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Say and Seal, Volume 1

<h3 id="id03356" style="margin-top: 3em">CHAPTER XXVI.</h3> The dinner up stairs was a very quiet and uninterrupted one. The dinner down stairs was destined not to be so. The first break was the entrance of Cindy with a bunch of flowers—which the doctor had sent to Miss Derrick, with the desire to know how she was. Faith received the flowers with a dubious face and put them in water on the dinner-table, where they looked splendid. Mrs. Derrick could hardly see their splendour. "He needn't think to come round me that way," she said. "Child! I wouldn't let you go off with him again for twenty kingdoms!" "Not with those horses, mother." "Nor with any others. I sha'n't ever want to have you go with anybody again, Faith." "What's goin' on here?" said a growling voice which they knew, before Mr. Simlins entered the door of the dining room. "That gal o' yourn wants me to stay politely in the parlour yonder—but I ain't polite—and I come to see you, not your doors and windows nor the pretty paper on your walls. What are you all about, Mrs. Derrick? I hear the very spirit of turbidness has got into this house!" "There's not much spirit in me to-day," said Mrs. Derrick, "nor spirits neither. I've lost what little I had. Anybody could knock me down with a straw. Sit down, Mr. Simlins, and take some dinner." "I'm afeard, if it's done so easy, I might occasionally do it with one o' them posies," said Mr. Simlins standing and surveying the bouquet as if he didn't know what to make of it. "Do you eat the grass of the field at your noon-spell?" "You may ask Faith," said Mrs. Derrick; "she put 'em there." "Sit down, Mr. Simlins," said Faith. "I ain't goin' to sit down! I've eat my dinner. I've just come in, Mrs. Derrick, to see if you're all overturned, or if there's anything left straight yet." "It's all straight," said Faith smiling up at him. "Sit down, Mr. Simlins." "What's the truth of it, Mrs. Derrick? This child ain't all straight, is she?" It followed that, bit by bit, Mr. Simlins got out the story of the accident, for neither Faith nor Mrs. Derrick was forward to speak about it. He then enquired, with an unsatisfied grunt, why Faith was "postin' round with Dr. Harrison?" Whereat Mrs. Derrick felt justly indignant. "Why she ain't! Mr. Simlins. She went down there on business, and there was nobody else at hand to take her just then." "What do you call bein' at hand?" said Mr. Simlins. "I've got two hands, and more'n two horses—that won't run away neither. It's only my cows do that!—Where's Mr. Linden?" "O he's up stairs—" said Mrs. Derrick. "He's not been down yet. Faith, don't you think he's some stronger to-day?" "And so," said Mr. Simlins turning to her again reproachfully,—"while he's lyin' up there and can't stir, you go drivin' over the country with 'tother one!" But that brought out Faith's round low laugh, so incontrovertibly merry and musical that it changed Mr. Simlins' face on the instant. It came to an end almost as soon, but short as it was it was better than the warble of any nightingale; inasmuch as the music of a good sound human heart is worth all the birds in creation. "When's Mr. Linden going to be down stairs, where a body can get sight of him?" "The doctor says he mustn't go out for a long time yet," said Mrs. Derrick. "When are you going to find the man that shot him?—that's what I want to know." "When I get a composition from the only witness," Mr Simlins answered. "And as the witness ain't particular about testifying, I'm afeard it'll be a spell o' time yet. It'll come out. _I _should think the fellow'd ha' made tracks, fust thing; but I 'aint heerd of any one's bein' missin' from town,—except—" Mr. Simlins suddenly started, stopped, and gazed at Faith with a most extraordinary expression. "Did you look at my flowers, Mr. Simlins?" said Faith quite quietly, though without meeting his eye. "I've seen nosegays afore," growled Mr. Simlins in a very uninterested manner. "I don't see as this is no more nor less than a nosegay. Do you s'pose I might go up and see somebody up stairs for two minutes, without creating any confusion?" Mr. Simlins went up and shortly afterwards went away. But if Faith anticipated a good long lesson that afternoon, to make up for the morning and afternoon in which she had had none—albeit the morning had been better than lessons—she was to be disappointed. Hardly was the dinner over, and the muffins mixed which she was determined should make amends for Mr. Linden's poor breakfast, when Miss Harrison came; full of sorrow, and sympathy, and hope. "Faith don't look a bit the worse, ma'am," she said to Mrs. Derrick. "She couldn't look anyway but just so," her mother said with a fond glance. "Why she could look pale, but I don't see that she does even that;—unless, perhaps, just such a tingy paleness as is rather becoming than otherwise. Dear Mrs. Derrick, I hope you have forgiven Julius?" It was a sorrowful smile that met her words, and eyes that grew dim and looked away. "I suppose I could forgive the whole world—since he didn't do any more harm," Mrs. Derrick said with her wonted gentleness. "But I wouldn't see her go with him again, Miss Sophy—if that's what you call forgiveness." "Why not? Dear Mrs. Derrick!"