But when they began to come in!—and when the bathing dresses were hung on the fence to dry!—and when mermaid visions appeared at the windows!—who shall describe the scene then? Over all, a blue smoke now began to curl and float, rising from the stove-pipe of the eating-house.
Mr. Linden had driven up to one of the fence posts, and fastening his horse stood a while watching the show, till the bathers began to draw in from the water. Then helped the ladies out.
"Which of these baskets contains my tea, Miss Faith?" he said. "I feel a particular interest in that basket."
"Perhaps your tea is in some other basket," said Faith; "but both of these must come into the eating-house. O, thank you, Mr. Linden!"
The eating-house was a long shanty, built for the express purpose of feasting picnic and other parties. At one end of it, within the house, was a well of excellent water; at the other end a door opened into a cooking-house, which held a stove; and through the length of the apartment a narrow table of boards was erected, ready to be covered with any description and any succession of table-cloths. In this room Mr. Linden with Faith's help deposited her baskets; while Miss Danforth looked on. At the door of the shanty coming out they met Mr. Simlins. Faith made the introductions.
"Happy to have your acquaintance," said Mr. Simlins. "This is a piece of Pattaquasset, sir, that we all of us rather cord'ally like. You haven't seen it before?"
"Yes, I don't wonder you like it," said Mr. Linden. "The sea-shore is no novelty to me, sir—such a shore party is."
"I hope you'll enjoy it, as the rest of us do. We all do as we like, Mr. Linden—I hope you'll use the grounds as your own. We have the flag flying, sir, and it ratifies liberty to all who amuse themselves under it."
Mr. Linden looked up at the stars and stripes, with an acknowledging smile for the benefits thereby conferred.
"Faith! Faith Derrick!" called out half a dozen mermaids from the bathing house; and Faith was obliged to go,—while her companions walked up the green slope, and entered into a deep discussion of the crops and the weather.
A while after, when Faith was busy about the supper table—twenty young voices chiming around her, another voice that she did not know spoke close at her elbow.
"Miss Faith—I am Reuben Taylor. Mr. Linden told me to come to you and make myself useful. Is there any thing I can do?—would you like some round clams?—Father's out there in the boat."
The earnest eyes said how gladly he would do 'any thing.'
"Who is your father?" said Faith, a little surprised.
"My father's a fisherman."
"The very thing!" said Faith—"if you'll help me roast 'em, Reuben. I guess nobody else'll want to do it, but I'd just as lieve. Can you have 'em here quickly? and I'll see and have the stove ready."
"O I'll fetch 'em—and roast 'em too, Miss Faith. I'm used to it," he added, with a half bashful half admiring glance at her face.
Faith had the fire ready by the time Reuben returned with the clams. The kettle was on to boil, and nothing else was wanted of the fire, as it happened, by anybody; least of all to roast clams, that necessarily making a kitchen prisoner of the roaster; so Faith and her new coadjutor had the field—i.e. the cooking house—all to themselves. Miss Danforth was to leave Pattaquasset in a day or two, and was busy talking to everybody. Readily the clams opened their shells on the hot stove-top; savourily the odour of steaming clam juice spread itself abroad; but Faith and Reuben were 'in' for it, and nobody else cared to be in.
So when Miss Cecilia Deacon had finished her toilet, which was somewhat of the longest, as it had been one of the latest, she found nobody but her brother to apply to on the score of her hostess duties.
"Sam!" said the young lady pinching her brother's arm,—"I haven't been introduced to Mr. Linden."
"He'll keep," was the encouraging reply.
"Yes, but supper won't. See, Sam!—I haven't been introduced to him, and Imust."
The Squire nodded his head politely, and began to whistle.
"Come!—you Sam—you've got to, and in a hurry. I can't find Faith, orI'd make her."
"Well—I can't find him," said the Squire pettishly. "I haven't got neither of 'em in my pocket—nor the crown of my hat," he added, taking off that useful article of dress for the express purpose of looking into it. "My deliberate judgment is to have supper."
"Don't be a goose, Sam! What's the use of asking him, if you didn't mean to conduct yourself?"
"Didn't ask him."
