is—you and Sam might be mistaken for each other."
"But there'd be no use in Miss Faith's disguising herself," said Sam naively, "because she's so sweet."
"You wouldn't have her disguise that, would you, Sam?" said Mr. Linden laughing.
"What a boy!" said his mother,—"and what a reflection upon me!"
"Why I meant her flowers!" said Sam,—"you needn't all laugh so. I don't mean either that I didn't mean—" but what more he meant Sam left unsaid, which did not much stay the laughter.
"I will appoint two or three boys to play the part of the pigeon in hawking," said Mr. Linden,—"Miss Faith might get tired of being caught, if not of running away."
"How do you know that, Mr. Linden?" she said a little archly.
"Truly," he answered, "I know it not—but most things are possible, even in blind man's buff. And all boys are not provided with silk gloves. But you shall not complain of not being caught—I promise you that."
"Again!" she said with another soft flash of her eye, though now she coloured. "Don't you understand, Mr. Linden, that I don't intend to let anybody catch me?—if I can help it."
"Miss Faith, I have the most entire confidence in your intentions!"
Faith kept her energies for action, and said no more. And in a very harmonious temper the whole party left the dinner table and went back to the fire-lit parlour. All but Sam, who went to be ready for his particular guests in another room.
His place was presently supplied by a new-comer. There was a step in the hall—then the parlour door opened, and a little lady with a shawl round her shoulders, came in.
"Good evening!" she said in a very cheery voice. "Why I didn't expect to find so many of you! Is it a party, Mrs. Stoutenburgh,—and shall I go away? or will you let me come in, now I've got here?"
"Come in, come in, Miss Essie, and make it a party," said the Squire; while Mrs. Stoutenburgh took off the shawl and answered,
"Go away? why of course not! It's only Sam's birth-day—you're not afraid of boys, I guess."
"I'm not afraid of anything," said Miss Essie, and her bright black eyes said it too. "Isn't that Mr. Linden?—yes, I thought so. And Faith Derrick!—my! child, how you're dressed. What sort of a party have you got, Mrs. S.?"
"Why, boys!" said Mrs. Stoutenburgh, while Mr. Linden said,
"Good evening, Miss Essie—you know I am one of them."
"Are you? I don't know much about you, except by hearsay, you know. I am glad you are here to-night. I shall study you, Mr. Linden."
Mr. Linden bowed his acknowledgments.
"Will you want my help, Miss Essie?"
She laughed. "Come!" said she—"don't get on too fast! I am beginning to like you already. What are the boys doing, Mrs. Stoutenburgh? Sam's birthday, did you say?"
"Yes, it's Sam's birthday,—I don't suppose they're doing much yet except coming," said Mrs. Stoutenburgh. "What they will do, no mortal can say."
"And you'll let them do anything! It must be a nice thing to be a boy, with such a mother as Mrs. Stoutenburgh, Mr. Linden."
His "yes" came readily enough, but was unaccompanied with any other word whatever. Mrs. Stoutenburgh's "Do hush!"—was sufficiently energetic though very low.
"How old is Sam?" was the instant question, as if the whisper had referred to him.
"O Sam can't get beyond fourteen till he's twenty," said Mrs. Stoutenburgh laughing. "I suppose by that time I sha'n't care how old he is."
"I know who thinks he's a handsome fellow!" said Miss Essie shaking her head,—"and that's not you, Mrs. S. I know he's a smart one, for I pinned a blue ribband to his coat once. I wonder if he loves me properly for it.—Faith Derrick, how come you to be here, child?"
"Why because Mrs. Stoutenburgh asked me," said Faith, answering this sudden address with some surprise.
"Wrong!" said Miss Essie. "There's some mistake about it. I've just come from hearing you talked of."
"Whom did you hear, Miss Essie?" said the Squire. "Come—give up your authority."
"I was at Judge Harrison's," said Miss Essie, after a considerative look of her black eyes at the Squire;—"and that's all I am going to tell you, Mr. Stoutenburgh! Mr. Linden, what do you think of the propriety of people's talking about people?"
"I think well of the propriety, when it exists."
"Well what do you think of its existence? Honestly, now. I want to get at your opinion."
"I think its existence is rather limited and precarious, Miss Essie," said Mr. Linden smiling. "It is one of those things that may be said to have a delicate constitution."
"Well," said Miss Essie again, smiling too, both with lips and eyes,—"how could people get along in such a place as Pattaquasset, for instance, without it? People must talk. And it is so pleasant to know that Mrs. Stoutenburgh's son Sam is fifteen years old and had a party on his birthday; and that Mr. Linden and Miss Derrick were there and eat roast turkey;—and to know that Miss Essie de Staff went to New York to get a new carpet for her best room and what the new style is;—and that Miss Faith Derrick was run away with and brought home again, and went through adventures. How could we do without talking of these things? Now perhaps you will say it's immoral; but I'm in favour of a possible morality; and I say, how could Pattaquasset get along without all this?"
"Pattaquasset could get along without some of the things, to startwith," said the Squire. "I don't know what you call 'pleasant,' MissEssie, but I never was so angry in my life—since some rascal told meMrs. Stoutenburgh was going to marry somebody else," he added laughing.
"But I say," said Miss Essie, "how could Pattaquasset get along without talking of these things? and I ask Mr. Linden. I want to know his opinion."
"I will not say that it could," said Mr. Linden.—"Miss Essie, you knowPattaquasset better than I do."
"Well do you think there is any harm in talking of them?"
"What do you think of the modern definition of a young lawyer, Miss Essie—'a man who is where he has no business to be, because he has no business where he ought to be'?"
Miss Essie laughed, and laughed.
"Don't Sam get along fast with his reading and writing. Mr.Stoutenburgh?"
"Always did—" said the Squire; "and with everything else too. What are you talking about? I lost that. I'd gone off to that rascal—"
Miss Essie's laugh rang out again and her eyes danced.
"That rascal! Now for shame, Mr. Stoutenburgh! You know better. I wonder if you never had young horses yourself, and took Mrs. Stoutenburgh to ride, too. Now I like him very much. Mr. Linden, you know Dr. Harrison, don't you?"
"I should—a little."
"Well aren't you a judge of character? Do you think he deserves to be called a rascal?"
But Squire Stoutenburgh prevented the answer. "I wish you'd just stop and let me catch up with you, Miss Essie," he said. "Now before we go any further, whoever said he was a rascal?—I didn't."
"Did you mean somebody else, Mr. Stoutenburgh?"
"That's the way you talk over pleasant things!" said the Squire. "If I hadn't hallooed after you, Miss Essie, I should have had a challenge from the doctor before morning—or a shot,—that's getting to be the fashion."
"Do you think Dr. Harrison is that kind of man?" said Miss Essie. "Mr. Linden, what kind of man do you think he is? You can tell better than the Squire, and I want to know."