Back Aa

Say and Seal, Volume 1

<h3 id="id01485" style="margin-top: 3em">CHAPTER XII.</h3> "It occurs to me, Parson Somers," said that gentleman's lady wife, as she salted and sugared his morning bowl of porridge; "it occurs to me, that Pattaquasset is getting stirred up with a long pole." "Ah, my dear?" said Mr. Somers—"'Stirred up! Well—what makes you think so?" "Why—" said Mrs. Somers tasting the porridge—"Jenny! fetch some more milk. How do you suppose Mr. Somers is going to eat such thick stuff as that?—and when do you suppose he is going to get his breakfast, at this rate? If you let your head run upon Jem Waters in this style, Jenny, I shall forbid him the house. I always notice that the day after he's been here Mr. Somers' porridge is too thick." "Well, my dear," said the parson,—"ha—the porridge will do very well. I thought you were speaking of Pattaquasset when you spoke of something being 'stirred up.'" "So I was," said the lady, while Jenny blushing beyond her ordinary peonic hue, ran about in the greatest confusion, catching up first the water pitcher and then the molasses cup. "'Do very well?'—no, indeed it won't!—but men never know anything about housekeeping." "Well, my dear, but about Pattaquasset?—I know something about Pattaquasset. Is there any trouble in the village? It's a very peaceable place," continued Mr. Somers, looking at his distant breakfast dish,—"always was—ha—I wish you'd let me have my porridge. Is there any trouble, my dear?" "I can't tell,—" said Mrs. Somers, adding critical drops of milk,—"see for yourself, Mr. Somers. If there isn't, there may be.—One set of things is at sixes, and another at sevens. There—that's better, though it's about as far from perfection as I am." "We're none of us perfect, and so—ha—my dear, we can't blame the porridge," said Mr. Somers with slight jocularity which pleased at least himself. "But Pattaquasset is about as near the impossible state as most places, that I know. What have you heard of, Mrs. Somers? You deal in rather—a—enigmatical construction, this morning." "Who said I had heard anything?" said the lady,—"I only said, use your eyes, Mr. Somers,—open your study window and let the light in. Just see what a rumpus we've had about the school, to begin." "Ha! my dear," said Mr. Somers, "if opening the window of my study is going to let trouble come in, I'd rather—ha—keep it shut! Judge Harrison thinks the teacher is a very fine man—and I've no doubt he is!—and the Judge is going to give him a great celebration. I have no doubt we shall all enjoy it. I think the disturbance that has been made will not give Mr. Linden any more trouble." "Why who cares about his trouble?" said Mrs. Somers rather briskly,—"I dare say he's very good, Mr. Somers, but I sha'n't fret over him. I'm not sure but he's a little too good for my liking—I'm not sure that it's quite natural. Jenny! fetch some more biscuit!—how long do you suppose Mr. Somers and I can live upon one?" Parson Somers eat porridge and studied the philosophy of Mrs Somers' statements. "My dear," said he at length,—"I am not sure that you are correct in your view—indeed it seems to me—a—rather contradictory. I don't know what the stir is about; and I don't think there is any occasion, my dear, for you—a—to fret, about anything. Not about Mr. Linden, certainly. The disaffection to the new school was—a—confined to very few! I don't think it has taken root in the public mind generally. You will be better able to form a judgment on Thursday." "Bless your heart! Mr. Somers," said his wife, "what's Thursday to do? If you think I've said all I could say—why there's no help for it. Now there's Sam Deacon—don't come to meeting half the time lately,—and to match that, Faith Derrick walks into Sunday school with one of those Seacomb children tagging after her." "Well," said Mr. Somers looking exceedingly mystified,—"what's the harm in that? If Miss Faith chooses to do it, it shews, I am sure, a—a charitable disposition,—praiseworthy!" "Mr. Somers!"