"Who did?"
"Ididn't hear anybody," was the Squire's reply.
"Don'tyou mean to introduce me, Sam Deacon?" said his sister in a tone which was rather over the verge of patience.
"Jem Williams!" said the Squire, calling up a spruce embodiment of blue cloth, brass buttons, and pink cravat,—"I say! here's Cilly off the hooks to get hold of the new teacher. Whereabouts do you s'pose he is?"
"Really Squire!" said Jem Williams, with a silly little laugh, "I couldn't testify! Reckon he knows Miss Cilly 'd keep hold on himefshe got a chance!"
"Sha'n't speak to you in a month, Jem!" said the lady with a toss of her head and some heightening of the really pretty colour in her cheeks. "You may fix it as you've a mind to, among you, and let anybody that likes bring him in to supper!I'mgoing in, out of the way, myself."
Whither she went, on the spur, as good as her word; nor shewed her pretty face again outside.
Meanwhile Reuben and Faith had worked on through their basket of clams, and now the last were sputtering on the stove. The work had been done almost in silence, for though the excitement now and then made Reuben break into a low whistle of some tune or other, he always checked himself the next moment with a very apologetic look. For the rest, if he had not done all the work himself, it certainly was not his fault. Now, watching quietly the opening shells of that last dozen of clams, Reuben remarked,
"IhopeMr. Linden won't forget about supper!"
"Why what about it?" said Faith. "Why should he forget? or what if he does?"
The last sentence seemed to puzzle Reuben.
"I don't know, ma'am," he said,—"it's better before everybody eats it up."
"Who's going to eat it up?" said Faith. "Where is he?"
"He went down on the sands with me," said Reuben, "but he didn't come up again. Maybe he has now. He liked it down there, real well."
Faith went to the shutter window and flung it open, and looked to see whether or no the missing gentleman had returned to the shore. It was a fair view that lay spread before her. The low beams of the sun gave a cool afternoon look to everything; the sloop sails shone and gleamed in the distance; down by the muscle rocks one little boat lay rocking on the advancing tide, which was fast covering the sand banks and connecting the strips of water; and the freshening breeze curled the little waves as they came dancing in, and brought a low sweet murmur to the shore. One or two gulls sailed floatingly about, and a brown mink—perceiving that the company had retreated to higher ground—came out and aired himself on one of the rocks.
But Faith saw none of these things,—for in swinging open her shutter (which the wind caught and clapped up against the house) she so nearly swung it against Mr. Linden that her first look was a startled one.
"Miss Faith!" he said, turning round, "what can you possibly be about!"
"I beg your pardon, Mr. Linden!"—said Faith.
"Is that all you are about?"
"You were anxious about your supper, Mr. Linden—Are you ready for it?"
"Much more ready than anxious, Miss Faith."
"How do you like the shore to-day?" said Faith, dropping her voice, and giving a glance of her eye to the fair, cool sunlight colours on the water and shore and shipping—fresh as the very sea-breeze itself, and glittering as the water's thousand mirrors could make them.
He turned and looked again, drawing in the breeze with a deep breath that more than answered her question.
"How do you like this?" he said, handing her through the window a little miniature tree of red sea-weed. Then, while she examined it, he repeated,—
"'When descends on the AtlanticThe giganticStorm-wind of the equinox,Landward in his wrath he scourgesThe toiling surges,Laden with sea-weed from the rocks;
"'From Bermuda's reefs; from edgesOf sunken ledges,In some far-off, bright Azore;From Bahama, and the dashing,Silver-flashingSurges of San Salvador;
"'From the tumbling surf that buriesThe Orkneyan skerries,Answering the hoarse Hebrides;And from wrecks of ships, and driftingSpars, upliftingOn the desolate, rainy seas;—
"'Ever drifting, drifting, driftingOn the shiftingCurrents of the restless main;Till in shelter d coves, and reachesOf sandy beaches,All have found repose again.'"
Faith's eye was upon the sprig of sea-weed while these verses were repeating,—then she looked up at the speaker with an intenseness in which oddly mingled some strong feeling of sorrow or regret.
