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Say and Seal, Volume 1

<h3 id="id02507" style="margin-top: 3em">CHAPTER XX.</h3> Dr. Harrison had but little left Mr. Linden that morning, when Mr. Simlins came in. He had hardly seen his guest yet that day, except, like Mrs. Derrick, when he was asleep. For having watched himself the greater part of the night, for the pure pleasure of it, Mr. Simlins' late rest had brought him almost to the hour when the boys came to what the doctor called Mr. Linden's levee. "Well how do you find yourself?" said the farmer, standing at the foot of the bed and looking at its occupant with a kind of grim satisfaction. "I find myself tired, sir—and at the same time intending to get up. Mr. Simlins, are you going down to church this afternoon?" "Well, no," said the farmer. "I think it's as good church as I can do, to look arter you." "You can have both," said Mr. Linden smiling,—"I should go with you." "You aint fit," said the farmer regretfully. "Fit enough—I'll come back and stay with you another day, when I am well, if you'll let me." "Will you?" said the farmer. "I'll bottle that 'ere promise and cork it up; and if it aint good when I pull the cork—then I'll never play Syrian again, for no one. But s'pose I ain't goin' to church?" "Then I shall have to take Reuben." "You sha'n't take no one but me," growled Mr. Simlins. "I'd rather see you out of my house than not—if I can't see you in it." The bells were ringing out for the early afternoon service when they set forth; not ringing against each other, as which should give the loudest call for its own particular church, but with alternate strokes speaking the same thing—the one stepping in when the other was out of broath. The warm sunshine rested upon all—"the evil and the good," and spoke its own message though not so noisily. Along the road Mr. Simlins' little covered wagon (chosen for various reasons) went at an easy pace; with one to drive, and one to bear the motion as best he might; and a third who would almost have agreed to be a pillow or a cushion for the rest of his life, if he could have been one for that day. What there were of that sort in the wagon, or indeed in the house, were to Reuben's eyes far too thin and ineffectual. A little excitement, a very earnest desire to get home once more, did partially supply the need; and by the time the houses were empty and the churches full, the wagon stopped at Mrs. Derrick's gate. "I guess nobody's home," said Mr. Simlins as he with great tenderness helped Mr. Linden to alight—"but anyway, here's the house all standin'. Reuben, you go ahead and see if we can get in." But before Reuben touched the door, Mrs. Derrick had opened it from the inside, and stood there—her usually quiet manner quite subdued into silence. Not into inaction however, for her woman's hands soon made their superior powers known, and Mr. Simlins could only wonder why this and that had not occurred to him before. Quick and still and thoughtful, she had done half a dozen little things to make Mr. Linden comfortable before he had been in the house as many minutes, and assured the two others very confidently that "he shouldn't faint again, if he wanted to ever so much!" "Well, I was sorry to let him go," said Mr. Simlins, "and now I'm glad of it. It takes a woman! Where's some-somebody else?" "There's nobody else in the house," said Mrs. Derrick. "Faith's gone to meeting, and Cindy too, for all I know." "I'll send Dr. Harrison word in the morning where I am," said Mr. Linden,—which Mr. Simlins rightly understood to mean that the fact need not be published to-night. He took gentle leave of this lost guest and went to church; excusing himself for it afterwards by saying he felt lonely. If Faith had seen him there, she might have jumped at conclusions again; but she did not; and after the service walked home, slowly again, though nobody was with her. A little wearied by this time with the night and the day's work, wearied in body and mind perhaps, she paced homewards along the broad street or road, on which the yellow leaves of the trees were floating lazily down, and which was all filled from sky and wayside with golden light. It brought to mind her walk of last Sunday afternoon—and evening;—the hymn, and those other lines Mr. Linden had repeated and which had run in her head fifty times since. And Faith's step grew rather slower and less lightsome as she neared home, and when she got home she went straight up to her room without turning to the right or the left. Her mother was just then in the kitchen and heard her not, and shielded by her bonnet Faith saw not even that Mr. Linden's door stood open; but when she came out again a while after, the full stream of sunlight that came thence into the passage drew her eyes that way. And Faith did not wonder then that her mother had been startled, and unprepared by the doctor's words for the sight of what she now saw. The chintz-covered couch was drawn before the window, in the full radiance of the sunlight, and Mr. Linden lay there looking out; but the sunlight found no glow in his face, unless one as etherial as itself. The habitual sweet pure look was there—a look that reminded Faith of the one Johnny had worn in the morning; but the face was perfectly colourless. The bandaged arm was supported only by a sling, upon the other hand his cheek rested wearily. Faith looked, hesitated, then stepped lightly into the room and stood before him; with a face not indeed quite so pale as his own, but that only the sunlight hindered his seeing was utterly without its usual colour. She found nothing to say, apparently: for she did not speak, only held out her hand. He had turned at the first sound of her step and watched her—at first smiling, then grave—as she came near; and taking her hand as silently as it was given, Mr. Linden looked up at her face,—perhaps to see whether his instructions had been obeyed. "I have had men's hands about me so long," he said, "that yours feels like—" he did not specify what, but held it a minute as if he were trying to find out. "Miss Faith, you want to be rocked to sleep." Could he see that her lips trembled? He could feel how her hand did; but her look was as frank as ever. "Are you less well to-day?"