Say and Seal, Volume II

CHAPTER XLII

"Now my two pets," said Mr. Linden as they left the table Monday morning, "what are you going to do?"

"I am going to work," said his sister. "Mrs. Derrick and I have business on hand. You can have Faith."

"There is an impression of that sort on my own mind."

"But I mean to-day. Except for about five minutes every half hour."

"It would be needless for me to say what I am going to do," observedFaith quietly.

"If that is a little piece of self assertion," said Mr. Linden, "allow me respectfully to remark that my 'impression' had no reference to the present time. Do you feel mollified?"

"No," said Faith laughing. "You are wide of the mark."

"Then will you please to state your intentions?—So far from being needless, it will be what Mr. Somers would call 'gratifying.'"

"I don't know," said Faith merrily. "I understand that if I tell you, you will say I have no time for them!"—

"For them!—enigmatical. Who told you what I would say?—Ask me." ButFaith laughed.

"I am going to make Pet and you some waffles for tea."

"Do they require more time than shortcakes?"

Faith stood before him quietly as if she had a great deal to say. "I am going to make bread, for mother and all of us."

"What else?"

"Sponge cake, I think."

"And after that?"

"Crust for pot-pie."

"De plus?"

"Curds,"—said Faith, looking down now.

"Pourquoi, Mademoiselle?"

"To eat," said Faith demurely. "You like them."

"Mademoiselle, I prefer you."

"Each in its way,"—replied Faith admirably well, but with a glance, nevertheless.

"There is only one in my way," said Mr. Linden. "Well does that complete the circuit?—I suppose nothing need go between cheese and bread but waffles?"

"I shall wish—and I suppose you would wish that I should, look over strawberries."

"Where do you commonly do all these things?"

"The sponge cake and the strawberries in the other room—other things in the kitchen."

"We may as well begin as we are to go on!" said Mr. Linden. "If you will not come and keep me company I must do that for you. Faith, I think Miss Essie's statement of facts was much like the artistic representation of lions and men, in the fable!"

Faith did not at all dislike this compounding of matters; and so the strawberries were looked over, and the sponge cake beaten in the dining-room; with various social enlivenings. For besides Mr. Linden's calls upon her attention, and the subjects by him presented to be looked over along with the strawberries, Faith made now and then a run into the kitchen to see Mrs. Derrick or Cindy there; and if the runs up stairs were less frequent, they took more time. For Miss Bezac had arrived, and she and Miss Linden were deep in the white folds of Faith's muslin dress. There too was Mrs. Derrick, for the touch and the making of that dress stirred her very heart. Faith was often in demand,—not to use her needle, but her taste—or to be fitted, or 'tried on,' as Miss Bezac said.

Coming back from one of these "trying" visits to the three workers, Faith found Mr. Linden by the sitting-room table; before him a package, in his hands a letter.

"Faith," he said, "come and look at this." Faith ran in from the strawberries.

"Rosy fingers are not needed," said Mr. Linden, "but as eyes are first called for they may pass. Sit down here by me, Mignonette, and take off this wrapping paper."

Which very curiously and amusedly, and now with a little suspicious tinge in her cheeks, Faith did; remarking that she could not help her fingers being rosy.

"Keep the roses to their chosen location," said Mr. Linden gravely, as the first paper parted right and left and shewed a second, which bore this inscription.—"For Mrs. Endecott Linden—with the warmest regards and respects of W. and L. Olyphant." Faith suddenly jumped up, pushed back her chair and whisked back to the strawberries, where she was found diligently putting the hulls into a dish by themselves.

"Mignonette, your fingers will be more rosy than ever." Mr. Linden spoke from the doorway where he stood watching her. Then coming forward he laid a key on the table. "That belongs to you."

"Wouldn't you be so good as to take care of it? You see I am busy."

"No my dear, I will not be so good. You shall have that pleasure—as a reward for running away. Would you like to hear this letter?"

"If you please—" Faith said with a little hesitation.

"You shall read it to yourself if you like better—" but he read it to her, after all. It was a pretty letter, shewing so well Mr. Linden's place in the writer's affection that Faith could not but enjoy it. Neither could she dislike the messages to herself though they did cost her a few roses. As to the contents of the package the letter gave no hint.

