Say and Seal, Volume II

Faith's trains of thought ended at last in a sleep which lasted till past her tea-time. Mrs. Derrick was still by her side when she awoke, and Faith opening her eyes as quietly as she had shut them, remarked,

"Mother!—letters are great things."

"Why child," said her mother smiling, "what have you been dreaming about?"

"Nothing.—That isn't a dream; it's a reality."

Blessing in her heart the sender of the reality which gave such pleasure, Mrs. Derrick answered, "Yes, child, it's real—and so's he."

Faith said nothing to that except by her smile. She only spoke the hope that she might be stronger the next day; a sentiment which though at first sight it might seem to have nothing to do with the former subject, was really in very close connexion with it.

But Faith was not stronger the next day. The fever was not driven away and strength was in the grip of it yet. The doctor gave her no new directions, but insisted very much on quietness and care. There was nothing to be apprehended of the fever but tediousness, and the further and prolonged loss of strength; but that was quite enough to have to avoid. For that she must take all sorts of care. He also said that the case might go on without his oversight for a day or two, and that for that space of time in the middle of the week he should be absent from Pattaquasset, having a very urgent call of business elsewhere.

And whether for that reason or needing no fresh one, the doctor having stated so much went on to tell about other things, and made a long visit. The talk came upon the Bible again, Faith didn't know how, and grew very animated. Dr. Harrison had brought with him this morning one of his pleasantest moods, or manners; he thought yesterday that Faith's eyes had given him a reproof for slander, and he had no intent to offend in the like way again. He was grave, gentle, candid, seemingly—willing to listen, but that he always was to Faith; and talked sense or feeling in a most sensible and simple way. Yet the conversation ended with giving Faith great pain. He had asked her to read something confirmatory or illustrative of the statement she was making, out of the Bible; and Faith had complied with his wish. That was nothing strange. She had often done it. To-day the reading had been followed by a little observation, acutely put, which Faith felt raised a barrier between him and the truth she had been pressing. She felt it, and yet she could not answer him. She knew it was false; she could see that his objection was foundationless—stood on air; but she did not see the path by which she might bring the doctor up to her standing-point where he might see it too. It was as if she were at the top of a mountain and he at the bottom; her eye commanded a full wide view of the whole country, while his could see but a most imperfect portion. But to bring him up to her, Faith knew not. It is hard, when feet are unwilling to climb! And unskilled in the subtleties of controversy, most innocent of the duplicities of unbelief, Faith saw her neighbour entangled, as it seemed, in a mesh of his own weaving and had not power to untie the knot. It distressed her. Other knots of skepticism or ignorance that he had presented to her she had cut easily with the sword of truth if she could not untie; he had offered her one to-day that she could cut indeed as easily for herself,—but not for him. To do that called for not better wits, but for far greater controversial acumen and logical practice than Faith knew. He did not press his point, not even for victory; he gave the objection to her and left it there; but while to her it was mere rottenness of reasoning, she knew that for him it stood. It grieved her deeply; and Mrs. Derrick saw her worn and feverish all the day, without knowing what special reason there had been. She tried to stop Faith's working; but though not fit for it, Faith would not be stopped. She dared not trust Mr. Linden with any more excuses or put-offs; and a feverish cheek and hand that day and the next went over her exercise and letter. And enjoyed both, in spite of fever. But when they were done, late in the next day, Faith lay down wearily on the couch and consoled herself with the thoughts of the letter to come; it was the evening for one.

It was the evening for one and yet one came not. Other letters came—the great leather bag was tossed out on the station-house steps, and thence borne off to the post-office, where five minutes later Reuben Taylor came to wait for his share of the contents. But when with the assurance which has never yet known disappointment, Reuben applied at the window, Mintie gave him a rather coquettish—

"No, Mr. Taylor—you're not in luck to-day,—there's nothing for you."

In his surprise Reuben tried every means to make himself and her believe that she was mistaken; and urged a new examination of all the letters, till Mintie made—or feigned to make—it, with the same success.

Reuben turned away from the office in real sorrow of heart. He had not now to learn what store was set by those letters—especially now, when Faith was sick,—he had noticed her holding of that very last one which had come. And then, not merely to lose the pleasure, but to have the disappointment!—Then too, what had hindered the letter? One sometimes came out of time, but the expected one had never yet failed. Was Mr. Linden sick?—and what would Miss Faith think?—the letter might fail from other causes (hardly, Reuben thought) but what would she think?—herself so far from well. And then, should he go at once and tell her—or let her find it out from his non-appearance?

