Читать книгу Say and Seal - Warner Susan - Страница 18

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The evening was very still. A little too cool for insect voices, a little too late in the season for night birds, the soft dropping of the yellow leaves scarce stirred those already fallen. Few sounds came from the houses; for all Pattaquasset had been out, and that portion which had got home was tired and thinking of bed, while the few stragglers yet abroad were far from the late scene of action, on their lonely homeward roads. Squire Deacon, with Joe for a thorn in his side, was opening his own door for Miss Cecilia, and Miss Bethia Bezac, at 'the other side of creation,' mused over the possibility of again (without eyes) embroidering waistcoats. Thus when the clock struck eight, the earth seemed asleep and the stars at watch over it.

At about that point of time, Sam Stoutenburgh and his fair companion were near the parting gate; and Sam, not supposing himself within range of other eyes, had bent down over Faith's glove in a very demonstrative manner; and she would certainly have received an unwonted proof of his devotion, if Mr. Linden—who had in truth been all the time not very far off—had not just then been very near.

"Take care, Sam—" he said—"you are exceeding directions." A remark which sent Sam through the gate with more haste than coolness, while Mr. Linden stepped forward into his place.

"Your mother rode home with Mrs. Somers, Miss Faith, and this little shawl was requested to walk home with you," he said, wrapping it round her; for which he received a quiet little "Thank you." He put her hand on his arm, and once past the gate walked very slowly; moderating his steps to hers, and taking the most leisurely pace; perhaps to give her the full sedative effect of the night. Those faint breaths of air, that soft hush of everything, that clear starry sky—so high, so still—there was balm in them all.

And for a while Mr. Linden let them do their work alone—then he spoke.

"One of my scholars is very tired to night. I'm afraid I have done wrong in letting her walk home."

"O no!" said Faith with a little start—"I like to walk very much, Mr. Linden; it's very pleasant.—And I am not tired," she added in a soft quiet voice.

"What is the difference between being tired, and being in want of rest?"

She looked at him again, and her words did not come at once.

"I suppose the difference is, that in one case you can get what you want—and in the other, you have to wait for it."

"Till when?"

She laughed, somewhat uneasily, and asked him what he meant.

"I hardly know how to make my question plainer, Miss Faith. I suppose I am of an impatient disposition, but the idea of waiting an indefinite time for rest is not pleasant to me."

"But can you always get it as soon as you would like to have it?"—Faith asked with a kind of timid doubt, as not knowing but his power might extend so far.

"Why not?—seeing rest is like some sweet wind, which cannot blow its soft gale till there is a clear space for it, why should it linger when the space is clear?—why not rest when we are weary?"

"But can you always get the clear space for it?" Faith asked, looking at him wonderingly.

He smiled.

"I am talking of what may be done, Miss Faith—not of what I do. But I wish you would let me try my powers for you to-night. How comes there to be a demand?—how comes there not to be a supply?"

"Of rest?" said Faith. "Oh there is! At least," she added reluctantly—"there will be. There is now, Mr. Linden."

"Equal to the demand?"

"Why do you ask me?" she said, a little troubled.

"I believe I have a bad habit of asking questions," said Mr. Linden—and his tone was apologetic in its very gentleness, "It is partly my fault and partly Pet's."

"Partly whose? Mr. Linden," said Faith. "I don't think it's a bad habit. Whose fault, did you say?"

"Pet's—my sister's—into whose company I hope to send you soon again."

"Oh—I mustn't thank you!"—Faith said, beginning and stopping herself somewhat comically.

"I don't know whether you will thank me for taking you past your own gate, which I was about to do," said Mr. Linden. "And I don't know whether the social and astronomical days ought to agree—but Hesperus set some time ago."

"I don't understand, Mr. Linden—" said Faith pausing.

"You must not expect to understand all astronomical things till you have studied astronomy," he said with a smile. "The practical application of my words is to sleep—

'That knits up the ravelled sleeve of care;

Worn labour's bath; balm of hurt minds.'"—

With which soporific potion he bade her goodnight; and Faith went to her room marvelling what could have put into Mr. Linden's head just those particular words; and whether he had a quality of vision that could see through flesh and blood; and a little in doubt whether or not in the circumstances to find the words or the surmise 'balmy.' But if she wanted rest that night, or seemed to have wanted it, she had found it the next day, for she was all like herself. To speak with her own scrupulosity, there was perhaps just a shade of quieter gravity on her face and touching her smile, than there had been the day before. And that shade she kept.

