Say and Seal, Volume II

CHAPTER XLI

Friday passed all too swiftly. Not in much work, so far as Faith was concerned—unless so far as Mr. Linden gave her work. Apparently she had been out of his sight long enough—he was not in the mood to let her be so any more. Saturday followed close in Friday's steps until after dinner, then came a move. For Pet and Reuben were to come in the afternoon train; and Mr. Linden going with Jerry to the station to meet them, summoned Faith to give "her sweet company."

So far as the station, Faith gave it; but there she drew back into the furthest corner of the wagon, and waited, while Mr. Linden walked up and down between the wagon and the front platform. Waited, and watched, furtively, everything; him and the people that spoke to him; with those strange eyes that saw everything new. Then came the whistle! the rush and roar of the train—the moment's lull; and then Faith saw the three she looked for coming towards her. Reuben a little in advance with Miss Linden's travelling bag, she with one hand on her brother's shoulder and her eyes on his face, coming rather slowly after,—talking, asking questions, some of which Faith could almost guess from the look and smile with which they were answered. It was a pretty picture; she felt as if she knew them both better for seeing it. Before they had quite reached the wagon, Pet received an answer which made her quit Mr. Linden with a little spring and leave him to follow with Reuben. And Faith had opened the wagon door.

"Faith! you dear child!" said Miss Linden, "what have you been doing with yourself—or what has anybody done with you, to stow you away here like a forgotten parcel?" She had entered the wagon no further than to rest one knee there holding both Faith's hands and looking at her with full, bright, loving eyes. "How came Endecott to leave you here, alone?"

"Two people must be alone—if they are not together," said Mr. Linden."Pet, shall I put you in or out?"

She laughed, jumping into the wagon then and twining one arm aboutFaith's waist, much like a spray of woodbine.

"What do you think I have asked him?" she whispered,—"and what do you think he has told me?"

"I don't know," said Faith;—"but I guess."

A significant clasp of the woodbine answered that—then the hand rested in a quiet embrace.

"How well he looks!" she said, her eyes taking glad note of one figure on the seat before them. "Faith, how are you?"

"I am well."—Nothing could be quieter in its kind. "Did he tell you what he is going to do to-morrow, Pet?"

"No—" she said looking her quick inquiry. Faith's face might have told her before she spoke; such a joy sat gravely on her brow and in the depth of her eyes.

"If you go to church to-morrow, you will know."

A sudden flush, both of cheeks and eyes, bore witness to the interest of this news. The look met Faith's for a moment—then rested on Mr. Linden, and then with that little tide of feeling deepening its sweet flow, the eyes fell, the unbent lips wavered and trembled. Faith ventured only a silent act of free-masonry; a fast clasp of her fingers round Miss Linden's hand that rested on her waist; but maybe never yet in their short friendship had they felt their hearts beat so close together. With one, there was perhaps some old recollection or association—some memory of the time when such a day had been first talked of, that made self-command a hard matter; for though the lips presently grew still, and the eyes quiet, the gravity that remained was easily stirred, and the voice spoke doubtfully.

There was more discussion of various things that evening than Faith cared for, but it could not be helped. Sunday brought a lull of discussions. But the gravity which sat on Faith's face that morning was not the less but the more. If a guardian angel had shewn himself bodily, his face might have worn such a pure distance from low and trifling things and like kindred with the blue sky and the truth it emblematizes. That day was the first of her new life to Faith. Not such to Mr. Linden; but it was the first of her seeing him publicly take the office to which his life was to be given, and in which hers was to be by his side. She was a very grave "sunbeam" when she set out to walk to church—and as clear!

There were sunbeams in plenty of the literal kind abroad; it was a perfect day; and everybody was glad of that, though some people remarked it would have made no difference if it had rained cannon-balls. Never did Pattaquasset see such a coming to church! never in the remembrance of Mr. Somers. They came from all over; the country was gleaned; and many a fire was raked up on the hearthstone that day which most Sundays got leave to burn and somebody to watch it. The fishermen came from Quapaw, and the labourers from the farms all over the country; those who did not directly know Mr. Linden, knew of him; and knew such things of him that they would not have missed this opportunity of hearing him speak, for a week's wages. The fathers and mothers of the boys he had taught, they knew him; and they came in mass, with all their uncles, aunts and cousins to the remotest degree, provided they were not geographically too remote. The upper society of Pattaquasset lost not a man nor a woman; they were all there, some with great love, others with great curiosity. The Stoutenburghs had plumed themselves. Mr. Simlins was as upright as his new beaver. Miss Essie De Staff with magnified black eyes; Judge Harrison with benevolent anticipation. Mr. Stephens the fisherman had driven his little lame child down to the Pattaquasset church, "for once;" Jonathan Ling was there with his wife, having left the eldest child to keep house, and both being in great smartness and expectation. Jonathan Fax was there and his new wife; the one with a very grave head, the other with a very light one, and faces accordingly. Mrs. Derrick and Pet had long ago been quietly seated; when through that full house, after her Sunday school duties were over, Faith came in. Her colour was very bright, and she trembled; but it was not because many saw in her an object of curiosity; though Faith remembered it, at that minute she did not care. She felt the stillness of expectation that filled the house, with which the little murmur of sound now and then chimed so well; the patter of childish feet that followed her up the aisle spoke so keenly to her wrought up feeling of the other one of her class, who used to follow him with such delight, that Faith felt as if the happy little spirit long since received in at the golden gates, was even there in the church, to hear once more his beloved teacher. Who else?—what other angel wings stirred in the soft breeze that floated through from door to door?—what other unseen, immortal senses waited on those dear mortal lips?—Faith's step grew lighter, her breath more hushed; eyes might look at her—she looked not at them.