"What is that the key of, Endy?" she said, glancing up after the letter was finished.

"I don't know!"—Faith went on with her strawberries.

Through the open hall door came little uneven steps, tracking on through other open doors even to the dining-room,—there the steps and Charles twelfth came to a pause.

"Ma said," he began,—then fixed his eyes and mind on Mr. Linden with a concentration that was marvellous. The general attire and appearance of the little potentate were as usual, but both hands were in use to support a heavy mass of red coral, hugged up to his blue apron in the most affectionate manner. With a sigh of relief Charles twelfth withdrew his attention from Mr. Linden long enough to set the coral on the floor, then gazed anew, with his hands behind him.

"Charley!" said Faith laughing,—"what are you doing!—and what have you done?"

"Ma said—" began the child, stopping short as before.

"Charles twelfth," said Mr. Linden holding out his hand "do you never use anything but your eyes? Come here and speak to me. Who is prime minister now?"

"You,"—was the very prompt reply. "Ma said so yesterday."

The laugh in Mr. Linden's eyes as he looked at Faith, was a thing to see. "Faith," he said, "the conversation is in your hands!"

Faith was in doubtful readiness to speak. "Charley!"—she said as soon as she could,—"come here. Was that all your ma said?"

"No," said the boy, "she said a heap more."

"Well what did you come here for to-day?"

"I came to fetch that—" said Charles twelfth with another sigh.

"Poor child!—What did you bring it for, Charley?"

"Why for you," said Charley. "Ma said she didn't know when it oughter come—and she guessed you'd like it, 'cause it used to live off in the place where you said they eat up babies and people!" and Charles twelfth's eyes grew large and round with the announcement. "And ma said she's sorry 'twarnt more. I ain't."

Faith's eyes went to Mr. Linden with a flash and a burst of the uncontrollable little laugh; but after that they were suspiciously downcast, and Faith busied herself in providing little Charles twelfth with the refreshment of a good saucer of sugared strawberries, with which he sat down in a corner much consoled. And when he was setting off again, Faith gave him a whispered message to ask his mother to come and see her Thursday. Just what Mr. Linden saw in the piece of red coral he did not declare, but when Faith came back to the table he was looking at it very fixedly.

"Faith," he said, "that is not the worst token, nor the worst envoy—that might be. What a shy child you were that first time I took you down there! And you have not changed any too much," he added, carrying her off to the other room. "I am not sure that you ought to be indulged—suppose you open this box."

"You do it, please, Endecott!"—she said with a crimson rush to her cheeks.

"I do not believe there is any explosive material under such an address,—however, if there is I prefer that my hands should fire the train. Stand back, Faith!"—and with cautious and laughing deliberation the key was turned and the lid raised. It was a very plain lid, by the way—mere white pine.

"There is nothing here (that appears) but silk paper and cotton,—not gun cotton, probably," said Mr. Linden. "Faith, do you wish me to risk my safety any further?"

"Yes."—

"My dear, you must have more courage. If I am to open all your boxes I shall have my hands full, and—ne vous en déplaise—I would rather see the work in yours." And she was seated before the portentous pine box, Mr. Linden keeping his stand at her side. Faith blushed and didn't like it; but applied her fingers with a sort of fearful delicacy to the silk paper and cotton, removing one after the other.

The box had interior divisions, by way of help to the silk paper, its different contents being thus more securely separated. Faith's fingers exploring among the papers brought out first a silver chocolate pot, then the dainty china cups for the same, then the spoons, in size and shape just suiting the cups. Spoons and chocolatière were marked with the right initials; the cups—chocolate colour themselves, that no drop of the dark beverage might hurt their beauty—had each a delicate gilt F. L. twining about the handle.

If the givers could have seen the gift uncovered and inspected!—the rosy delight in Faith's cheeks, the pleasure in her eye! They would have considered themselves rewarded. She looked and bent over the pretty things, her attitude and blush half veiling her admiration and satisfaction, but there was no veiling them when she looked up at Mr. Linden. "I am so glad you like chocolate!"—she said naively. But it was worth a hundred remarks of aesthetic criticism.

"I am so glad I do!" he said, stooping to kiss her. "Faith, one would almost imagine some bird of the air had told them our chocolate associations."