—she said at last, in a voice that was little above a whisper, and stopped short of his name. "Less well than yesterday at this time—not less well than this morning. A little more tired, perhaps." He spoke very quietly, answering her words and letting his hand and eye do the rest. "Has Mrs. Derrick a cradle in the house that would hold you?" Perhaps Faith hardly heard the question, for she did not acknowledge it by so much as a smile. She wished to ask the further question, whether the assurance of last night was still true; but his appearance had driven such fear to her heart that she dared not ask it. She stood quite still a minute, but when she spoke her words were in the utmost clear sweetness of a woman's voice. "Can I do something for you, Mr. Linden?" "You are doing something for me now—it is so pleasant to see you. But Miss Faith, I shall have to reclaim some of your scholars; you have been teaching too much to-day." "No—" she said,—"I have had no chance." "No chance to teach too much? And why?" "Why," she said—"I had only the usual hour this morning. I could do no more." "You look as if you had been teaching all day—or taught, which is but another branch. What did my boys say to you?" "I think they thought they were saying to you, Mr. Linden,—they behaved so well." He smiled. "I don't believe even your conjuring powers could bring about such a hallucination, Miss Faith.—What a day it has been! Look at that sunlight and think of the city that hath 'no need of the sun'!" She looked where he bade her, but the contrast was a little too strong just then with the earth that had so much 'need' of it! Only the extreme gravity of her face however indicated anything of the struggle going on. Her eye did not move,—nor eyelid. "That is the only rest we must wait 'for,'" Mr. Linden said. "That 'remaineth.'" Faith answered nothing. But after a little while the shadow of that sunlight passed away from her face, and she turned to the couch again and asked with her former gentle expression, "Will you have tea up here, Mr. Linden?" "I'm afraid I must," he said, looking up at her with eyes that rather questioned than answered. "Does mother know what you would like to have?" "Miss Faith—I wish you would tell me just what is troubling you." The question flushed her a little, and for a moment her face was a quick play of light and shade; then she said, "It troubled me not to see you looking better." He took the force of her words, though he answered lightly. "I suppose I do look rather frightful! But Miss Faith, I hope to get over that in a few days—you must try and brace up your nerves, because if you cannot bear the sight of me I shall have to deny myself the sight of you." "Don't do that," she said, the light coming into her eye and voice as if by an actual sunbeam. "Then it is true, what you wrote me last night, Mr. Linden?" "Well!" he said—"I am not much in the habit of maintaining my own words,—however, in this case I am willing to admit them true. If it will be any relief to your mind, Miss Faith, I will promise to remain in seclusion until you say I am fit to be seen down stairs." The answer to that was only a rosy little smile, like the sunlight promise of fair weather on the last clouds that float over the horizon. But perhaps his words had brought her mind back to the question of supper for she asked again, "What are you to have for tea to-night, Mr. Linden?" "May I take a great liberty?" he said with a look as grave as before. "I don't know how you can,"—she said and with eyes somewhat surprised, that said in their own way it was impossible. A little smile—which she scarce saw—came first, and then her hand was brought to his lips. But it was done too gravely and gently to startle even her. "Now you must go and rest," Mr. Linden said. "I want nothing for tea that shall cost one extra step." Faith went about as silently and demurely as a cat that has had her ears boxed and been sent out of the dairy. Only in this case she went to her dairy; from whence in due time she emerged with cream and butter and made her appearance in the kitchen. "Well child!" said Mrs. Derrick. "When did you get home? and what did you do with yourself? I've looked and looked for you till I was tired, and if you'd staid five minutes more I should have run all over town after you." "Why mother!" said Faith, "I was in my own room for a good while. I got home in usual time." "Well!"—said her mother, "I hope next time you'll say as much—that's all. Do you know we've got company, Faith?" "Who, mother?—O I've seen Mr. Linden." "I meant him," said Mrs. Derrick. "I'm sure the house seems as if it had twice as many in it since he came." "He ought to have tea, now, mother. Isn't Cindy home yet?" "No, but that's no matter—I'll take it up in two minutes. Where's the teapot—" "I think, mother," said Faith as she was adding the last touches to the tray which was to go up stairs,—"I must have put Mr. Linden in mind of his sister, or somebody, this afternoon. I am afraid he misses them now." "What do you mean by somebody?" said Mrs. Derrick. "Some of his own family, I mean. I thought so." "I don't believe you ever put anybody in mind of anybody else," said Mrs. Derrick confidently. "What made you think so, child?" "Something made me think so,"—said Faith rather abstractly. "Now mother—it is ready, and I'll take it up stairs if you'll take it then." "I guess I'm up to as much as taking it all the way," said her mother, lifting the tray. "I'll be down presently, dear,—you must want your tea." And up stairs she went. Reuben came to stay all night, so the ladies had only to take their own much needed sleep, in peace; and a note of information was left at Dr. Harrison's door next morning, some time before that gentleman was awake. <div style="break-after:column;"></div>

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