Say and Seal, Volume II

CHAPTER X

Two weeks passed quietly, without much apparent change in Miss Danforth; and Faith was beginning to think of appointing a time to go home. But the necessity for that was suddenly superseded. The Friday following, Miss Dilly took a change for the worse, and Saturday she died. Faith sent off tidings immediately to Pattaquasset; but her letter could not reach there till Monday; and Monday came a very great fall of snow which made travelling impossible. Faith waited patiently, comforting Madame Danforth as she might, and endeavouring to win her to some notion of that joy in the things of the Bible in which Miss Dilly had lived and died. For no change had come over Miss Dilly's sky; and she had set sail from the shores of earth in the very sunlight.

It fell out, that Faith's letter of Saturday afternoon had been five minutes too late for the mail; and after lying in the office at Pequot over Sunday, had been again subjected to the delays of Monday's storm, which in its wild fury put a stop to everything else; and thus, when Mr. Linden went to the office Tuesday morning before school time, the mail had not yet got in. Not long after, however, Mr. Skip brought home the letters; and Mrs. Derrick reading hers, at once took Mr. Skip and Jerry and set off for Pequot; minding neither snowdrifts nor driving wind, when the road to Faith lay through them, and arriving there quite safe about the hour of midday.

The delayed funeral took place the same afternoon. And the next morning, in a brilliant cold day, snow all over the ground and the sky all blue, the mother and daughter set forth homewards. Madame Danforth was going to take another relation in, and live on still in the little house where she and her sister-in-law had made a happy home for so many years. Miss Danforth had left a few hundreds, three or four, to Faith. It was all she had owned in the world; her principal living having been an annuity settled upon her by her brother, which reverted to Madame Danforth.

It was about mid-afternoon when they reached home, and of course the house held no one but Cindy; except indeed that sort of invisible presence which books and other inanimate things make known; and Cindy had to tell of two or three visiters, but otherwise nothing. Very fair it all looked to Faith,—very sweet to her ear was the sound of the village clock, although as yet it was only striking three. She did not say much about the matter. A gleeful announcement that she was glad to be at home, she made to Mrs. Derrick; but after that she expressed herself in action. One of her first moves was to the kitchen, determined that there should be a double consciousness of her being at home when supper-time came. Then books were got out, and fires put in wonderful order. Mr. Linden might guess, from the state in which he found his room, that it had come under its old rule. No such fire had greeted him there for weeks; no such brushed-up clean hearth; no such delicate arrangement of table and chairs and curtains and couch. But the fire burned quietly and told no tales, otherwise than by its very orderly snapping and sparkling.

And indeed it so happened, that Mr. Linden went first into the sitting-room,—partly to see if any one was there, partly because the day was cold, and under Cindy's management there was small reason to suppose that his room was warm. And once there, the easy-chair reminded him so strongly that he was tired, that he even sat down in it before going upstairs,—which combination a long walk through the snowdrifts since school, made very acceptable. Five minutes after, Faith having got rid of her kitchen apron, opened softly the door of the sitting-room. She stopped an instant, and then came forward, her gladness not at all veiled by a very rosy veil of shy modesty. There was no stay in his step to meet her,—he had sprung up with the first sound of her foot on the threshold; and how much she had been missed and longed for Faith might guess, from the glad silence in which she was held fast and for a minute not allowed to speak herself. So very glad!—she could see it and feel it exceedingly as he brought her forward to the fire, and lifted up her face, and looked at it with eyes that were not easily satisfied.

"My little Sunbeam," he said, "how lovely you are!"

She had been laughing and flushing with a joy almost as frankly shewn as his own; but that brought a change over her face. The eyes fell, and the line of the lips was unbent after a different fashion.

"I don't know what it is like to see you again," Mr. Linden said as his own touched them once more,—"like any amount of balm and rest and refreshment! How long have you been here, dear child? and how do you do?—and have you any idea how glad I am to have you home?"

She answered partly in dumb show, clasping one hand upon his shoulder and laying down her head upon it. Her words were very quiet and low-spoken.