"It's beautiful!"—she said,—"beautiful!—both the one and the other.But there are a great many things there I don't understand,"—she addedonce more with a smile. "If there was time—but there isn't.—Mr.Linden, Reuben and I have been roasting clams."
"Yes, Miss Faith," he said answering the smile and stepping nearer the window. "So one of my senses informed me. Do you know what that is in your hand?"
"It's sea-weed, isn't it?"
"Yes. And moreover—Miss Faith, that is part of your marine Flora. Now what about the clams?"
"Mywhat?" said Faith. "First tell me, please, what you said."
"Your marine Flora."
"What is that?"
"The particular department of life in the sea, of which this is a specimen."
Faith looked puzzled, and amused.
"You don't mean to enlighten me more than you can help," she said. "But why do you call it Flora? you used that word before. And oh Mr. Linden—You can't tell me now, for supper's all ready."
His eyes looked amused too, and laying a clover head on the window, he said,
"That is part of your land Flora,"—then pushed the shutter to rather quick, but softly; and Faith heard the reason thereof as follows.
"Wal sir—ef this be you, I've looked all over for you."
"How was it that you overlooked me then, sir?" was Mr. Linden's reply.
"Don't jes know," laughed Jem Williams,—"but Miss Cilly Deacon wants you the worst kind."
"And where shall I go to receive her commands?" said Mr. Linden.
Faith heard their retreating steps, and turning to take off her apron saw the dish of hot clams still on the stove, and that Reuben had removed himself outside the door, quite beyond the conversation but not beyond call. He stood looking thoughtfully out towards the muscle rocks.
"Oh Reuben! there you are. Come!" said Faith; "you're going in with me.You're going to have some supper to-night, whoever else does. You open the door, and I'll take in this dish. You keep by me, Reuben."
"Please let me take the dish, then, Miss Faith,—I can open the door first."
But Faith had her own way, and followed by Reuben carried the clams into the supper room, where some of the company were already seated, and others stood waiting. Squire Deacon had not only given the desired introduction, but had (self-denyingly) placed Mr. Linden next Miss Cilly at the table,—where he stood.
"Here's a contribution," said Faith,—"if somebody 'll make a place for it. Thank you, Mr. Deacon. Now Reuben,—come here."
And refusing more than one offer of a place at the table, Faith made her way down to the 'well end' where there was room for two—at a remote distance from the tea and coffee.
What else was there not, upon that table!
"Won't you take a seat, Mr. Linden?" said Miss Cecilia. "I hope you've got room there. Jerushy, can't you shove down a little? I hope my coffee-pot's not disagreeable."
"I hope not!" said Mr. Linden, surveying the coffee-pot. "How long does it take to declare itself, Miss Deacon?"
"O it won't do anything, but spout coffee," said the young lady,—"if you don't mind that. Won't you be helped to what you like, Mr. Linden? I hope you have enjoyed our shore party this afternoon."
"Thank you"—said Mr. Linden, feeling perhaps that it was nottheirparty he had enjoyed,—"there has been a combination of pleasant things. As far as I could judge the bathers enjoyed their particular expedition."
"O yes, it was delightful—invigorating. Mr. Simlins, I think Mr. Linden will like a piece of that cherry-pie with his clams. Do you take cheese, Mr. Linden? Is your coffee agreeable? There is the cold tongue by you, Jerushy.—I hope you like Pattaquasset."
"Ask Mr Linden whether Pattaquasset ain't a good place for handsome gals," said Mr. Simlins, as he handed over the piece of cherry-pie. "He knows by this time. I say there's a con-catenation of beauty now here this afternoon. If you look from the top to the bottom of the table, now, ain't it true, sir?"
Mr. Linden certainly looked from the top to the bottom of the table, and then setting the plate of cherry-pie as far from his clams as he could, he said,
"Miss Deacon—let me help you,—tell me where these cups belong, and I will convey them to their destination."
"I thought they'd shove down somehow," said the young lady. "Jerushy,dopass the coffee! They're for anybody down there who'll take coffee. Tea'll be along presently," added Miss Cecilia, raising her voice a little to give the information. "Don't you trouble yourself, Mr. Linden."