—said the lady. "Is it possible you can think for one moment that I mean what you mean? If she came to Society too, I should know what to make of it, but when people work alongside of some folks, and not alongside of others, why it's as long as it's broad. Then Maria Davids says she drove those boys over to Neanticut 'tother day—or helped drive 'em. What do you think of that, Mr. Somers?" Mr. Somers looked as if his wife was too fast for him. "My dear," said he however, plucking up,—"I think I would trust Faith Derrick as soon as Maria Davids, or—any other young lady in Pattaquasset! If she did go to Neanticut I presume it was all as it should be. Squire Deacon never was—a—very remarkable for being a religious man or anything like that; and you can't help folks working alongside of each other—they will do it," said Mr. Somers relapsing into his jocular mood. "I am a man of peace, my dear, and you should be a woman of peace." "Why you don't suppose I believed what Maria Davids said?" replied Mrs. Somers. "Her words are not worth their weight in gold—and she isn't a bit too good to be jealous. But the thing is, if Faith didn't do that, what did she do? Jenny! fetch in the tub of hot water, and be spry!" With Jenny and the hot water walked in a somewhat rough-looking boy, who declared without much ceremony, beyond doffing his cap, that "'ma sent him to find out where the sewin' meetin' was to be this week." "Who are you?" said Mrs. Somers, dipping a cup in the hot water and wiping it with a 'spryness' that was quite imposing. "Is your name Bill Wright?" "No 'taint," said the boy. "Guess again." "You'll never pay anybody for much trouble that way," said Mrs. Somers dipping in the corresponding saucer. "Jenny—did you ever hear of anybody's getting along in a dish-tub without a mop?" "Who is it wants to know, sir?" said Mr. Somers politely. "Who is your father?" "He's farmer Davids." "Oh! and are you Phil?" "Yes! What be I goin' to tell her?"—This interrogatory being sent in the direction of the dish-tub. "Why you can tell her two things," said Mrs. Somers, eying Phil from head to foot. "In the first place, the Society'll meet down at Miss Bezac's; and in the second, as soon as your mother'll teach her children how to behave themselves I shall be very glad to see them." "The Society'll meet down to Miss Purcell's?" "Miss Bezac's"—said Mrs. Somers, preserving a cheerful and brisk equanimity in the midst of her sharp words that was quite delightful. "Pay more attention to your lessons, Phil Davids, and you'll be a better boy, if you look sharp." "What lessons?" said the boy blackly. "All you get—at home and abroad. You go to school I fancy," replied Mrs. Somers. The boy glanced towards the clock and began to move off, answering by actions rather than words. "You were over at Neanticut, I suppose, Saturday," said Mr. Somers affably. To which the answer was a choked and unwilling 'yes.' "Well who drove you over?" "He druv," said Phil. "I'm going—" "And the ladies—weren't there ladies along?" "Yes—They druv too." "Did you have a fine time?" said Mrs. Somers. "Yes! I did," said Phil very gloomily. "Why what did you do more than the rest?" "I didn't do nothing!" said Phil, blurting out,—"and he went and took all my nuts away. He's the devil!" The boy looked at the minute as if he was a young one. "Hush, hush!" said Mr. Somers. "You—you oughtn't to speak that way—don't you know? it's not proper." "I hope he boxed your ears first," said Mrs. Somers—"I'm certain you deserved it. What made him take your nuts away?" "He wanted 'em to make a present to you"—said the boy; and with another glance at the hands of the clock, he darted out of the house and down the road towards the schoolhouse, as if truly he had expected to meet there the character he had mentioned. "My dear—" said Mr. Somers—"do you think it is quite—a—politic, to tell Mrs. Davids she don't bring up her children right? Mrs. Davids is a very respectable woman—and so is Farmer Davids—none more so." "I don't know what you call respectable women—" said Mrs. Somers—"I should be sorry to think he was. But I just wish, Mr. Somers, that you would preach a sermon to the people about cutting off their children's tongues if they can't keep them in order. I declare! I could hardly keep hands off that boy." And with this suggested and suggestive text, Mr. Somers retired to his study. It had been a busy day with more than Mr. Somers, when towards the close of the afternoon Faith came out upon the porch of her mother's house. She had not read more than one delicious bit of her letter on the ride home from Neanticut; the light failed too soon. After getting home there was no more chance. Saturday night, that Saturday, had a crowd of affairs. And Monday had been a day full of business. Faith had got through with it all at last; and now, as fresh as if the kitchen had been a bygone institution—though that was as true of Faith in the kitchen as out of it—she sat down in the afternoon glow to read the letter. The porch was nice to match; she took a low