"We came home a while ago—and I am very well." Mr. Linden rested his face lightly upon her shining hair, and was silent—till Faith wondered; little guessing what thoughts the absence and the meeting and above all her mute expression, had stirred; nor what bitterness was wrapped in those sweet minutes. But he put it aside, and then took the sweetness pure and unmixed; giving her about as much sunshine as he said she gave him.

"How do you like writing to me, Faith?" he said. "Am I, on the whole, any more terrific at a distance than near by?"

"I didn't know you could be so good at a distance,"—she said expressively.

"Did you find out what reception your letters met?"

"I didn't want to find out."

"Do you call that an answer?" he said smiling. "Why didn't you want to find out?—and did you?"

"Why!"—said Faith,—"I didn't want to find out because it wasn't necessary. I did find out that I liked to write. But you wouldn't have liked it if you had known what time of night it was, often."

"What do you think of taking up a new study?" said Mr. Linden. "It strikes me that it would do you good to stand in the witness-box half an hour every day,—just for practice. Faith—did you find out what reception your letters met?"

"I knew before—" she said, meeting his eyes.

"Did you!—then what made you assure me I should not like them?"

"I don't think you did, Endecott—the parts of them that you oughtn't to have liked."

"Truly I think not!" he said laughing. "You are on safe ground there, little Mignonette. But speaking of letters—do you want more tidings from Italy?"

"O yes I if you please. Are they good? And has all been good here with you and the school since I have been away?"

"Yes, they are good,—my sister—and yours—is enjoying herself reasonably. And the boys have been good,—and I—have wanted my Mignonette."

One word in that speech brought a soft play of colour to Faith's face, but her words did not touch that point.

The days went on very quietly after that, and the weeks followed,—quietly, regularly, full of business and pleasure. Quick steps were made in many things during those weeks, little interrupted by the rest of Pattaquasset, some of the most stirring people of that town being away. An occasional tea-drinking did steal an evening now and then, but also furnished the before and after walk or ride, and so on the whole did little mischief; and as Faith was now sometimes taken on Mr. Linden's visits to another range of society, she saw more of him than ever; and daily learned more and more—not only of him, but of his care for her. His voice—never indeed harsh to any one—took its gentlest tones to her; his eye its softest and deepest lustre: no matter how tired he came home—the first sight of her seemed to banish all thought of fatigue. Faith could feel that she was the very delight of his life. Indeed, by degrees, she began to understand that she had long been so—only there had once been a qualification,—now, the sunshine of his happiness had nothing to check its expression, or its endeavour to make her life as bright. That he took "continual comfort" in her, Faith could see.

And—child!—he did not see what this consciousness spurred her to do; how the strength of her heart spent itself—yet was never spent—in efforts to grow and become more worthy of him and more fit for him to take comfort in. The days were short, and Faith's household duties not few, especially in the severe weather, when she could not let her mother be tried with efforts which in summer-time might be easy and pleasant enough. A good piece of every day was of necessity spent by Faith about house and in the kitchen, and faithfully given to its work. But her heart spurred her on to get knowledge. The times when Mr. Linden was out of school could rarely be study times, except of study with him; and to be prepared for him Faith was eager. She took times that were hers all alone. Nobody heard her noiseless footfall in the early morning down the stair. Long before it was light,—hours before the sun thought of shewing his face to the white Mong and the snowy houseroofs of Pattaquasset, Faith lighted her fire in the sitting-room, and her lamp on the table; and after what in the first place was often a good while with her Bible, she bent herself to the deep earnest absorbed pressing into the studies she was pursuing with Mr. Linden—or such of them as the morning had time for. Faith could not lengthen the day at the other end; to prevent the sun was her only chance; and day after day and week after week, through the short days of February, she had done solid work and a deal of it before anybody in the house saw her face in the kitchen or at breakfast. They saw it then as bright as ever. Mr. Linden only knew that his scholar made very swift and smooth progress. He would have known more, for Faith would have shewn the effects of her early hours of work in her looks and life the rest of the day, but happiness is strong; and a mind absolutely at peace with God and the world has a great rest! Friction is said to be one of the notable hindering powers in the world of matter—it is equally true, perhaps, of the world of spirit. Without it, in either sphere, how softly and with how little wear and tear, everything moves! And Faith's life knew none.