And eyes did look, from all sorts of motives; perhaps in the whole church there was not a person who did not try to see her, except the one who next to herself was the most interested—Pet never moved. Her head was bent, her hand half supporting half concealing in its position, like any statue she sat there, nor even stirred when the stir of every one else told who had come in. If she held her breath to bear every one of her brother's steps as he passed by, she did not look at him; did not raise her head till his first prayer was ended; then her rapt gaze was as unwavering.

The service which followed could not be measured by the ordinary line and rule of pulpit eloquence and power,—could not be described by most of the words which buzz down the aisles after a popular sermon. There was not the "newness of hand" of a young preacher—for almost from boyhood Mr. Linden had been about his Master's work. To him it was as simple a thing to deliver his message to many as to one,—many, many of those before him had known his private ministrations, and not a few had through them first known the truth; and now to all these assembled faces he was just what each had seen him alone; as humble, as earnest, as affectionate, as simply speaking not his own words,—for "Who hath made man's mouth—have not I, the Lord?" No one who heard the ambassador that day, doubted from what court he had received his credentials. "In trust with the gospel!" Yes, it was that; but that with a warm love for the truth and the people that almost outran the trust. As the traveller in the fountain shade of the desert calls to the caravan that passes by through the sand,—as one of the twelve of old, when Christ "blessed and brake and gave to his disciples, and the disciples to the multitude"; so did he speak from the words—

"Eat, O friends!—drink, yea drink abundantly, O beloved!"

There were some there who would never forget that day. There were many to whom it seemed, that not the warm summer breeze that floated in was gentler or sweeter than the feeling that filled the place. The little lame girl, and her older and rougher father and mother, listened alike to their dear friend with moveless eyes; and drank such a draught of those sweet waters as it was long, long since either of them had tasted in a church. It was a white day for all the fishing population; and nothing would have kept them from coming in the afternoon. Miss Essie's black eyes lost all their fire. Farmer Simlins, unknown to himself, sat and smiled. And the one who listened most tenderly and joyfully, listened indeed quietly to the last word, or till her face had leave to bow itself from sight; quietly then no longer, only that such tears come from no broken-up fountains of unrest. They came freely, as Faith recalled and applied the whole of her quoted sentence of Paul to the Thessalonians—

"For as we were allowed of God to be put in trust with the gospel, SO WE SPEAK."

She was very quiet when the benediction was spoken, but she drew her veil closely as they left the church.

It was a lingering getting out, even for them, because others would linger. Some turned to look, some stopped to speak; and if Mr. Linden had had twenty hands they would all have found employment. Part of this the two veiled figures saw as they made their way to the door, and there Miss Linden paused and looked back. The broad stream of sunlight that lay across the church, the shadowy background figures,—in that very spot of light, Mr. Linden,—made a never-to-be-forgotten picture. Reuben Taylor stood close behind him, a step back, looking down; little Ency Stephens perched up on the pew cushions had one hand; Robbie Waters—far down below the other. Phil Davids and his father, Squire Stoutenburgh, and some of the Quapaw fishermen made up the group. Pet gave one look, and then she went swiftly down the steps and on.

Slowly the people scattered away, up and down the road; not with the brisk steps and busy voices that give token the church service has but interrupted—not suspended—the current of everyday thought and behaviour. It was a fair picture of a Sunday in a New England village; the absolute repose of nature copied and followed by hands that other days let nothing stand still. Before Faith and Pet got home the road was almost empty. Mr. Linden had overtaken them, but all his greeting was to put Faith's hand on his arm—then he walked as silent as they. It was a little thing, and yet it touched the very feeling she had had all day—the beginning of her new way of life, with him.

The afternoon was like the morning. Not a creature was missing of all who from far and near had filled the house in the former part of the day! and doubtless it was well that Mr. Somers could not hear the spoken and unspoken wishes that would have unseated him and caused him to relinquish for ever his charge in Pattaquasset.

The afternoon air was enticing, the afternoon walk home very lingering; then standing in the hall to look and taste it still, the sweet peace of everything seemed to enter every heart. Even Pet, who all day had been unheard and almost unseen, stood with clasped hands looking out; and only the heavy eyes spoke of the oppression that had been. But as she looked the tears came back again, and then she turned to Mr. Linden—wrapping her arms round his neck.

"Endy, Endy!—do you remember the first time we talked of this day?"

Mr. Linden gave back her caresses without a word, but with a look of pain that Faith had rarely seen on his face. It was some minutes before he spoke. "Dear Pet—she knows it now!"