seat on the step, and laying the letter in her lap rested her elbow on the yellow floor of the porch to take it at full ease. It was not just such a letter as is most often found in biographies,—yet such as may be found—'out of print.' A bright medley of description and fancy—mountains and legends and scraps of song forming a mosaic of no set pattern. And well-read as the writer was in other respects, it was plain that she was also learned in both the books Faith had had at Neanticut. The quick flow of the letter was only checked now and then by a little word-gesture of affection,—if that could be called a check, which gave to the written pictures a better glow than lit up the originals. It was something to see Faith read that letter—or would have been, if anybody had been there to look. She leaned over it in a sort of breathless abstraction, catching her breath a little sometimes in a way that told of the interest at work. The interest was not merely what would have belonged to the letter for any reader,—it was not merely the interest that attached to the writer of it, nor to the person for whom it was written; it was not only the interest deep and great which Faith felt in the subjects and objects spoken of in the letter. All these wrought with their full power; but all these were not enough to account for the intent and intense feeling with which Faith bent over that letter, with eyes that never wavered, and a cheek in which the blood mounted to a bright flush. And when it was done, even then she sat still leaning over the paper, looking not at it but through it. A little shower of fringed gentian and white Ladies' tresses came patting down upon the letter, hiding its delicate black marks with their own dainty faces. "These are your means of transport back to Pattaquasset," said Mr. Linden. Faith looked up, and rose up. "I had come back," she said, drawing one of those half long breaths as she folded up and gave him the letter. "I can't thank you, Mr. Linden." "I thought you were not reading, or I should not have ventured such an interruption. But I am in no hurry for the letter, Miss Faith. How do you like Italy?" "I like it—" said Faith doubtfully,—"I don't know it. Mr. Linden," she went on with some difficulty and flushing yet more,—"some time, will you tell me in what books I can find out about those things?—those things the letter speaks of." "Those which concern Italy, do you mean! I can arrange an Italy shelf for you up stairs—but I am afraid I have not very much here to put on it." "No indeed!" said Faith looking half startled,—"I didn't mean to give you trouble—only some time, if you would tell me what books—perhaps—" "Perhaps what?" he said smiling,—"perhaps I wouldn't?" "No," she said, "I mean, perhaps you would; and perhaps I could get them and read them. I feel I don't know anything." That Faith felt it was very plain. She had that rare beauty—a soft eye. I do not mean the grace of insipidity, nor the quality of mere form and colour; but the full lustrous softness that speaks a character strong in the foundations of peace and sweetness. Many an eye can be soft by turns and upon occasion; it is rarely that you see one where sweetness and strength have met together to make that the abiding characteristic. The gentleness of such an eye has always strength to back it. Weakness could never be so steadfast; poverty could not be so rich. And Faith's eye shewed both its qualities now. Mr. Linden merely repeated, "I will arrange it for you—and you can take the books in what order you like. Perhaps I can send you another journey when they are exhausted," he added, turning the letter softly about, as if the touch were pleasant to him. She stood looking at it. "I don't know how to thank you for letting me read that," she said. "It would be foolish in me to tell you how beautiful I thought it." "She is—" her brother said, with a tender, half smiling half grave expression. And for a minute or two he was silent—then spoke abruptly. "Miss Faith, what have you done with your 'Philosophe'? You know, though the rooms in the great Temple of Knowledge be so many that no one can possibly explore them all, yet the more keys we have in hand the better. For some locks yield best to an English key, some to a French; and it is often pleasant to take a look where one cannot go in and dwell." She flushed a good deal, with eyes downcast as she stood before him; then answered, with that odd little change of her voice which told of some mental check. "I haven't done anything with it, Mr. Linden." "That requires explanation." "It isn't so hard as one of your puzzles," she said smiling. "I mean to do something with it, Mr. Linden, if I can; and I thought I would try the other day; but I found I didn't know enough to begin—to learn that yet." "What other key are you forging?" "What other key?" said Faith. "I mean," he answered with a tone that shewed a little fear of going too far, "what do you want to learn before that?" "I don't know," said Faith humbly.