— "Why not?"—said the good lady—"why Faith's used to being taken care of, Miss Sophy—and I'm used to seeing it." "My dear Mrs. Derrick!"—Miss Harrison exclaimed out of breath,—"do you think she was not taken care of? Julius knows his horses, and he is a capital hand with them; he says himself he thinks he should have brought them to, if that little wretch of a boy hadn't thrown op his nat before their eyes. No horses would stand that, you know. And the best man in the world, and the best driver, can't be certain of his horses, Mrs. Derrick. Not take care of her!—" "I don't mean to say that he didn't mean to!" said Mrs Derrick quietly, "but I don't think he knows how. You needn't look so, Miss Sophy—I'm not saying a word against your brother. But Faith's only part of the world to him—and she's the whole of it to me. He should have taken horses he was sure of," said Mrs. Derrick with a little flush on her cheek. "I don't know," said Miss Harrison softly, and looking at Faith,—"I don't know just what part of the world she is to him—but I think, and am very sure, he would have thrown himself oat rather than her. Can anybody do more? Can any man do more, Mrs. Derrick?" she said smiling. "I know you are her mother; and though I am not her mother, I think of her just as you do." "I can't say what any man can do," said Mrs. Derrick pleasantly,—"I havent tried many. And you can't tell how I feel, Miss Sophy it isn't cross, if it sounds so. How long has Dr. Harrison had those horses?" "Why, not very long," said Miss Harrison,—"he hasn't been home long himself. But he's a good judge of horses," she said, a little less sure of her ground than in the former part of the conversation. Perhaps she was not sorry to have it interrupted. "My dear Mrs. Derrick!" said Mr. Somers entering,—"I have come to congratulate you! Miss Harrison, I see, is before me in this pleasant—a—office. Miss Faith!—I am glad to see you looking so well after your overthrow." Mr. Somers went round shaking hands as he spoke.—"Mrs. Somers will be here presently to join me—she stopped a few minutes by the way. Mrs. Somers always has more business on hand than I can—a—keep up with. Mrs. Derrick, I have rejoiced with you, indeed, ma'am." Somers had managed to keep up with her business and him too, for she came in before Mr. Somers had well taken the measure of his chair. She walked up to Faith and kissed her, with a sort of glad energy, gave her a comprehensive glance from head to foot, and then turned to Mrs. Derrick with, "There's nothing amiss with her, after all.—Sophy, what excuses have you brought in your bag?—it seems to be full." "I wish you'd make some for Julius, aunt Ellen—I can see Mrs. Derrick has only half forgiven him." "Has she got so far as that?" said Mrs. Somers. "I don't know. Faith, you might come and say something—you know if it isn't true; and Mrs. Derrick will hear you." Faith was busy giving Mrs. Somers a chair, and certainly looked as if she had nobody to forgive anything in the wide world. "What do you want me to say, Sophy?" "Why, that Julius wasn't to blame." "I find it is still a disputed point, whether a man has a right to break his own neck," said Mrs. Somers. "I think he hasn't, myself, but most people don't agree with me. Mr. Somers thinks people may run away alone or together, just as they've a mind. I don't know whether it's the fees or the freedom that takes his fancy." "I suppose, my dear," said Mr. Somers, "a man may lawfully set out to take a ride without intending to break his own neck, or anybody else's; and find it done at the end, without blame to himself. I never was, I hope, a promoter of—ha!—flighty marriages—to which you seem to allude." "If he finds it done at the end, it isn't done very thoroughly," said Mrs. Somers. "But Pattaquasset's growing up into a novel—last week furnished with a hero, and this week with a heroine,—the course of things can't run smooth now. So we may all look out for breakers—of horses, I hope, among other things." "Oh aunt Ellen!"—was Miss Harrison's not gratified comment on this speech. "I hope Mrs. Somers don't mean that we are to look out for breakers of hearts, among the other things," said Mr. Somers. "Look out for them? to be sure!" said Miss Harrison;—"always and everywhere. What would the world be without them?" "The world would not be heart-broken," said Mrs. Somers. "Faith—which of you came to first? who picked you up?" "I don't know, Mrs. Somers. Sam Stoutenburgh was passing just at the time and Dr. Harrison called him. I don't know who picked me up." "Sam Stoutenburgh!" said Mrs. Somers,—"well, he's made, if nobody else is! He'll bless Julius for the rest of his life for giving him such a chance. Do you know how that boy watches you, Faith?