But Mr. Linden secured one, and carrying it down to Faith, requested her to stir it and taste it, and not give him the trouble of coming back with the sugar-bowl.
"What will you have?" he said while she obeyed his directions. "Here are all the pies that can be thought of except the musical one recorded in history."
"And so," said Faith with a laughing flash of her usually soft eye, "you immediately give me a desire for the one not here! It's like you, Mr. Linden. No, thank you—I'll have none of these. I believe Reuben has a desire for some of the clams he and I have roasted."
"I'm afraid I cannot get them away from Squire Deacon!" he said, "butI'll try."
The Squire however held fast to the dish, and rising from his place midway at the table, insisted upon taking it to Faith himself.
"Miss Faith," he said, "you have ruined my supper by sitting down here. My appetite has quite forsaken me," (whereupon Jem Williams observed, "that warn't strange.")—"and the worst is," added the Squire, "I can't maintain the constant supervision of your plate which my feelings prompt. I am too far off"—he concluded in a melancholy tone.
"I say, Squire!" said Jem Williams, "you bain'tmor'n as far agin ashe"—with a nod towards the upper end of the table.
Squire Deacon lowered, but for the present his feelings were restrained.
"Mr. Simlins," said Endecott, when he had resumed his seat, "I ask you—as one who knows the country—whereabouts does the concatenation you spoke of reach a climax?"
"The star you look at is always the brightest," said the farmer. "However, I think the clams is the best thing at table—ornearthe best," with a slight glance towards Squire Deacon and the dish at the 'well end.'"I've a legendary attachment to beauty, sir; my father married the three prettiest wives in the country."
"I say, Squire," said Jem Williams, "Mr. Simlins says you'r' hot."
"Hot?" said Squire Deacon, flushing up very much, and setting down the clams,—"that dish is.I'm as cool as all these cucumbers accumulated into a heap."
"Hope you'll stay where you are, then," said Mr. Simlins. "I'm cool too. Don't come near me, or we shall be in a state of concentration."
Mr. Linden remarked that that was an excellent point when reached.
"What point?" said Squire Deacon, who had returned to his seat with the strong impression that everybody was laughing at him, under the special guidance of the new teacher. "You know mighty little of the points round here, I tellyou."
"The point of concentration is found in various places, sir," said Mr.Linden: "though I grant you it is rare."
"What do you know about Pattaquasset points?" repeated the Squire,—"orPattaquasset people—or Pattaquasset water either, for that matter?Just you go down here when the tide's in—and afore you know where youare you'll find yourself wading round over your head."
"No sir—never," said Mr. Linden with great assurance.
"Why not? how're you goin' to help it?" said Squire Deacon.
"When I reachthatpoint," said Mr. Linden, "I shall swim."
And Faith heard Reuben Taylor's smothered laugh of great gratification.
"Hope you haven't spoiled your own supper, Squire," said Mr. Simlins, "by your complacency in carrying about them hot clams. Have somethin' this way?"
While this question was getting its answer, Faith sat back in her chair and looked up and down the length of the table. It presented a distinguished 'after-supper' view, but the demands of the company had not yet ceased. Mr. Simlins was still discussing cheese and politics; Jem Williams was deep in cherry pie; plum cake was not out of favour with the ladies. The Squire was hard at work athissupper, which had been diversely and wickedly interrupted. He was making up for lost time now; while his sister, much disengaged, was bending her questions and smiles on Mr. Linden. Faith tried to see Mr. Linden, but she couldn't; he was leaning back from the table; and her eyes went out of doors. It was too fair and sweet there to be cooped up from it. The sun had just set. Faith could not see the water; the windows of the eating house looked landward; but the air which came in at them said where it had come from, and breathed the salt freshness of the sea into her face.