CHAPTER XI

It was near the end of February,—rather late in the afternoon of a by no means balmy day, in the course of which Dr. Harrison had arrived to look after his repairs. But the workmen had stopped work and gone home to supper, and the doctor and his late dinner sat together. Luxuriously enough, on the doctor's part, for the dinner was good and well cooked, the bottles of wine irreproachable (as wine) in their silver stands, the little group of different coloured glasses shining in the firelight. The doctor's fingerbowl and napkin stood at hand, (at this stage of the proceeding) his half-pared apple was clearly worth the trouble, and he himself—between the fire and his easy-chair—might be said to be "in the lap of comfort." Comfort rarely did much for him but take him on her lap, however—he seldom stayed there; and on the present occasion the doctor's eyes were very wide open and his thoughts at work. It might be presumed that neither process was cut short, when the old black man opened the door and announced Mr. Linden.

But if Mr. Linden could have seen the doctor's face just before, he might have supposed that his entrance had produced rather a sedative effect. For the brow smoothed itself down, the eye took its light play and the mouth its light smile, and the doctor's advance to meet his friend was marked with all its graceful and easy unconcern. He did not even seem energetic enough to be very glad; for grace and carelessness still blended in his welcome and in his hospitable attentions, nothing of which however was failing. He had presently made Mr. Linden as comfortable as himself, so far as possible outward appliances could be effectual; established him at a good side of the table; Burnished him with fruit and pressed him with wine; and then sitting at ease at his own corner, sipped his claret daintily, eyeing Mr. Linden good humouredly between sips; but apparently too happily on good terms with comfort to be in any wise eager or anxious as to what Mr. Linden's business might be, or whether he had any.

"Has the news of my arrival flown over Pattaquasset already?" said he. "I thought I had seen nothing but frieze jackets, and friezes of broken plaster—and I have certainly felt so much of another kind of freeze that I should hardly think even news could have stirred."

Mr. Linden's reception of the doctor's hospitality had been merely nominal—except so far as face and voice had the receiving, and he answered quietly—

"I don't know. I happened to want you, doctor, and so I found out that you were here."

"Want me? I am very glad to be wanted by you—so that it be not for you. What is it, my dear Linden?"

"No—you will not be glad," said Mr. Linden,—"though it is both for me and not for me. I want you to go with me to see one of my little scholars who is sick."

"Who is he?"

"One whom you have seen but will not remember,—Johnny Fax."

"Fax—" said the doctor—"I remember the name, but no particular owner of it. What's the matter with him?"

"I want you to come and see."

"Now?"—

"As near that as may be."

"Now it shall be, then; though with such a February night on one side, it takes all your power on the other to draw me out of this chair. You don't look much like Comedy, and I am very little like the great buskin-wearer—but I would as lieve Tragedy had me by the other shoulder as February, when his fingers have been so very long away from the fire. Did you ever read Thomson's 'Castle of Indolence,' Linden?"

"Not to much purpose—the name is all I remember."

"Stupid book,"—said the doctor;—"but a delightful place!"

The luxury of broadcloth and furs in which the doctor was presently involved might have rendered him reasonably independent, one would think, of February or any other of Jack Frost's band. Jerry was at the door, and involving themselves still further in buffalo robes the two gentle men drove to the somewhat distant farm settlement which called Jonathan Fax master. Mr. Fax was a well-to-do member of the Pattaquasset community, as far as means went; there was very little knowledge in his house how to make use of means. Nor many people to make use of the knowledge. The one feminine member of the family had lately married and gone off to take care of her own concerns, and Jonathan and his one other child lived on as best they might; the child being dependant upon the maid of all work for his clothes and breakfast, for his Sunday lessons upon Faith, for the weekday teaching and comfort of his little life upon Mr. Linden. Living along in this somewhat divided way, the child had suddenly taken sick—no one just knew how; nor just what to do with him—except to send Mr. Linden word by one of the other boys, which had been done that afternoon. And thus it was, that Dr. Harrison had been looked for, found, and drawn out into the February night with only the slight protection of furs and broadcloth.