That last idea was promptly rejected,—she should at least not be in suspense, and Reuben was soon at her door, as soon admitted. But he came in very quietly, without that spring of step which had so often brought a letter, and standing by her chair said gently,—

"Miss Faith, I didn't find anything to-night—but I thought I'd come and tell you, for fear you'd be expecting."

"Not find anything!"—said Faith raising herself half up, with the start of colour into her pale cheeks.

"No, ma'am,—they said at the office there was nothing. Maybe it will come to-morrow."

It hurt him to see the little patient droop of each feature as Faith laid herself down again.

"Thank you, Reuben," she said. "O yes, maybe it will."

Words of consolation Reuben did not presume to offer, but there was a great deal in his face and quiet low-spoken "Can I do anything to-night, Miss Faith?"

"No," she said cheerfully. "There's nothing. Isn't it time Mr. and Mrs.Roscom had some fresh eggs, Reuben? Mother will give you them."

Reuben only said he would stop there and see them.

The letter did not come next day. Reuben came, as usual, in the afternoon, but only to tell his bad success. He had not the heart to bring cowslips again, and ventured no words to Faith but about some of her poor people. That subject Faith went into fully. After Reuben was gone she lay quiet a while; and took her indemnification in the evening by getting Mrs. Derrick to read to her one or two of those strings of passages which Faith called ladders. Whether she could mount by them or not just then, her mother might; and hearing them Faith went to sleep. She said nothing about her letters, except to tell Mrs. Derrick they had not come.

That day and the next were quiet days, being the days of Dr. Harrison's absence. And if some accident had befallen Wednesday's letter, there was good hope of one Friday. And as Friday wore away, Faith did not know that she was counting the hours, and yet could at any time have answered any question as to the time of day. It was one of those calm days, within doors and without, which ebb away so noiselessly, that only the clock tells their progress. Faith's little clock—(Mr. Linden had amused himself with sending her one about as big as a good-sized watch on a stand)—ticked musically on the table, suggesting a good many things. Not merely the flight of time—not merely that the train would soon be in, not merely that she might soon have a letter; nor even that it, the clock, had seen Mr. Linden since she had. All these thoughts mingled, but with them something else. They would tick on, those minutes, relentlessly, no matter what they were to bring or take away,—steady, unalterable, unchecked,—like the old idea of Fate. She tried to be steady too—tried to have that fixedness of heart which says confidently, "I will sing and give praise." But she was weak yet, with the effect and even the presence of fever, and through all her thoughts she seemed to feel those minutes tracking with light steps across her breast. She lay with her hands clasped there, to still them.

The sun began to slant his beams in at the window, and then with one long screeching "Whew!"—the afternoon train flew through Pattaquasset, tossing out the letter bag on its way. Then Faith waited—watching intently for Reuben's step on the stairs.

Reuben on his part had watched the letter-bag from the moment it was thrown out, had followed it to the office, and there posted himself near the window to have the first chance. But his prize was a blank.

Sick at heart, Reuben drew back a little, giving way before Mintie's rather sharp "I tell you no, Mr. Taylor," and other people's earnest pressing forward to the window. But when the last one had gone—those happy people, who had got their letters!—Reuben again presented himself, and braved Mintie's displeasure by further inquiries; which produced nothing but an increase of the displeasure. He turned and walked slowly away. It might have been any weather—he might have met anybody or heard anything; but when Reuben reached Mrs. Derrick's the whole walk was a blank to him. What was the matter—how would Miss Faith bear it—these two questions lay on his heart. In vain he tried to lay them down,—for the very words which told him that "the Lord doth not afflict willingly," said also that he doth afflict; and Reuben's heart sank. He stood for a moment in the porch, realizing "how people live who do pray"—then went in and straight upstairs, walked up to Faith's couch when admitted, and without giving himself much time to think, told his news.

"Dear Miss Faith, you must wait a little longer yet. May I write by to-night's mail and ask why the letter hasn't come?—it may have been lost."

Faith started up, with first a flush and then a great sinking of colour, and steadying herself with one hand on the back of the couch looked into her messenger's face as if there she could track the missing letter or discern the cause that kept it from her. But Reuben's face discovered nothing but his sorrow and sympathy; and Faith sank back on her pillow again with a face robbed of colour beyond all the power of fever's wasting to do.

"Yes—write!" she said.

Reuben stood still, his hands lightly clasped, his heart full of thoughts he had perhaps no right to utter, if he could have found words.

"I wish you'd write, Reuben," she repeated after a moment.