But presently every chair was pushed back. And now there was no more silence nor quiet The busy swarm poured out of the supper room; the men to lounge or tackle their horses, the women to gather up the bathing dresses from the fence, to look round, laugh, and go in again to pack up the dishes. It would seem that this last might be a work of time, each had to find her own through such a maze of confusion. There was a spoon of Miss Cecilia's providing, in a cup of Mrs. Derrick's, beside a plate of Mrs. David's, and before a half-eaten cherry pie which had been compounded in the distant home and by the fair fingers of Miss Jerusha Fax. However, most people know their own at least; and as on the present occasion nobody had any particular desire to meddle with what was not her own, the difficulty was got through with. The baskets and hampers were packed again and stowed in their respective wagons; and everybody was bidding good bye to everybody. Noisy thanks and praises fell liberally to the share of Miss Cecilia and her brother, and the afternoon was declared to have been "splendid."
For some weeks the little town of Pattaquasset held on its peaceful way as usual. Early summer passed into harvest, and harvest gave way to the first blush of autumn, and still the Mong flowed quietly along, and the kildeers sang fearlessly. For even tenor and happy spirits, the new teacher and his scholars were not unlike the smooth river and its feathered visiters. Whatever the boys were taught, they certainly learned to be happy; and Mr. Linden's popularity knew no bounds in his own domain. Neither did it end there: those fair members of the Pattaquasset society who thought early walks good for their health, felt their sleepy eyes well paid for keeping open when they met Mr. Linden. Those who were fond of evening expeditions, declared that his figure in the twilight was 'quite a picture,' and made them feel 'so safe,'—a great slander, by the way, on Pattaquasset. Mr. Simlins was his firm friend, and many another—known and unknown. Squire Deacon, I regret to say, was an exception.
Squire Deacon declared (confidentially) that he neverhadthought the new teacher fit for his business,nohow. As far as he could hear, Mr. Linden had never taught school before, and in that case what could you expect? "Moreover," said the Squire, "I am creditably informed, that the first day he kep' schoolhere, he begun by asking the boys who made them!—as ifthathad anything to do with geography. Of course it's nat'ral for a man to ask what he knows he can answer if the boys don't," added Squire Deacon in the way of kind explanation.
Whereupon, Jonathan Fax, the Squire's right hand man, requested to be informed, "whyef a man was poor didn't he dress as though he felt so,—andwhyef he warn't rich did he act as though he war?" And thus by degrees, there was quite an opposition party in Pattaquasset—if that could be opposition which the object of it never opposed. By degrees too, the murmurs became more audible.
"Faith, child," said Mrs. Derrick in a cautions whisper, coining out where Faith sat on the porch, bathed in the late September light: "Faith, child, where's our Linden tree?" (Mrs. Derrick thought she had concealed her meaningnow, if anybody did overhear.)
Faith started, more than so gentle a question seemed to call for.
"He's gone down to the post-office, mother."
Her mother stood still and thought.
"Child," she said, "I never thought we had any fools in our town before."
"I didn't know there were so many," said Faith. "What new, mother?"
"Child," she said, "you know more than I about some things—what do you s'pose foolscando? Isn't he a whole tree of knowledge?"
"There is no fear of him, mother!" Faith said with a smile, which if the subject of it valued any faith in the world but his own it would have gratified him to see. "They can't touch him. They may vex him."
Mrs. Derrick shook her head, softly, behind Faith's chair, then turned and went back into the house; not caring, as it seemed, to spread the vexation. Then after a little interval of bird music, the gate opened to admit Reuben Taylor. He held a bunch of water lilies—drooping their fair heads from his hand; his own head drooped a little too. Then he raised it and came firmly on.
"Is Mr. Linden home, Miss Faith?"
"No, Reuben—He will be directly, I guess. Do you want to see him?"
"No"—said Reuben, "I don' know as I do, more than usual. Ihaveseen him all day. He wanted some pond lilies, Miss Faith—at least he told me to bring 'em. Maybe it was you wanted 'em."
"I'll give them to him, Reuben. What's the matter withyou?"
But Reuben stood silent—perhaps from the difficulty of speaking,
"Miss Faith," he said at last, "is Squire Deacon all the trustees of our school, besides Mr. Somers?"
"No. Why? What about it?"
"He's doin' all the mischief he can," said Reuben concisely.
"What mischief has he done, Reuben?" said Faith, waiting upon the boy's answer with an anxious face.