—I mean to speak to Mr. Linden about it the very first time I see him." Something in this speech called forth Faith's colour. She had spoken Sam's name herself with the simplest unchanging face; but now the flushes came and came abundantly. "I don't know what good that would do, Mrs. Somers." "Nor I—till I try," said the lady smiling at her. "But if the mere suggestion is so powerful, what may not the reality do? I'll say one thing for Mr. Linden—he makes all those boys come into church and get seated before the service begins—which nobody else ever did yet; if they ever tried. I was curious to see how it would be last Sunday when he wasn't there—but they were more punctual than ever. It's quite a comfort—if there's anything I do hate to see, it's a troop of men and boys outside the door when they ought to be in. What are you afraid he'll say to Sam, Faith?" Faith's eyes were looking down. The question brought them up, and then her smile was as frank as her blushes had been. "I am not afraid he'll say anything, Mrs. Somers." "I don't know why he should, my dear," said Mr. Somers. "We all like to use our eyes—you can't very well blame a boy." "O Mr. Somers!" said his wife—with that air which a woman puts on when she says she believes, what she wouldn't for the world say if she believed,—"of course you think that! Don't I know how you broke your heart after a green veil when you were in college? I don't think it's been right whole since. Now I have some feeling for Sam—or his future wife." "Well Mrs. Derrick, what shall I tell Julius?" said Miss Harrison as she rose to go. "Tell him?" said Mrs. Derrick enquiringly. "He wouldn't care to hear anything about me, if you did tell him, Miss Sophy." "Well!—he'll have to come and talk to you himself," said Miss Harrison. "Faith, stand up for the right." Faith went to the door with her and returned ushering in a new-comer, even the wife of Farmer Davids. "Husband wanted me to come and see how Mr. Linden was," she said in meek explanation of her appearance. "He would have come hisself, but he was forced to be in the field, and he said he wisht I'd come myself. How is he, ma'am?" "I hope he's better,"—said Mrs. Derrick, giving her new visiter a kind reception and a seat. "He don't get strong very fast. How are you all at home, Mrs. Davids?" "We're considerable comfortable, ma'am," said Mrs. Davids taking the chair in an unobtrusive spirit. "I am happy to have the occasion to make your acquaintance better. Husband would have come hisself, only he couldn't. Mr. Linden don't get strong?" "Not very fast," said Mrs. Derrick. "I don't know just when the doctor 'll let him go to school again. I suppose you're anxious about Phil, Mrs. Davids. But all the boys have to be out, now." "Yes ma'am, we're anxious—and husband is anxious about Mr. Linden, and he sent me to know. But there is such a change in Phil, ma'am,"—she said turning to Mrs. Somers,—"such a change, you wouldn't believe! he never would go to school before—not regular—not for nobody—not for his father, nor for me; and it was mor'n my life was worth. My husband, he said it was my fault; but I don't know how 'twas! And now sir, he don't want a word spoke to him! he's off before it's time in the morning—and he learns too, for I catch him at it; and my husband don't think anything in the world is too good for Mr. Linden; nor of course, I s'pose, I don't. But however he's managed or overcome it, to make Phil draw in harness, _I _don't know, and husband says he don't. And ma'am, was those pears good? or what does Mr. Linden like? If it's on the farm he'll get it." It would have taken more conversational skill than Mrs. Derrick possessed, to give a summary answer to all this; but her simplicity answered as well, after all. "I guess he'll like what you've been saying better than anything, Mrs. Davids; I'll tell him." "Do," said Mrs. Davids. "I wisht you would. Husband would have said it completer. He thinks ma'am," (turning to Mrs. Somers again) "that Mr. Linden is a wonderful man! And I'm of the opinion he's handsome." Faith had been sitting, quiet and demure, for some time past, hearing what was going on; but this last sentence drove her to the right about like lightning. She found something to do in another part of the room. "Did you ever hear anybody say he wasn't?" said Mrs. Somers. "Mr. Somers, it's time we were going. Ah—there's Squire Stoutenburgh! Faith—come here!" And Squire Stoutenburgh, appearing in the doorway like the worthy father of his stout son, bowed to the company. "Well Mrs. Derrick—" he said,—"good day Mr. Somers—and Mrs. Somers! I beg pardon—Well Miss Faith! I'm glad it is well, I'm sure. My dear, how do you do?" "Why very well, sir!" said Faith. "Why so it is!" said