Thus it was that after a short and rather silent drive, the two gentlemen went together into the last-century sort of a house, received the angular welcome of Jonathan Fax, and stood side by side by the bed where the sick child lay. Side by side—with what different faces! A difference which Johnny was quick to recognize. He lay on the bed, wrapped in a little old plaid cloak, and with cheeks which rivalled its one remaining bright colour; and half unclosing his heavy eyes to see the doctor, he stretched out his arms to Mr. Linden, clasping them round his neck as his friend sat down on the bedside and gently lifted him up, and receiving the kiss on his flushed cheek with a little parting of the lips which said how glad he was. But then he lay quite still in Mr. Linden's arms.

Whatever attractions the Castle of Indolence might have for Dr. Harrison upon occasion, he never seemed so much as to look that way when he was at his work. Now, it made no difference that he was no friend of Johnny's; he gave his attention thoroughly and with all his skill to the condition and wants of his little patient.

"Is there nobody to take care of him?" he asked in French, for Jonathan Fax with his square and by no means delicate and tender physiognomy stood at the other side of the bed heavily looking on.

"I shall, to-night," said Mr. Linden. "You may give me your directions."

The doctor proceeded to do this; but added, "He wants care and good nursing; and he'll suffer if he don't have it. He is a sick child."

"He shall have it," was all the answer; and when the doctor had finished his work for the time, Mr. Linden laid the child on the bed again, giving him a whispered promise to come back and stay with him all night; upon the strength of which promise Johnny fell into a deep sleep.

"Has the creature nobody to take care of him?" said the doctor as they went out.

"Nobody at home."

"I shall be here a day or two, Linden—I'll see him early in the morning again."

Mr. Linden's next move through the biting air was to drive home. At the door of the sitting-room Faith met him.

"Endecott—how is he?"

"Less well than I expected to find him, dear Faith. I found Dr.Harrison and took him there with me."

"And what did Dr. Harrison say of him?"

"That he wanted good care and nursing."

"And who is there to give it to him, Endy?" she said with a very saddened and earnest face.

"Why I shall give it to him to-night, my child, and we'll see about to-morrow. The doctor promised to go there again in the morning."

She stood a moment silent, and then said, "I'll go with you."

"Not to-night, dear—it is not needful. He will not want more than one watcher."

"But he might want something else—something to be done that a woman about the house might be wanted for—let me go too!—"

"No indeed! you must go to sleep. And he will hardly want anything but what I can give him to-night. I know well what your little hands are in a sick room," he said taking them in his own,—"I know well!—but they are not made of iron—nor are you."

Faith looked ill satisfied.

"Well, you'll not hinder my taking your place by him to-morrow, Endy?"

"If I can," Mr. Linden said, "I shall come home to breakfast, and then I may know what you had better do; but if I should be detained there, and so not get here till midday, wait for me—I should not like to have you go without seeing me again; and I can leave Reuben there for the morning if need be."

"Oh Endecott!—" she said with a heart full; but she said no more and ran away. She came back soon to call Mr. Linden to tea, which had waited; and after tea when he was about going she put a basket in his hand.

"I hope Mr. Fax has wood in his house, so that you can keep a fire,—but you are not likely to find anything else there. You'll want everything that is in this, Endy—please remember."

"I will not forget," he said, as he gave her his thanks. "But what did that exclamation mean, before tea?"

"What exclamation?—Oh—" said Faith, smiling somewhat but looking down, "I suppose it meant that I was disappointed."