"Well"—said Reuben, as if he could not put it in plain words,—"he's tryin' to turn folks heads—and some heads is easy turned."
"How did you know this?—and whose head has he turned, Reuben? Not yours?"
"They'd have to turn myheart, Miss Faith," was Reuben's subdued answer. Then he looked up and listened—hearing a step he well knew. Nor that alone, for a few low notes of a sweet hymn tune, seemed to say there were pleasant thoughts within reach of at least one person. Then Reuben broke forth.
"They can't keep him out of heaven, anyway!—nor me, neither," he added softly. But he ran down the steps and out of the gate, passing his teacher with only a bow; and once beyond the fence, Reuben's head dropped in his hands.
"Reuben! I want you!"—said Mr. Linden. But Reuben was out of sight.Faith stood between the house and the gate.
"Where is he? can't you make him hear? I want that boy!" she said.
"I can run after him—— with doubtful success."
"The foolish fellow brought these for you, Mr. Linden," said Faith, giving the lilies where they belonged.
"Complimentary, Miss Faith!" said Mr. Linden, taking the lilies and smelling them gravely.
"Heis," said Faith, "and you speak as ifIwasn't."
"Will it redeem my character—or Reuben's—if I bestow the lilies upon you, Miss Faith? I think that was their destination."
Faith took the lilies back again, with a slight smile and flash, and stood attentively turning them over for a while. Then suddenly said "Thank you."
"What did you want of Reuben Taylor?" said Mr. Linden. "Cannot I do as well?"
"I should be sorry to think you wanted, Mr. Linden, what I wanted to give him."
"That sounds terrific! But Reuben is under my jurisdiction—I don't allow anybody to scold him but myself. So deliver it to me, Miss Faith, and I will give it to him—duly pointed and sharpened up."
"No," said Faith smiling, "you couldn't do it so well as I. I wanted to say two words to him to put nonsense out of his head."
"Nonsense!" said Mr. Linden, looking grave,—"I am as anxious on that point as you can be. What nonsense has he got in his head?"
Faith hesitated, flushed and paled a little, and looked at her lilies.
"I don't know whether I ought to speak of it," she began, with much less than her usual composure of speech. "Perhaps it is not my business. Please forgive me if I speak wrong. But I half think you ought to know it."—
"I'll try to bear the knowledge," he said smiling—"if you will promise to speak the cabalistic two words that were to have such effect upon Reuben. So you want to put nonsense into my head, Miss Faith?"
"Perhaps you know it already?" said Faith. "At any rate I think I should feel better satisfied if you did know it. Mr. Linden," she said speaking low—"do you know that Squire Deacon has been trying to do you mischief?"
"Just suppose for a moment that you are one of my scholars, and give me a definition of mischief."
To judge by the unbent lines of Faith's brow, there was nothing very disagreeable to her in the supposition. Yet she had a look of care for the 'definition,' too.
"When a man is meaning to do harm, isn't he doing mischief?"
"Only to himself."
"But do you mean that onecan'tdo harm to others in this world?"
"You said 'when a man ismeaningto do harm.'"
"Ah," said Faith laughing, "I should want a great deal of teaching before I could give a definition that would suit you! Well then, isn'tharmmischief?"
"I'm afraid I must yield that point."
"Then," said Faith simply, but very modestly,—"we come back to where we started from?"
"What shall we do there?" said he smiling.
"Nothing, perhaps," said Faith with the same simplicity. "I only thought it right to put you there, Mr. Linden."
"Thank you, Miss Faith. Now will you please pronounce over me the two words intended for Reuben?"
Faith laughed a little, but then said gravely, "Mr. Linden, I should be very sorry to think you needed them."
"It's impossible always to avoid being very sorry: Iwantthem, at all events. Haven't you just been putting nonsense into my head?"
"Have I?" said Faith.
"Do you suppose there was any there before?"
"I—don't—think," said Faith, surveying his face,—"there is much there now. I guess you don't need the two words, Mr. Linden. I was going to tell Reuben he was a goose for thinking that that man could hurt you."
His face changed a little.