"Now won't you put these back for me?" said Faith,—"because, if that sponge cake is to get done to-day I haven't two minutes to lose!"

The pretty chocolatière was but the beginning, as Faith soon found. Found to her most utter and unbounded astonishment—though to that of no one else.

Tuesday arrived a packet from Madame Danforth, accompanied by a note of affection and congratulation. The present was peculiar. A satin sachet, embroidered after the little Frenchwoman's desire, and to do it justice very exquisitely scented, was the first thing. A set of window curtains and toilet cover, of a curious and elaborate pattern of netting, made of very fine thread,—a manufacture in which Madame Danforth delighted and on which she prided herself,—was the second thing. The third was a pretty breakfast service of French china.

Faith enjoyed them all, with some amusement and some pleasure of possession, and not a little affectionate remembrance. Even the sachet, in this view, was particularly precious; that was the only use Faith saw in it. But the next arrival gave her a great start.

It was again this time a deal box, but immensely heavy; and it was a strong box that Faith did not attempt to open; marked only 'Grover & Baker', which told her nothing. There was no occasion indeed. A note was delivered with the box, and a small covered basket. The note conveyed the assurance of Sophy Harrison's love and a request that Faith would let her shew it on the present occasion. It went on.—

"Papa has sent you, dear Faith, an odd thing for a present—for such a present—but I haven't been able to put it out of his head. He insists it is what you ought to have, and that he shall have the pleasure of giving it to you To save you the trouble of opening the box before you want it, I will state that it contains a sewing machine. Papa has taken great pains to satisfy himself—and it is certainly the best or one of the best. My offering, dear Faith, is in the basket, and may be looked at with less difficulty."

Miss Sophy's offering was a kindly one. She had sent a little invoice of silver spoons and forks. Faith was pleased; and yet she looked grave, and very grave, over these things. She made no remark whatever to say why.

If no one else knew there was to be a wedding, at least the express man did!—and probably in his mind joined these new packages with those he had so often brought before, very comfortably. The next arrival was a delicate pair of silver salt-cellars and spoons from Mr. Alcott,—then a little framed sketch from the Captain of the Vulcan, portraying the meeting of two steamers at sea, with these words underneath—'The despatch post'. At which Mr. Linden looked with much amusement. Faith was delighted.

First on Wednesday morning came Miss Bezac,—bringing the well assorted tokens of an elaborate needlebook and a simple bread trencher and knife; and staying only long enough to say, "You see, Faith, what made me think of this, was that the first time I heard of that, was when you came in for bread and milk. And now you'll have to think of me, whether you sew or eat!"—with which triumphant sentiment Miss Bezac departed.

They say ill news flies fast,—in this case so did the good: certainly people are quick to hear and understand what pleases them. The friends who had heard from Pet or Mrs. Iredell what was to be, had spread the information: and in the same sort of way, from two or three old family dependants another class of Mr. Linden's friends had heard it. Perhaps among all her presents the little tokens from these people touched her most. They came queerly done up and directed, sometimes the more formal 'Mrs. Linden' changed into an ill-spelled 'For Mr. Endecott's wife'—or 'For the young lady, in care of Mr. Linden'. She knew the names thereto appended as little as they knew hers,—could only guess the vocations,—the tokens were various. A pair of elaborately carved brackets,—a delicate rustic footstool, trimmed with acorns and cones,—a wooden screw pincushion, with a flaming red velvet top,—a case of scissors, pretty enough to have come from anybody, declared the trade of the sender by the black finger marks on the brown wrapper, and a most mysteriously compiled address. One of the old sailors who had crossed with Mr. Linden long ago, sent by Pet's hands a stuffed tropical bird of gorgeous colours; a woman who had once been upper servant in his mother's house, sent by the same messenger a white toilet cushion, made exactly after one that had belonged to her mistress and which she had been allowed to keep. It was worth while to see Mr. Linden examine these things,—every name was familiar to him, every one called up some story or recollection. Alternating with these, came richer presents,—books and vases and silver; then from the poor people in and about Pattaquasset, a couple of corn husk mats, a nest of osier baskets. The children brought wild flowers and wild strawberries, the fishermen brought fish, till Mrs. Derrick said, "Child, we might as well begin to lay down for winter!"