It is a notable fact, that when Pleasure with her wand has roused into lively motion the waters of some mortal lake, she straightway departs; taking with her the sparkles, the dancing foam, and leaving the disturbed waves to deposit at their leisure the sediment which she has stirred up. Withered leaves flung upon the bank, a spot here and there of discoloured froth—these are what remain. Thus in the quiet nooks and corners of Pattaquasset were trophies not too bright of the celebration. Thus did Pattaquasset people behold some of the hidden evil in their neighbours, and likewise in themselves. The boys indeed maintained their serenity and kept Pleasure with them but in other quarters there were some heartburnings—most of all at Squire Deacon's. Relieved at first by the idea of a new rival—then by some intuitive belief thrown off that ground of comfort; the Squire was much in the condition of the man who wanted to commit an assault upon every small boy he met—for boys were to him representatives. But deprived by law of this manly way of expressing his feelings, the Squire sought some other. For the boys, they laughed at him—and at pretty much everything else; and having as I said managed to keep Pleasure with them, the faces that greeted Mr. Linden on Friday morning were unusually bright.

Yet there were one or two exceptions. Sam Stoutenburgh was a little shamefaced in broad daylight—a little afraid of being laughed at; and Reuben Taylor, the head of the blue ribbands, was under a very unwonted cloud. It even seemed as if the day (no thanks to Pleasure) had done some work for Mr. Linden: perhaps he was considering how long he should be within reach of such ceremonies; or (perhaps) how soon he could be willing to put himself out of reach. And when he came home in the afternoon, it was with the slow, meditative step which reminded Faith of his first week in Pattaquasset.

"You are tired now, Mr. Linden," she said with a smile, but the burden of her remark in her eyes, as she met him in the porch.

"Boys are an extraordinary commodity to deal with!" he said looking at her, but answering the smile too. "I think you are bewitching all mine by degrees. Why cannot you confine your conjurations to the black cats of the neighbourhood?—like some of the real, respectable Puritan witches?"

Faith blushed very much at the beginning of this speech, and laughed at the last.

"What have I done, Mr. Linden? there are no black cats in the neighbourhood."

"Is that it?" said Mr. Linden—"I shall have to import a few. You give me a great deal of trouble, Miss Faith."

"I, Mr. Linden? I am very sorry! What have I done?"

"I don't know!—or at least but partially. There is Sam Stoutenburgh, making as much ado over his lessons as if his wits had forsaken him—which perhaps they have. There is Reuben Taylor—I don't know what is the matter with Reuben," he said, his tone changing, "but his last words to me were a very earnest entreaty that I would persuade you to see him for five minutes; and when I wanted to know why he did not prefer his own request, all I could get was that he was not sure you would let him. Which gave me very little clue to the sorrowful face he has worn all day."

Once more, and this time with the keen tinge of pain, the blood rushed in a flood to Faith's cheek and brow; and for a second she put her hands to her face as if she would hide it. But she put them down and looked up frankly to Mr. Linden.

"I am sure Reuben Taylor has done no wrong!" she said. "You may tell him so, Mr. Linden."

"Wrong!" he said—"to you?"—and the tone was one Faith did not know. Then with a manner that was like enough to the flinging of the little stone into Kildeer river, he added, "Yes, I will tell him. Miss Faith, I shall be down again directly, and then will you let me see that book?" And he passed on upstairs.

The book was on the table in the parlour when he came down, but Faith met him standing. With a little timid anxiousness, she said,

"I have done wrong now. Mr. Linden, I said I was sure Reuben had not done any, and you will not speak to him as if he had? Please don't speak to him at all—I will see him myself."

The answering smile broke through some little cloud of feeling, in spite of him.

