Say and Seal, Volume II

"You may, dear child—if you will promise to sleep to-night. But you must not rouse yourself too early. You know to-morrow is Saturday—so I shall not be called off by other duties."

He went, and Mrs. Derrick came; but Faith, though weary enough certainly, spent the evening in study.

CHAPTER XII

There is no knowing what Mr. Linden would have considered "too early," and Faith had prudently omitted to enquire. She studied nothing but her Bible that morning and spent the rest of the time in getting ready what she was to take with her; for Mr. Linden would not come home to breakfast. And it was but fair day, the sun had not risen, when she was on her way. She wondered, as she went, what they would have done that winter without Jerry; and looked at the colouring clouds in the east with a strange quick appreciation of the rising of that other day told of in the Bible. Little Johnny brought the two near; the type and the antitype. It was a pretty ride; cold, bright, still, shadowless; till the sun got above the horizon, and then the long yellow faint beams threw themselves across the snow that was all a white level before. They reached Faith's heart, as the commissioned earnest of that other Sun that will fill the world with his glory and that will make heaven a place where "there shall be no night."

The room where little Johnny was,—lay like the chamber called Peace, in the Pilgrim's Progress—towards the sunrising; but to reach it Faith had first to pass through another on the darker side of the house. The door between the two stood open, perhaps for fresher air, and as Faith came lightly in she could see that room lit up as it were with the early sunbeams. It was an old-fashioned room;—the windows with chintz shades, the floor painted, with a single strip of rag carpet; the old low-post bed-stead, with its check blue and white spread, the high-backed splinter chairs, told of life that had made but little progress in modern improvement. And Jonathan Fax himself, lean, long-headed, and lantern-jawed, looked grimmer than ever under his new veil of solemn feeling. He sat by the window.

The wood fire in the low fireplace flickered and fell with its changing light, on all; but within the warm glow a little group told of life that had made progress—progress which though but yet begun, was to go on its fair course through all the ages of eternity!

Little Johnny sat in his teacher's lap, one arm round his neck, and his weary little head resting as securely on Mr. Linden's breast as if it had been a woman's. The other hand moved softly over the cuff of that black sleeve, or twined its thin fingers in and out the strong hand that was clasped round him. Sometimes raising his eyes, Johnny put some question, or asked for "talk;" his own face then much the brighter of the two,—Faith could see the face that bent over him not only touched with its wonted gravity, which the heavenly seal set there, but moved and shaken in its composure by the wistful eyes and words of the little boy. The answering words were too low-spoken for her to hear. She could see how tenderly the child's caresses were returned,—not the mother whose care Johnny had never known, could have given the little head gentler rest. Nay, not so good,—unless she could have given the little heart such comfort. For Johnny was in the arms of one who knew well that road to the unseen land—who had studied it; and now as the child went on before him, could still give him words of cheer, and shew him the stepping-stones through the dark river. It seemed to Faith as if the river were already in sight,—as if somewhat of

   "that strange, unearthly grace   Which crowns but once the children of our race—"

already rested upon Johnny's fair brow. Yet he looked brighter than yesterday, bright with a very sweet clear quietness now.

Faith stood still one minute—and another; then pulling off her hood, she came in with a footfall so noiseless that it never brought Mr. Fax's head from the window, and knelt down by the side of that group. She had a smile for Johnny too, but it was a smile that had quite left the things of the world behind it and met the child on his own ground; and her kiss was sweet accordingly. A look and a clasp of the hand to Mr. Linden; then she rose up and went round to the window to take the hand of Mr. Fax, who had found his feet.

"I'm very much beholden to ye!" said he in somewhat astonished wise."You're takin' a sight o' trouble among ye."

"It's no trouble, sir."

Mr. Fax looked bewildered. He advanced to Mr. Linden. "Now this girl's here," said he, "don't you think you hadn't better come into another room and try to drop off? I guess he can get along without you for a spell—can't he?"

"I am not quite ready to leave him," Mr. Linden said,—"and I am not at all sleepy, Mr. Fax. Perhaps I will come by and by."

"We'll have breakfast, I conclude, some time this forenoon. I'll go and see if it's ever comin'. Maybe you'll take that first."