Squire Stoutenburgh taking hold of both her hands and looking at her. "Sam said you were as pale as a ghost when he carried you down to the spring—but Sam don't always see straight when he's excited. You needn't be frightened if I kiss you, my dear you know I always do, and always have—since you were a year old," said the Squire as he took his wonted privilege. Faith gravely submitted, not letting the Squire however get any further than her cheek; which ought to have contented him. "Sam was very good to me yesterday, sir," she answered. "I think, Squire," said Mr. Somers, "your son was—a—in luck, as we say. A fortunate chance! What most people would have thought no—a—disagreeable office." "Sam's a good boy—" said his father,—"a very good boy—always was. He does crow a little over Dr. Harrison, I must say. But what shall we do with the doctor, Mr. Somers?—what does he deserve for running away with our Pattaquasset roses and turning them into meadow lilies? Yes, yes, Miss Faith—you may look as pink as you please now—it won't help the matter. What shall we do with him, sir? My dear," said Squire Stoutenburgh seating Faith by his side and dropping his voice, "you're growing wonderfully like your father!" A changed, sweet glance of Faith's eyes answered him. "Yes!"—the Squire repeated meditatively and looking at her.—"Ah he was a fine man! I used to think he couldn't be better—but I s'pose he is now. My dear, you needn't wonder when I tell you that I thought more of your mother last night than I did of you. But you don't remember all about that. Well—I shall go home and tell Mrs. Stoutenburgh that you're as pretty as a posie, and then she won't care what else is the matter," he said, getting up again. "Mrs. Somers, I see the parson durstn't say a word about Dr. Harrison before you." "I—I declare I don't think Dr. Harrison is very much to be blamed, Squire," said the parson thus called upon. "And Mrs. Somers is so well able to speak for herself—I have no doubt, Squire Stoutenburgh, if it wasn't for Mrs. Somers,—I dare say I might like to do as much as the doctor did, myself!" "Bless my life!" said Squire Stoutenburgh, "I can't stay to be a party to confidences of that sort!—I must go!—" and he departed, laughing and followed by the two others. But even as they went, Faith, who with her mother had accompanied them to the door, was electrified somewhat doubtfully at the vision of Miss Deacon just within the gate. Miss Cecilia came forward, also with some doubt upon her spirit, to judge by her air. But Faith's greeting of her was so pleasant and kind, though she could not prevent its being grave, that the young lady evidently took heart. Being reassured, she sat and talked at leisure, and at length, using her eyes as well as her tongue; thus making herself mistress of all the truth she could get at, and of some more. She was thorough in her investigations as to all the drama of the last seven days, and all and each of the actors therein; and at the close of her visit declared that "Sam had been a great fool to go away, and that she had told him so before"; and departed at last with her head full of Dr Harrison. But detentions were not over. Miss Bezac came before Miss Deacon was quit of the parlour; and before Miss Bezac had been two minutes there, other members of the Pattaquasset community came pouring in. Everybody must see Faith, hear particulars, discuss realities and possibilities of the accident, and know how Mr. Linden was getting along. The hours of the afternoon waned away; but people came as people went; and it was not till long shadows and slant sunbeams began to give note of supper time, that the influx lessened and the friends gathered in Mrs. Derrick's parlour began to drop away without others stepping in to take their place. "Faith," said her mother when they were at last alone, "I can't bear this any longer! I shall go crazy if I hear that story one other time to-night!" And she put her arms round Faith, and leaned her head wearily on her shoulder. "I'll sit up to tea," she went on presently, "and then if the rest of the town comes, you'll have to see 'em—for I can't!" Faith gently put her into a chair and holding her in her arms stooped over her. "Mother"—the words were as soft as the kisses which came between,—"you mustn't mind it so much. Sit up to tea! Why I have made some of the best muffins that ever were seen." "Child!" said her mother in a low voice, "I felt this morning as if I had been as near death as you had!"—and if the words needed any emphasis, they had it in the way Mrs. Derrick leaned her head against Faith and was silent. But not for long. She got up, and kissing Faith two or three times, said, "My pretty child!" in a tone that indeed told of possible heartbreak; and then half holding her, half held by her, drew her on into the tea-room. <div style="break-after:column;"></div>

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