"My dear little child—you must try not to feel disappointed, because I am quite sure you ought not to go; and that must content both you and me. So good night."—

Faith tried to be contented, but her little scholar lay on her heart. And it lay on her heart too, that Mr. Linden would be watching all night and teaching all day. He did not know how much he had disappointed, for she had laid a fine plan to go by starlight in the morning to take his place and send him home for a little rest before breakfast and school. Faith studied only one book that night, and that was her Bible.

It was a night of steady watching,—broken by many other things, but not by sleep. There was constantly some little thing to do for the sick child,—ranging from giving him a drink of water, to giving him "talk," or rocking and—it might be—singing him to sleep. But the restless little requests never had to wait for their answer, and with the whole house sunk in stillness or sleep, Mr. Linden played the part of a most gentle and efficient nurse—and thought of Faith, and her disappointment. And so the night wore away, and the morning star came up, and then the red flushes of sunrise.

"Who turneth the night into day"—Mr. Linden thought, with a grave look from the window to the little face beside him—and then the words came,—

It was very early indeed, earlier even than usual, when Faith came down and kindled her fire. And then leaving it to burn, she opened the curtains of the window and looked out into the starlight. It was long before the red flush of the morning; it was even before the time when Faith would have gone to relieve the guard in that sick room; her thoughts sped away to the distant watcher there and the sick child. Faith could guess what sort of a watching it had been, and it was a comfort to think that Johnny had it. But then as she looked out into the clear still starlight, something brought up the question, what if Johnny should die?—It was overwhelming to Faith for a minute; her little scholar's loveliness had got fast hold of her heart; and she loved him for deep and far-back associations too. She could not bear to think that it might be. Yet she asked herself if this was a reasonable feeling? Why should she be sorry—if it were so—that this little blossom of Heaven should have an early transplanting thither? Ah, the fragrance of such Heaven-flowers is too sweet to be missed, and Earth wants them. As Faith looked sadly out into the night, watched the eternal procession of bright stars, and heard the low sweep of the wind, the words came to her,—separated from their context and from everything else as it seemed,—"I, the Lord, do all these things." Her mind as instantly gave a glad assent and rested itself in them. Not seen by her or by mortal the place or fitting of any change or turn of earthly things, in the great plan,—every one such turn and change had its place, as sure as the post of each star in the sky—as true to its commission as that wind, which came from no one knew where to go no one knew whither. Faith looked and listened, and took the lesson deep down in her heart.

Mr. Linden's little basket had stood him well in stead that long night,—for Faith had said truth; nothing was for him in Mr. Fax's house. Mr. Fax was well enough satisfied that Johnny's teacher should take the trouble of nursing the child, had no idea that such trouble would necessarily involve much loss of sleep, and still further no notion of the fact that a watcher at night needs food as much as fire. Fire Mr. Linden had, but he would have been worse off without the stores he found in his basket. In truth the supply generally was sufficient to have kept him from starving even if he had been obliged to go without his breakfast; but Dr. Harrison concerned himself about his little patient, and was better than Mr. Linden's hopes. He came, though in the cold short February morning, a good while before eight o'clock. He gave Mr. Linden a pleasant clasp of the hand; and then made his observations in silence.

"Is this one of your favourites?" he said at length.

A grave "yes."

"I am sorry for it."

Mr. Linden was silent at first, looking down at the child with a sort of expression the doctor had not often seen, and when he spoke it was without raising his eyes.

"Tell me more particularly."

"I don't know myself,"—said the doctor with a frankness startling in one of his profession; but Dr. Harrison's characteristic carelessness nowhere made itself more apparent than in his words and about what people might think of them.—"I don't say anything certainly—but I do not like appearances."

"What is the matter?"

"It's an indefinite sort of attack—all the worse for that!—the root of which is hid from me. All you can do is to watch and wait. Have you been here through the night?"

"Yes," Mr. Linden answered—and put the further question, "Do you think there is any danger of contagion?"

"O no!—the fever, what there is, comes from some inward cause—a complicated one, I judge. I can guess, and that's all. Are there no women about the house?"