"Yes, ma'am," he said, "I will. Only—dear Miss Faith! you know 'the darkness and the light are both alike to Him.'" Reuben was gone.

Faith lay for a few minutes as he had left her, and then slipped off the couch and kneeled beside it; for she felt as if the burden of the time could be borne only so. She laid her head and heart down together, and for a long time was very still; "setting her foot on the lowest step" of some of those ladders, if she could not mount by them. A foot-hold is something.

She was there yet, she had not stirred, when another foot-step in the passage and other fingers at the door made her know the approach of Dr. Harrison. Faith started up and met him standing. The doctor looked at her as he came up. So pale, so very quiet, so purely gentle, and yet with such soft strength in her eye,—he had not seen her look just so, nor anybody else, before.

"How do you do?" he said reverentially as he took her hand.

"I am—well,"—said Faith.

"Are you?" said the doctor gravely, eyeing the mark of unconquered fever and its wasting effects even on her then.—"I am very glad to hear it, indeed!"

"I mean, that I feel—well," said Faith correcting herself.

"You will feel better if you will take a more resting position," said the doctor putting her into the chair. And then he stood and looked at her; and Faith looked at her little clock, with her foot on that step of her "ladder."—"He knoweth thy walking through this great wilderness."

"What have you been doing to yourself these two days?" said the doctor.

"Nothing—" she said;—"more than usual."

He laid her appearance all to the account of the fever, she was so quiet; and proceeded to a new examination of the state of her hand, and to give her various professional orders.

"Miss Faith, can you do anything in the way of eating?"

Her very face as well as her tongue seemed to answer him, "Not much."

"Do you think of anything you could fancy?"

"No."—

"I brought some birds home with me that I believe I can answer for. Try to demolish the pinion of one of them—will you? It is a duty you owe to society."

"I will try,"—she said gravely.

The doctor wondered whether she had laid up against him any of his former conversation.

"What do you think," he said with a kind of gentle insinuation,—"of that argument I ventured to advance the other day, on the matter we were speaking of?"

"I don't like to think of it at all, Dr. Harrison."

"May I know why not?"

"Because I know it is false, and yet I cannot make you see it."

"Can you make yourself see it?"

"I don't need to take any pains for that. I see it very well."

"Perhaps you will find the way to make me see it," said the doctor pleasantly.

"That would be easy," said Faith, "if—"

"If what? May I not know the difficulty?"

"If you really cared about it."

"I do care about it. You mistake me when you think that. But you must not think about anything now. Did you know I carried off your rosebud the other night?"

"Yes."

It was impossible to tell from the doctor's accent how he viewed the transaction, and equally impossible from Faith's answer to tell what she thought of it. Extremes meet—as Mr. Linden had once remarked.

"I'll endeavour to atone for that presumption to-morrow," said he rising, for Mrs. Derrick now entered the room. To her Dr. Harrison repeated his orders and counsels, and to Faith's relief took himself away. Her mother came up to the easy-chair with a smothered sigh on her lips, and laid her gentle hand on Faith's forehead and wrist.

"Child," she said, "has that man talked you into a fever again? I've a great mind not to let him come any more—I guess I could cure you better myself. If you'd send word to somebody else, Faith, we'd have you well in no time."

"I haven't heard from him to-night, mother." Faith felt the little start of her mother's hand.

"Maybe he's coming then," said Mrs. Derrick,—"he might have meant to come yesterday and been hindered." Faith did not think that.

"We shall know," she said to her mother. "We have only to wait and be quiet." And she carried out both parts of her stated duty to perfection.

There is a strange sort of strength in a certain degree of weakness—or it may be that weakness runs sooner to its refuge, while strength stands outside to do battle with the evil felt or feared. Faith's gentle and firm temper was never apt for struggling, with either pain or fear; it would stand, or yield, as the case called for; and now, whether that her mind had been living in such a peaceful and loving atmosphere, both earthly and heavenly, that it could settle upon none but peaceful views of things, or that bodily weakness made her unable to bear any other, she did mount upon one of those "ladders" and left her burden on the ground. She thought she did. She was as quiet outwardly as before; she told Mrs. Derrick, who looked at her in misery,—and told her with a steady cheerful little smile, that "she dared say the letter would come to-morrow." But it is true that Faith had no power to eat that night nor the next day; and that she did not know the hidden slow fever—not of disease—which was running through all her veins and making the other fever do its work again, bright in her cheek and eye and beating at her temples and wrist. But she was as still and quiet through it all—quiet in voice and brow—as if letters had been full and plenty.