He went away; and Faith, rid of her wrappers, came up again behind Johnny, passing her fingers through his hair and bending down her face to his; she did not speak. Only her eye went to Mr. Linden for intelligence, as the eye will, even when it has seen for itself!

"Dr. Harrison is coming this morning," was all he said. She did not need to ask any more.

"May Johnny have anything now?"

"O yes—and he will like it," Mr. Linden said in a different tone, and half addressing the child. "He asked me some time ago when you were coming—but not for that."

Faith brought something freshly prepared for Johnny and served him tenderly. Meanwhile her own coffee had been on the fire; and after making two or three simple arrangements of things she came back to them.

"Will you sit with me now, Johnny, and let Mr. Linden have some breakfast?"

"In here?" the child said. But being reassured on that point, he came to Faith's arms very willingly, or rather let Mr. Linden place him there, when she had drawn her chair up nearer the table so that he could look on. And with her arms wrapped tenderly round him, but a face of as clear quiet as the morning sky when there are no clouds before the sunrise, she sat there, and she and Johnny matched Mr. Linden's breakfast. There was no need to talk, for Johnny had a simple pleasure in what was going on, and in everything his friend did. And if the little face before him hindered Mr. Linden's enjoyment of breakfast, that was suffered to appear as little as possible. Breakfast was even rather prolonged and played with, because it seemed to amuse him; and the word and the smile were always ready, either to call forth or to answer one from the child. Nor from him alone, for by degrees even Faith was drawn out of her silence.

Mr. Linden had not yet changed his place, when on the walk that led up to the house Faith saw the approach of Dr. Harrison. The doctor as he came in gave a comprehensive glance at the table, Mr. Linden who had risen, and Faith with Johnny in her lap; shook hands with Mr. Linden, and taking the chair he had quitted sat down in front of Faith and Johnny. A question and answer first passed about her own well-being.

"You've not been here all night?" said he.

"No, sir. I came a while ago."

The doctor's unsatisfied eye fell on the child; fell, with no change of its unsatisfied expression. It took rapid and yet critical note of him, with a look that Faith knew through its unchangingness, scanned, judged, and passed sentence. Then Dr. Harrison rose and walked over to Mr. Linden.

"There is nothing to be done," he said in a low tone. "I would stay—but I know that it would be in vain. She ought not to be here."

For the first remark Mr. Linden was prepared,—the second fell upon a heart that was already keeping closer watch over her strength and happiness than even the doctor could. He merely answered by a quiet question or two as to what could be done for the child's comfort—as to the probable length of time there would be to do anything.

"He may have any simple thing he likes," said the doctor—"such as he has had. I need not give you directions for more than to-day. I am sorry I cannot stay longer with you—but it does not matter—you can do as well as I now."

He went up to Faith and spoke with a different manner. "Miss Faith, I hope you will not let your goodness forget that its powers need to be taken care of. You were here yesterday—there is no necessity for you to be here to-day."

"I don't come for necessity, Dr. Harrison."

"I know!" said he shaking his head,—"your will is strong! but it ought not to have full play. You are not wanted here."

Faith let him go without an answer to that. As soon as the doctor was gone, Mr. Linden came and sat down by Johnny again, kissing the child's brow and cheek and lips, with a face a little moved indeed, and yet with its clear look unclouded; and softly asked what he should do for him. But though Johnny smiled, and stroked his face, he seemed rather inclined to be quiet and even to sleep; yielding partly to the effect of weakness and fever, partly to the restless night; and his two teachers watched him together. Faith was very silent and quiet. Then suddenly she said,

"Go and take some rest yourself, won't you, Endecott—now."

"I do not feel the need of it—" he said. "I had some snatches of sleep last night."

She looked at him, but the silence was unbroken again for some little time longer. At length, pushing aside a lock of hair from the fair little brow beneath which the eyelids drooped with such unnatural heaviness, Faith said,—and the tone seemed to come from very stillness of heart, the words dropped so grave and clear,—

"The name of Christ is good here to-day, Endecott."

"How good! how precious!" was his quick rejoinder. "And how very precious too, is the love of his will!"—and he repeated softly, as if half thinking it out—

   "'I worship thee, sweet will of God!And all thy ways adore!And every day I live, I seemTo love thee more and more.'"

An earnest, somewhat wistful glance of Faith's eye was the answer; it was not a dissenting answer, but it went back to Johnny. Her lip was a child's lip in its humbleness.