—"I suppose, English. It was a grammar of yours, Mr. Linden, a French grammar, that I was looking at; and I found I couldn't understand what it was about, anywhere. So I thought I must learn something else first." "Never was philosopher so put in a corner!" said Mr. Linden. "Suppose you take up him and the dictionary and let me be the grammar—do you think you could understand what I was about?" The blood leapt to her cheek; part of her answer Faith had no need to put in words, even if he had not seen her eyes, which he did. The words were not in any hurry to come. "When you have been teaching all day already"—she said in a tone between regretful and self-reproving. "It wouldn't be right." "Mayn't I occasionally do wrong?—just for variety's sake!" "You may—and I don't doubt you would. I was thinking of my own part." "I am glad you don't say you have no doubt I do," said Mr. Linden. "I suppose you mean that I would if sufficient temptation came up, which of course it never has." Faith looked an instant, and then her gravity broke up. "Ah, but you know what I mean," she said. "You will have to furnish me with a dictionary next," he said smiling. "Look at my watch—Miss Faith, how can you have tea so late, when I have been teaching all day?—it isn't right,—and cuts off one's time for philosophizing besides." Faith ran into the house, to tell the truth, with a very pleased face; and tea was on the table in less time than Cindy could ever understand. But during tea-time Faith looked, furtively, to see if any signs were to be found that little Johnny Fax had been made to yield up his testimony. Whether he had or no, she could see none; which however, as she justly concluded with herself, proved nothing. The new grammar was far easier understood than the old. Although Mr. Linden unfolded his newspaper, and informed Faith that he intended to read 'uninterruptedly'—so that she 'need feel no scruple about interrupting him'—yet he probably had the power of reading two things at once; for his assistance was generally given before it was asked. His explanations too, whether Faith knew it or not, covered more ground than the French exigency absolutely required,—he was not picking this lock for her, but giving her the grammar key. But Faith knew it and felt it; and tasted the help thus given, with an appreciation which only it needed to do all its work; the keen delight of one seeking knowledge, who has never been helped and who has for the first time the right kind of help. Indeed, with the selfishness incident to human nature, she forgot all about Mr. Linden's intention to read uninterruptedly, and took without scruple or question, all the time he bestowed upon her. And it was not till some minutes after she had closed her books, that her low, grateful "You are very good, Mr. Linden!" reached his ear. Now the fact was, that Faith had been much observed that afternoon,—her reading-dream on the steps had been so pretty a thing to see, that when Squire Deacon had seen it once he came back to see it again; and what number of views he would have taken cannot be told, had he not been surprised by Mr. Linden. Naturally the Squire withdrew,—naturally his enlarged mind became contracted as he thought of the cause thereof; and not unnaturally he walked down that way after tea, still further to use his eyes. The house was in a tantalizing state. For though the light curtain was down, it revealed not only the bright glow of the lamp, but one or two shadowy heads; and the window being open (for the evening was warm) low voices, that he loved and that he did not love, came to his ear. Once a puff of wind floated the curtain in—more tantalizing than ever! Squire Deacon could see Mr. Linden bending aside to look at something, but what the Squire could not see; for there came the edge of the curtain. In a warm state of mind he turned his face homewards, proclaiming to himself that he didn't care what they did!