"You need not fear," he said—"I know Reuben Taylor. But you have got something else to think of just now." Then placing a chair for her at the table, Mr. Linden took up the little book and began his work of examination. And perhaps it is not too much to say that even Dr. Harrison might have learned somewhat from the way it was carried on. A skilful and kind way of finding out what she did not know, from what she did; initiation and examining so carried on together that Faith found herself knowing where she thought she was ignorant—more still, perhaps, a kind of separate decision what she ought to learn, and how; which saved her the trouble of acknowledging and confessing; and all as gently done as if he had been dealing with some delicate winged creature, whose downy plumage would come off with a touch—such was the threatened examination. She might flutter a little under his hand, but the soft wings were unhurt.

"Tell me first, Miss Faith," he said turning over the leaves, "what you have been doing here by yourself."

"I have been all through it," she said; 'fluttering' sure enough, yet as much with pleasure as with timidity; not at all with fear.

"Will you work these out for me—" and he gave her half a dozen different tests on a bit of paper.

She coloured, and he could see her hand tremble; but she was not long doing them, and she did them well, and gave them back without a word and without raising her eyes.

"Well," said Mr. Linden, smiling a little as he looked at the paper, "if it takes half an hour to hear Charles twelfth his lesson, and Johnny gives you but one quarter the trouble, and Rob Waters about twice as much as Johnny, how much time will you spend upon them all?"

"It will be about an hour—wanting an eighth," she said without raising her eyes, but with a bit of a smile too.

"I hear you and Johnny have arranged preliminaries, Miss Faith."

"Yes," said Faith looking up brightly, "he came to shew me his ribband and to tell me last night. But I was almost sorry, Mr. Linden—that you should send him away from you."

"For Johnny's sake, or my own?"

"For his sake—certainly."

"You need not speak so assuredly—there were two parties to the question—besides you. But I have him still, you know, in a way. What has been in hand since this little book was finished?"

"Nothing—except the Philosophe—and—"

"Well?—isn't that blank to be filled up?"

"And Shakspeare," said Faith casting down her eyes.

"I cannot let you confine yourself to the study of human nature," said Mr. Linden—"that will never do. Charles twelfth and Shakspeare want ground to stand upon. Did you ever read anything of Physical Geography?"

She shook her head. "I don't know what that is, Mr. Linden."

"Then I will have the pleasure of introducing you. Ordinary geography is but a shell without it. And if we accidentally go deeper down than the stratum of geography, I will try and bring you back safe. But Miss Faith, you have not done with this book yet—the subject-matter of it. I want you to carry that further."

"Well," she said smiling—"I like it. I am ready. What comes next, Mr. Linden?"

"Did you pay any attention to the algebra part of the examination yesterday?"

"Yes, I believe so. I paid attention to it all—I didn't understand what some of it was about, but I believe I know what you mean."

"How should you like to work with letters and signs instead of figures? By the way, Miss Faith, your sevens are too much like your nines, and if you drew a check for $500 with that five, you might find yourself paying out $800."

She coloured again, but bowed her head in assent, quite ignoring in her interest in the subject the extravagance of the supposition by which he illustrated it.

"You shall not say that again, Mr. Linden."

"Don't pledge yourself for me," he said smiling—"I am a lawless kind of person, as perhaps you have found out. But if I were to spend one minute well on the first day of the year, and each succeeding day add to my well-spent minutes so many more as the year was days old—how much of December would be well spent?"

But Faith could not tell.

"You see what is before you—" Mr. Linden said; "you must work that out, Miss Faith, in more ways than one. Well tell me this—Which is nearest to us now—my sister Pet or the Khan of Tartary—supposing her in Rome and him in his own dominions?"

Faith coloured again, a good deal, and with some sorrow.

"I am glad you asked me," she said;—"I want you should know it—but I don't know anything about that, Mr. Linden. I know a little, of course," she said correcting herself, "but I couldn't answer you."

"But why can't you understand," he said looking at her, "that I am just some old, torn, dog-eared book of questions that you are looking into for the first time? I don't like to be made to feel like a bran new schoolbook."

Faith looked at him, and probably the words "old, torn, and dog-eared" made a peculiar contrast, for her eye flashed and in spite of everything she laughed, her musical little laugh.

"That sounds reasonable," said Mr. Linden. "I like to be laughed at. But Miss Faith—just suppose for a moment that there were tears in your eyes—what could keep them from falling?"

Faith's eyes opened and she took a little time to consider this proposition.

"If I were very determined, I think I could do it," she said.