"It was very hard for me to give him up at first—" Mr. Linden went on softly; and the voice said it was yet; "but that answers all questions. 'The good Husbandman may pluck his roses, and gather in his lilies at mid-summer, and, for aught I dare say, in the beginning of the first summer month.'"—

Faith looked at the little human flower in her arms—and was silent.

"Reuben was telling me yesterday—" she said after a few minutes,—"what you have been to him."

But her words touched sweet and bitter things—Mr. Linden did not immediately answer,—his head drooped a little on his hand, and he did not raise it again until Johnny claimed his attention.

The quiet rest of the little sleeper was passing off,—changing into an unquiet waking; not with the fear of yesterday but with a restlessness of discomfort that was not easily soothed. Words and caresses seemed to have lost their quieting power for the time, though the child's face never failed to answer them; but he presently held out his arms to Mr. Linden, with the words, "Walk—like last night."

And for a while then Faith had nothing to do but to look and listen; to listen to the soft measured steps through the room, to watch the soothing, resting effect of the motion on the sick child, as wrapped in Mr. Linden's arms he was carried to and fro. She could tell how it wrought from the quieter, unbent muscles—from the words which by degrees Johnny began to speak. But after a while, one of these words was, "Sing."—Mr. Linden did not stay his walk, but though his tone was almost as low as his foot-steps, Faith heard every word.

   "Jesus loves me—this I know,For the Bible tells me so:Little ones to him belong,—They are weak, but he is strong.   "Jesus loves me,—he who diedHeaven's gate to open wide;He will wash away my sin,Let his little child come in.   "Jesus loves me—loves me still,Though I'm very weak and ill;From his shining throne on highComes to watch me where I lie.   "Jesus loves me,—he will stayClose beside me all the way.Then his little child will takeUp to heaven for his dear sake."

There were a few silent turns taken after that, and then Mr. Linden came back to the rocking-chair, and told Faith in a sort of bright cheerful way—meant for her as well as the child—that Johnny wanted her to brush his hair and give him something to eat. Which Johnny enforced with one of his quiet smiles. Faith sprang to do it, and both offices were performed with hands of tenderness and eyes of love, with how much inner trembling of heart neither eyes nor hands told. Then, after all that was done, Faith stood by the table and began to swallow coffee and bread on her own account, somewhat eagerly. Mr. Linden watched her, with grave eyes.

"Now you must go and lie down," he said.

"Not at all!" Faith said with a smile at him. "I hadn't time—or didn't take time—to eat my breakfast before I came away from home—that is all. It is you who ought to do that, Endy,"—she added gently.

She put away the things, cleared the table, made up the fire, and smoothed the bed, ready for Johnny when he should want it; and then she came and sat down.

"Won't you go?" she said softly.

"I would rather stay here."

Faith folded her hands and sat waiting to be useful.

Perhaps Mr. Linden thought it would be a comfort to her if he at least partly granted her request, perhaps he thought it would be wise; for he said, laying his cheek against the child's,—

"Johnny, if you will sit with Miss Faith now, I will lay my head down on one of your pillows for a little while, and you can call me the minute you want me."

The child was very quiet and resting then, and leaning his head happily against Faith, watched Mr. Linden as he sat down by the bedside and gave himself a sort of rest in the way he had proposed; and then Faith's gentle voice was put in requisition. It was going over some things Johnny liked to hear, very softly so that no ears but his might be the wiser,—when the door opened and Jonathan Fax came in again. He glanced at Mr. Linden, and advanced softly up to Faith. There stood and looked down at his child and her with a curious look—that half recognized what it would not see.

"You're as good to him as if he belonged to ye!—" said Jonathan, in a voice not clear.

"So he does—" was Faith's answer, laying her cheek to the little boy's head. "By how many ties," she thought; but she added no more. The words had shaken her.

"How's he gettin' on?" was the uneasy question next, as the father stooped with his hands on his knees to look nearer at the child.

Did he not know? Faith for a minute held her breath. Then she lifted her face and looked up—looked full into his eyes.

"Don't you know, Mr. Fax, that Johnny cannot go any way but well?"

The words were soft and low, but the man stood up, straightening himself instantly as if he had received a blow.

"Do you mean to say," he asked huskily, "that he is goin' to die?"