—the result of which was, that in ten minutes more he was knocking at Mrs. Derrick's door, and being promptly admitted by Cindy entered the parlour just as Faith had shut up her book and uttered her soft word of thanks. It was something of a transition! But after a moment's shadow of surprise on her face, Faith came forward and gave the Squire her hand. She would have let him then explain his own errand; but as he did not seem very ready to do that, or to say anything, Faith stepped into the breach. "How is Cecilia, Mr. Deacon? I have not seen her in a long time." "She's firstrate," said the Squire, colouring up; for Mr. Linden's "how do you do again, Squire Deacon?" not only implied that they had lately met, but that the occasion was not forgotten. "It's a sort of suffocating evening," added the Squire, wiping his forehead. "I don't recollect so warm an October for a year or two. Cilly's been out of town, Miss Faith, and since she come back she's been complainin' of you." Faith was near saying that she hoped the warm weather would last till Thursday; but she remembered that would not do, and changed her ground. "I am sorry anybody should complain of me. Is that because I didn't go to see her when she was away?" "I'm sure the rest of us could have stood it, if you had come when she was gone, Miss Faith," said the Squire gallantly. "Seems to me we haven't seen you down to our house for an age of Sundays." "I will try to come of a week day," said Faith. "I think you never saw me there Sunday, Mr. Deacon." "I suppose an age of Sundays must be seven times as long as any other age," said Mr. Linden. "Isn't that the origin of the phrase, Squire Deacon?" "Very like," said the Squire—who didn't care to be interrupted. "I don't know much about originals,—when a man has a position to fill, sir, he can't study knick-knacks. What a handsome book, Miss Faith! such a becoming colour." "Don't you like the inside of books too, Mr. Deacon?" said Faith. "I daresay I should that one," said the Squire,—"the outside's like a picture—or a view, as some people call it. Looks just like a grain field in spring. What's the name of it, Miss Faith?" Half prudently, half wickedly, Faith without answering took the book from the table and put it in Mr. Deacon's hand. The Squire's face looked like anything but a grain field in spring then—it was more like a stubble in November; for opening the book midway and finding no help there, he turned to the title page and found the only English words in the book, in very legible black ink. "So!" he said—"it's his'n, is it!" "Yes, it is mine," said Mr. Linden,—"almost any man may have so much of a library as that." The Squire glanced suspiciously at Faith, as if he still believed she had something to do with it; but he did not dare press the matter. "Miss Faith," he said, calling up a smile that was meant to do retrospective work, "have you heard tell of the queer things they've found down to Mattabeeset?" "What things, Mr. Deacon?" "Some sort o' bird's been makin' tracks down there," said the Squire leaning back in his chair, with the look of one who has now got the game in his own hands; "makin' tracks criss-cross round; and they do say the size on 'em might have come out of the ark, for wonder." "How large are they, Mr. Deacon? and what sort of bird is it?" "Well if I was a descendant of Noah, I s'pose I could tell you," said the Squire with increased satisfaction,—"I'm sorry I can't, as it is. But if you're curious, Miss Faith (and ladies always is in my experience) I'll drive you down there any day or any time of day. I want to see 'em myself, that's a fact, and so does Cilly. Now Miss Faith, name the day!" The shortest possible smile on Mr. Linden's face at this sudden and earnest request, did not help Faith to an answer; but the Squire was happily forgetful for the moment that there were more than two people in the room, and leaning towards Faith he repeated, "The sooner the quicker, always, in such cases! because folks can never tell what may happen." "No," said Faith, "they cannot—especially about weather; and I have got some particular work to attend to at home, Mr. Deacon, before the weather changes. I wish you and Cecilia would go down and bring us a report. I should like that. But for the present Mr. Skip and I have something to do." "It's good you want Mr. Skip, for I don't," said the Squire, stiffening a little. "Is that one of the new-fashioned ways of saying you won't go, Miss Faith?" "What's your objection to Mr. Skip?" said Faith pleasantly. "I am glad nobody else wants him, for we do." "Well, I say I'm glad you've got him," said the Squire, relenting under the power of Faith's voice. "But what ails you Miss Faith, to go tackin' round like one o' them schooners against the wind? Aint it a straight question as to whether you'll take an excursion to Mattabeeset?" "Very straight," said Faith smiling and speaking gently. "And I thought I gave a straight answer." "Blessed if I can see which road it took!" said Squire Deacon,—"save and except it didn't seem to be the right one. 