"Suppose they got so far as the tip ends of your eye lashes?" he said, with a little play of the lips.

"They must come down, I am afraid," said Faith looking and wondering.

"But why?"

"Because my determination couldn't reach them there, I suppose," she said in unmitigated wonder. "There would be nothing to keep them up."

"Unphilosophic!" he said gravely—"I shall have to teach you both why your tears fall, and why they don't."

She smiled, as very willing to be taught, but with a face that looked as if it had had few to experiment upon either way.

"I will try and not tire you out," Mr. Linden said, "but different things go on pleasantly together. Some I should like to have you study for me when I am away, some directly with me. And—"

"And what, sir?" she said with the gentle intonation of one to whose ear every word is pleasant.

"How much time have you in the course of the day that can and ought to be spent upon all these matters—without disturbing Shakspeare and his companions?"

"I will make time, Mr. Linden, if I don't find it. I have a good deal. You won't tire me."

"You must not make time out of strength. Will you write me a French exercise every day, among other things? Yes Cindy," he said—"I understand,"—apparently quite aware that Faith did not.

"I will try," said Faith, with a colour again that was not of French growth.

"Well baint you comin'?" said Cindy, who stood still as if she liked the prospect before her.

"Yes, but I can find my own way," said Mr. Linden; at which gentle hint Cindy vanished. And Faith sprang up.

"Teaching all day," she said, "and no tea either!"—And she was about to run off, then paused to say,

"That is all, Mr. Linden?—do you want to say anything more?"

"It was not tea, Miss Faith—Reuben is at the door. Will you see him? Shall I bring him here or will you go there?"

"I will go there," said Faith hurriedly. But Mr. Linden followed her.

"Reuben," he said, "Miss Faith will hear you—and I am ready to answer for your word with my own;"—then he went back into the sitting room and closed the door.

But those words seemed to touch at least one sore spot in the boy's heart—he had to struggle with himself a moment before he could speak. Then it was low and humbly.

"Miss Faith—I don't know just what Phil has said about me—I can't find out. But whatever it is there isn't one word of it true. I never said one word about you, Miss Faith, that I wouldn't say to you, just the same!" And Reuben looked as if he would have confronted the whole world on that point.

"I am quite sure of it, Reuben," Faith said very gently. "I didn't need you to come and tell me so."

He looked up at her with both gladness and thanks in his eyes.

"I shouldn't have troubled you with my trouble at all, Miss Faith—only he said you were displeased with me—and I was afraid it might be true."

"Who said I was displeased with you?"

An involuntary glance of Reuben's eye towards the closed door, seemed to say he did not want his words to go far.

"Dr. Harrison, Miss Faith. At least I thought he said so."

"Did he speak to you?"

"Yes ma'am—and just pushed my word out of the way when I gave it—said it might be well enough to tell people but he didn't think you liked it. And so I got vexed. I'm so used to Mr. Linden," Reuben said—as if in excuse.

"Are you satisfied now, Reuben?" said Faith, giving him a good look of her eyes.

A little qualified his look was—perhaps because he had been too much troubled to have the traces go off at once; but there was no want of satisfaction in his,

"O yes, Miss Faith—I can't tell you how thankful I am to you!

Goodnight, ma'am."

Faith went back to the parlour. And then Mr. Linden, taking from his pocket a piece of broad dark blue ribband, and laying it lightly round Faith's shoulders, told her gravely, "that she was entitled to wear that for the rest of the evening."

Faith matched the blue with red, and stood eying the ribband which she had caught as it was falling from her shoulders, seeming for a minute as if she had as much as she could bear. Rallying, she looked up at Mr. Linden to get a little more light as to what he expected of her, or what he meant. But unless she could read a decided opinion that the two 'favours' looked better together than separate, his face gave her no information. Then smiling he said,

"I don't mean that you must wear it—merely that you have the right."

Faith gave another glance at his face, and then without more ado tied the blue ribband round her waist, where as she still wore the white dress of yesterday, it shewed to very good advantage. She said nothing more; only as she was quitting the room now in earnest to get tea, gave him an odd, pleasant, half grateful, half grave little smile. Too many things however had been at work to admit of her coming down into quietness immediately. The red left her no more than the blue for the rest of that evening.