It startled Faith fearfully. She did not know how much Johnny would understand or be moved by the words. And she saw that they had been heard and noted. With infinite softness and quietness she laid her cheek to the little boy's, answering in words as sweet as he had ever heard from her voice—as unfearful—

"Johnny knows where he is going, if Jesus wants him."

"Jesus is in heaven," the child said instantly, as if she had asked him a question, and with the same deliberate manner that he would have answered her in Sunday school, and raising his clear eyes to hers as he had been wont to do there. But the voice was fainter.

Faith's head drooped lower, and her voice was fainter too—but clear and cheery.

"Yes, darling—and we'll be with him there by and by."

"Yes," the child repeated, nestling his head against her in a weary sort of way, but with a little smile still. The father looked at Faith and at the child like one mazed and bewildered; stood still as if he had got a shock; then wheeling round spoke to nobody and went out. Faith pressed her lips and cheek lightly to Johnny's brow, in a rush of sorrow and joy; then began again some sweet Bible story for his tired little spirit.

Mr. Linden did not long keep even his resting position, though perhaps longer than he would but for the murmuring talk which he did not want to interrupt. But when that ceased, he came back to his former seat, leaning his arm on Faith's chair in a silence that was very uninterrupted. There were plenty of comers and goers in the outer room,—Miss Bezac, and Mrs. Stoutenburgh, and Mrs. Derrick, and Mrs. Somers, were all there with offers of assistance; but Mr. Linden knew well that little Johnny had all he could have, and his orders to Reuben had been very strict that no one should come in. So except the various tones of different voices—which made their way once in a while—the two watchers had nothing to break the still quiet in which they sat. Their own words only made the quiet deeper, as they watched the little feet which they had first guided in the heavenward path, now passing on before them.

"We were permitted to shew him the way at first, Faith," Mr. Linden said, "but he is shewing it to us now! But 'suffer them to come'! in death as in life."

Much of the time the child slumbered—or lay in a half stupor, though often this was uneasy unless Mr. Linden walked with him up and down the room. Then he would revive a little, and look and speak quite brightly, asking for singing or reading or talk,—letting Faith smooth his hair, or bathe his face and hands, or give him a spoonful or two from one of her little cups; his face keeping its fair quiet look, even though the mortal began to give way before the immortal.

In one of these times of greater strength and refreshment, when he was in Mr. Linden's arms, he looked up at him and said,

"Read about heaven—what you used to."

Mr. Linden took his little Bible—remembering but too readily what that "used" to be, and read softly and clearly the verses in Revelation—

"'And he shewed me that great city, the holy Jerusalem.—And the city had no need of the sun, neither of the moon, to shine in it: for the glory of God did lighten it, and the Lamb is the light thereof. And the nations of them that are saved shall walk in the light of it, and the kings of the earth do bring their glory and honour unto it. And the gates of it shall not be shut at all by day, for there shall be no night there. And there shall in no wise enter into it anything that defileth, or whatsoever worketh abomination, or maketh a lie, but they that are written in the Lamb's book of life.'"

The child listened, with his eyes upon his teacher's face and his arm round him, as he had been "used," too, and when the reading was finished lay quiet for a little time; while his friends too were silent—thinking of "the city that hath foundations."

"That's the same gate," Johnny said in his slow, thoughtful way, as if his mind had gone back to the morning hymn.

"Yes," Mr. Linden said, with lips that would not quite be controlled, and yet answering the child's smile, "that is the gate where his little child shall go in! And that is the beautiful city where the Lord Jesus lives, and where my Johnny is going to be with him forever—and where dear Miss Faith and I hope to come by and by."

The child's hands were folded together, and with a fair, pure smile he looked from one face to the other; closing his eyes then in quiet sleep, but with the smile yet left.

It was no time for words. The gates of the city seemed too near, where the little traveller's feet were so soon to enter. The veil between seemed so slight, that even sense might almost pass beyond it,—when the Heaven-light was already shining on that fair little face! Faith wiped away tears—and looked—and brushed them away again; but for a long time was very silent. At last she said, very low, that it might be quietly,—

"Endecott—it seems to me as if I could almost hear them!"