'No' 's about as ugly a road as a man can foller. Guess I spoke too late, after all," said the Squire meditatively. "How's your furr'n news, Mr. Linden? Get it regular?" "Yes—" said Mr. Linden,—"making due allowance for the irregularity of the steamers." Faith looked up in no little astonishment, and took the eye as well as the ear effect of this question and answer; then said quietly, "Have you any business in the post-office, Mr. Deacon?" "Not a great deal, Miss Faith," said the Squire, with a blandness on one side of his face which but poorly set off the other. "I go down for the paper once a week, and 'lection times maybe oftener, but I don't do much in the letter line. Correspondence never was my powder magazine. I shouldn't know where to put two or three femin_ine_ letters a week—if I got 'em." If he had got what somebody wanted to give him at that moment!—Squire Deacon little knew what risk he ran, nor how much nearer he was to a powder magazine than he ever had been in his life. "A sure sign that nobody will ever trouble you in that way," Faith said somewhat severely But the Squire was obtuse. "Well I guess likely," he said, "and it's just as good they don't. I shouldn't care about living so fur from any body I was much tied up in—or tied up to, neither. I can't guess, for one, how you make out to be contented here, Mr. Linden." "How do you know that I do, sir?" There was a little pause at that—it was a puzzling question to answer; not to speak of a slight warning which the Squire received from his instinct. But the pause was pleasantly ended. "Faith!" said a gentle voice in the passage—"open the door, child—I've got both hands full." Which call Mr. Linden appropriated to himself, and not only opened the door but brought in the great dish of smoking chestnuts. Faith ran away to get plates for the party, with one of which in defiance of etiquette she served first Mr. Linden; then handed another to the Squire. "I hope they are boiled right, Mr. Linden. Have you seen any chestnuts yet this year, Mr. Deacon?" "I've seen some—but they warn't good for nothing," said the Squire rather sourly. "Thank you, Miss Faith, for your plate, but I guess I'll go." "Why stay and eat some chestnuts, Squire Deacon!" said Mrs. Derrick. "Those are Neanticut chestnuts—firstrate too." "I don't like Neanticut chestnuts—" said Squire Deacon rising—"never did,—they're sure to be wormy. Good night, Miss Faith—good night, Mr. Linden. Mrs. Derrick, this room's hot enough to roast eggs." "Why the windows are open!" said Mrs. Derrick—"and we might have had the curtains drawn back, too, but I always feel as if some one was looking in." Which remark did not delay the Squire's departure, and Mrs. Derrick followed him to the door, talking all the way. During which little 'passage' Faith's behaviour again transcended all rules. For she stood before the dish of chestnuts, fingering one or two, with a somewhat unsteady motion of the corners of her mouth; and then put both her hands to her face and laughed, her low but very merriment-speaking laugh. "Miss Faith," Mr. Linden said, "I think Job was an extraordinary man!—and the chestnuts are not so bad as they are reported, after all." Faith became grave, and endeavoured to make trial of the chestnuts, without making any answer. "Child," said Mrs. Derrick returning, "I don't think the Squire felt just comfortable—I wonder if he's well?" Which remark brought down the house. "By the way—" said Mr. Linden looking up,—"did you lose a bow of ribband from your sunbonnet, the other day at Neanticut?" Faith owned to having lost it somewhere. "I found it somewhere—" said Mr. Linden with a rather peculiar look, as he took out the bow of ribband. "Where did you find it, Mr. Linden?" "I found it here—in Pattaquasset." "Where?" But he shook his head at the question. "I think I will not tell you—you may lose it again." And all Faith's efforts could get no more from him. <div style="break-after:column;"></div>

1 of 2

2 of 2

Update Required To play the media you will need to either update your browser to a recent version or update your Flash plugin.