Ency Stephens, having got Reuben to bring her two fine long razor shells, had transformed them into a pincushion. This she sent, with a kiss, by Mr. Linden.

"I half promised her that she might come before the rest of the world to-morrow, Faith," he said. "She never saw any one married, and has the greatest desire to see you—and I said if you were willing, Reuben should bring her here at one o'clock." Faith was just then exploring the contents of a new package—or rather two: one of as many spools of white thread as she had scholars in her little class, (presented by Robbie Waters,) the other a wee far-sent carved box of curled maple. She looked up with wet eyes.

"Oh let her come, Endecott—I should like to have her here."

Faith had been living in a strange atmosphere this week. The first presents that came simply pleased and amused her to a great degree; Judge Harrison's and his daughter's she saw with a strong admixture of painful feeling. But as tokens from rich and poor began to throng in—not of respect for her wedding-day so much as of respect and love for Mr. Linden,—Faith's mood grew very tender and touched. Never perhaps, since the world stood, did anybody receive wedding presents from friends known and unknown with a more gentle and humble heart-return to the senders. There was no least thing of them all that Faith did not dearly value; it told her of something so much better than the gifts, and it signified of a link that bound her with that. How beautiful to her eyes the meanest of all those trifles did seem! and for the rest, she was as quick to be delighted with what was really beautiful and glad of what would be really useful, as any sensible child could have been. So the amusement with which the week began changed into a grave, loving, and somewhat timid appreciation of each new arrival.

Meanwhile, on Faith's table stood a little silver saucepan sent by Mrs. Somers with the sage remark that she would want it for others if not for herself; and near by, a beautiful butter cup and knife from Mrs. Stoutenburgh. With the butter cup trotted down a little mountain pony, with the daintiest saddle and bridle that the Squire could find for money.

Miss Linden's love had chosen for itself sundry channels; from the silver knives—of all sorts—which made their appearance now, to various comforts, great and small, which were to await her brother and sister in their new home. In those Mrs. Iredell too had a share; her present token was a silver tea-service, whereon the chasing developed itself in sprays of mignonette. A mark of attention which Mr. Linden at least appreciated.

CHAPTER XLIII

It was very early indeed in the still sweet morning of Thursday, when Faith threw open the windows and blinds of the sitting-room. No one was abroad, and not even a wind moving. The leaves of the trees hung motionless; except where a bird stirred them; the dawn was growing slowly into day; sweet odours called forth by the dew, floated up to the windows, and the twitter and song of the birds floated in. The freshness and stillness and calmness of all the earth was most sweet. Faith could not read; she knelt upon a low cushion at the open window and leaned her arms upon the sill to look out, and breathe, and think and pray. The morning was not unlike her. She was as fresh, and as grave, and as still; and there was a little flutter now and then too in her heart, that went with nothing worse than the song of the birds, though it stirred something more than the leaves of the branches. So Mr. Linden found her.

So she met them all at breakfast, with the same unready eyes and lips that Mr. Linden had seen before. It was odd how Faith seemed to have put off the full realization of Thursday till Thursday came. After breakfast she was making her escape, but was detained before she reached the staircase. What it was that Mr. Linden fastened in her dress, Faith could not have told; neither did his words tell her.

"You must not think me extravagant, Mignonette,—these are some old gems of mine which I want you to wear in this form." He gave her one grave kiss and let her go. Faith sped up stairs; and with a fluttering heart went to see what Mr. Linden had done.—Yes, they were gems,—clear, steadfast, as the eternal truth which they signified, the blue sapphires shone upon Faith's white dress.

Faith was alone; and she sat before the glass an odd long while, studying the brooch where Mr. Linden had placed it. Her head upon her hand, and with much the same sort of face with which she used long ago to study Pet's letters, or some lesson that Pet's brother had set her. From the sapphires Faith turned to her Bible. She was not, or would not be interrupted, till it was time to attend to business.