He half looked the question which yet needed no answer, looking down then again at the little ransomed one in his arms, as he said in the same low voice, wherein mingled a note of the church triumphant through all its deep human feeling,—

"'And they sung a new song, saying, Thou art worthy to take the book and to open the seals thereof, for thou wast slain: and hast redeemed us to God by thy blood, out of every kindred, and tongue, and people and nation'!"

"And," said Faith presently, lower still,—"can't you, as Bunyan says, hear the bells of the city ringing for joy!—"

Those "choral harmonies of heaven, heard or unheard," were stilling to mortal speech and even mortal feeling. Very quietly the minutes and the hours of that day succeeded each other. Quietly even on the sick child's part; more so than yesterday; nature succumbed gently, and the restless uneasiness which had marked the night and the preceding day gave place gradually before increasing faintness of the bodily powers. There was little "talk" called for after that time—hardly any, though never a word met his waking ear that did not meet the same grateful, pleased manner and smile. But the occasions became fewer; Johnny slumbered gently, but more plainly a sleep that was nearing the end, in the arms of his best friend, who would let him even when unconscious have no worse resting-place—would let every faint waking minute find the same earthly love about him that had been his dearest earthly refuge and stay. But earth was having less and less of her little immortal tenant; and as the hours of the afternoon began to tell of failing light and a fading day, it was plain that the little spirit was almost ready to wing its way to the "city that hath no need of the sun."

Mr. Fax came in sometimes to look at the child, but never staid long—never offered to take him out of the hands he perhaps unconsciously felt were more of kin to him, spiritually, than his own. Out of the room, he sat down in the midst of his visitors and said nothing. He seemed bewildered—or astounded. "I never knowed," he said once, "till that girl told me. I heard what the doctor said at night—but I didn't think as he was any wiser than other doctors—and their word's about as good one side as 'tother."

At the edge of the evening Reuben came in to say that Mr. Skip was there with the sleigh.

"Let him put Jerry in the stable and go home," Faith said softly to Mr.Linden. "One of Mr. Fax's men can harness him any time."

"Dear Faith!" he said, "you had better go with him."

"I can't go, Endecott. Don't tell me to go,"—she said with a determinate quietness.

"How can I let you stay?—you ought not to watch here all night—unless there were something for you to do."

"There may be something for me to do," she said, but not as if that were what she wanted to stay for.

"I think not," he said softly, and looking down again,—"Faith—it is near the dawning!—and yet it may not be till the dawning. And dear child, you ought not to watch here."

"It will not hurt me," she said under her breath.

"I know—" he said with a gentle admission of all her reasons and full sympathy with all her wishes,—"but I think you ought not."

"Do you mean," she said after a minute's pause,—"that you wish me to go?"

It was hard for him to say yes—but he did.

She sat still a moment, with her face in the shade; then rose up and arranged everything about the room which her hands could better; made a cup of tea and brought it to Mr. Linden; and prepared herself for her ride. When she came at last, ready, with only her hood to put on, her face was almost as fair as Johnny's. There was no shadow on it of any kind, but clear day, as if a reflection from the "city" she had been looking towards. She put her hand in Mr. Linden's and knelt down as she had done in the morning to kiss Johnny. Her lips trembled—but the kisses were quietly given; and rising to her feet without speaking or looking, Faith went away.

If quietness was broken on the ride home, it was restored by the time she got there; and with the same clear look Faith went in. That Mrs. Derrick was much relieved to see her, was evident, but she seemed not very ready to ask questions. She looked at Faith, and then with a little sigh or two began softly to unfasten her cloak and furs, and to put her in a comfortable place by the fire, and to hasten tea, but all in a sort of sorrowful subdued silence; letting her take her own time to speak, or not speak at all, if she liked it better. Faith's words were cheerfully given, though about other things. And after tea she did in some measure justify Mr. Linden's decision in sending her home; for she laid herself on the couch in the sitting-room and went into a sleep as profound and calm as the slumbers she had left watching. Her mother sat by her in absolute stillness—thinking of Faith as she had been in her childhood and from thence until now; thinking of the last time she herself had been in that sick room, of the talk she had heard there—of the silence that was there now: wiping away some tears now and then—looking always at Faith with a sort of double feeling; that both claimed her as a child, and was ready to sit at her feet and learn. But as it came to the hour of bedtime, and Faith still slept, her mother stooped down and kissed her two or three times to wake her up.