The first business was presented for her attention by Miss Linden, who came in, basket in hand. There was no need to ask what it was, such a breath of orange flowers and roses filled the room. She found Faith ready; her hair dressed as it always was; her mind too, to judge by appearances. Only Faith was a little more quiet than usual. With the very quietness of love and sympathy, Pet did her part; with the swiftest fingers, the most noiseless steps. Silent as Mrs. Derrick or Faith herself, only a sparkle of the eyes, a pretty flush on the cheeks, said that she viewed the matter from a greater distance. And yet hardly that, so far as one of the parties was concerned. Never putting her hand forward where Mrs. Derrick's liked to be, it was most efficient in other places. Both used their skill to put the soft muslin safely over Faith's smooth hair, but then Mrs. Derrick was left to fasten and adjust it—Pet applied herself to adjusting the flowers. How dainty they were: those tiny bunches! sprays of myrtle and orange flowers, or a white rose-bud and a more trailing stem of ivy geranium; the breast-knot just touched with purple heliotrope and one blush rose. Kneeling at her feet to put on the rosetted slippers, Pet looked up at her new sister with all her heart in her eyes. And Faith looked down at her—like a child.

She had been dressed in Pet's room—her own, as being larger and more commodious than the one where Faith had stowed herself lately; and when the dressing was done she sat down by the open window, and with the odd capriciousness of the mind at certain times, thought of the day when Mr. Linden had thrown her up the cowslip ball,—and in the same breath wondered who was going to take her down stairs!

But she sat quiet, looking as fair in her soft robe with its orange flowers as if they and she had been made for each other. Faith's hair, in its rich colour, was only dark enough to set off the tender tints of her flowers and dress; it wanted neither veil nor adornment. The very outlines of her figure betokened, as outlines are somewhat apt to do, the spirit within; without a harsh angle or line. And nothing could be too soft, or strong, or pure, to go with those eyes. She sat looking out into the orchard, where now the noonday of summer held its still reign—nothing there but the grass and the trees and the insects. The cowslips were gone; and Mr. Linden–

Pet finished all that had been left unfinished of her own dress, then in her rose-coloured summer silk, white gloves in her hand, white flowers on her breast, she came and stood by Faith. Mrs. Derrick had gone down stairs. It was close upon one o'clock now; the shadows were losing their directness and taking a slant line, the labourers were coming back to their work, standing about and taking off their coats, waiting for the clock to strike. Miss Linden stood drawing on her gloves. Faith gave her one swift glance, which rested for a second on her face with a look of loving gratitude. A flush rose to her cheek, as if it might have been the reflection of Miss Linden's dress; but it was not that, for it paled again.

One o'clock!

It would have seemed a less weird sort of thing if the clock had made a little more fuss,—twelve strokes, or even eleven, would have been something tangible; but that one clang—scarce heard before it was gone, dying away on the June breeze,—what a point of time it seemed! The waves of air were but just at rest, when Mrs. Derrick opened the door and came in; her black dress and white cap setting off a face and demeanour which, with all their wonted sweet placidness, and amid all the tender influences of the day, kept too their wonted energy.

"Come, pretty child!" she said.

Faith was ready, and followed her mother without a question. In the hall Mr. Linden stood waiting for her, and she was given into his care; though again Faith lost the look which passed between the two,—she saw only the startling white of Mr. Linden's gloves. He handed her down stairs, then gave her his arm and took her in; Mrs. Derrick going first, and Pet following.

There were but six or eight people there. On one side sat Mrs. Iredell in her rich dress; the rest were standing, except little Ency Stephens, who was in one of her perched-up positions by the window. Mr. Somers was lingering about his position, his wife and Mr. and Mrs. Stoutenburgh were opposite to Mrs. Iredell. Reuben Taylor furthest back of all, in the shadow of Ency's window. Her little cry was the only sound as they came in, and that hardly louder than a sigh of delight.

Faith did not hear it nor look at anybody. Yet she did not look dismayed at all nor abashed. A piece of very timid gravity the person nearest her knew her to be; but hardly any person further off. A very lovely mingling of shy dignity and humility was in her face and air as she stood before Mr. Somers; those who saw it never forgot.

Except I must that same Mr. Somers! He saw only a pretty bride, whose orange flowers and roses were very sweet. He had seen many pretty brides before, and orange flowers were not new to him. And he pronounced his part of the service which followed, with gratification, certainly. Mr. Somers was always gracious, and to-day he was admiring; but yet with no more sense of what he was about than when a hundred times before he had pronounced it for—very different people!