"Poor Reuben!" he said—then with the former look—"On the whole, perhaps it was well he did not come back. If you put those in water they will open their eyes to-morrow. Fresh water—not salt," he added as he followed her into the house,—"they are not part of the marine Flora."
Tea was ready, with its usual cheer of eatables and pleasant faces; not quite with its usual flow of talk. Mrs. Derrick certainly had something bewildering on her mind, for she even looked at her guest two or three times when he was looking at her. The pond lilies were alone in the twilight parlour.
That was probably the reason why Lucinda introduced Parson Somers into the tea-room, the parson happening to call at this identical time.
Parson Somers was always in a genial state of mind;—always, at least, whenever he came into Mrs. Derrick's parlour; by the testimony of numbers it was the same in many other parlours. He came in so now; gave a smile all round; and took an empty chair and place at the table like one who found it pleasant.
"Well, I declare, Mrs. Derrick," said Mr. Somers when he was seated,—"I don't think there's—a—a more cheerful room in Pattaquasset than this one; why, you always have everything agreeable here. A cup of tea, now—I didn't expect it"
"Why we alwaysdohave tea, Mr. Somers," said Mrs. Derrick, "but it don't seem strong to-night. Lucindy—take the teapot and make some fresh."
"These baked apples are strong—in numbers at least," said Mr. Linden, as he bestowed one upon Mr. Somers.
"Thank you!—it's all strong enough, Mrs. Derrick—thank you!—very good. And Mr. Linden—how are you—a—getting along with your juvenile charge? Confining work, sir,—isn't it?"
"Rather, sir—to the body."
"Not to the mind, eh? Well—I should have thought that to a gentleman like you it would prove—a—moredeleterious to the mental faculties. But I suppose you find yourself rewarded by your pupils' improvement and—regard!"
"Yes sir—their regard is very precious to me," was the quiet reply.
"I should think so! Why there's that boy Reuben Taylor—strange father that boy has—fisherman;—I met that boy this evening, in the street, and he was crying,—down a little below here—he was going home. I asked him—ha—if Mr. Linden had been dealing hardly with him?—and I declare!—I didn't know but Reuben would have attacked me on the spot."
"Has Mr. Linden a character in the village for cruelty?" said Faith.
"I—I declare—not that I know of, Miss Faith. I should think it could not be deserved. That boy's attachment is certainly—ha—very warm. My dear Mrs. Derrick, how well Miss Faith is looking! She always looks well; but to-night—ha—the colour of her cheeks is—to be remarked."
"You will get a character for cruelty, Miss Faith," said Mr. Linden, "if you ask about my character before my face."
Faith looked up as if she would willingly have asked a question; but that being in present circumstances impossible, she merely uttered a quiet little 'no,' and went on with her tea and with a colour still further improved, A quiet little 'yes,' of about equal prominence, did not divert the attention of Mr. Somers from his own remarks.
"It's delightful to see—really," said that gentleman. "But Mr.Linden—ha—I am sorry to find that you haven't the good will of ourneighbour, Squire Deacon. The Squire's a valuable man—very!—theSquire's a valuable man in the town. I am sorry. Do you know, Mr.Linden—ha—how it has happened?"
"Have you asked the Squire himself, sir?" said Mr. Linden.
"Why—no, sir, I haven't. I—ha—wanted to get at the truth of it, that I might, if possible, do something to heal the breach. Now you are doing a valuable work in Pattaquasset, sir—I should be sorry to see it interrupted—very—and I thought the best way would be to try to find out what the matter was, in order if possible to its being removed. And to get at the truth it is often best to hear both sides."
"But I have no side to tell, sir," said Mr. Linden—smiling in spite of himself. "I cannot deny that Squire Deacon seems to withhold his good will—I think it is for him to tell his reasons."
"Then you really have no idea what it can be about? and I may tell him so? Because that would be a great point."
"No sir, you may not tell him that."
"Then youhavean idea what the matter is?" said Mr. Somers eagerly. "Then, sir, if you will be so good as to let me know what it is—I have no doubt—I entertain no doubt—we shall be able to smooth it all away, and have peace."
"You cannot prove one man's ideas by another man's," said Mr. Linden.
"Then you can give me no help?" said Mr. Somers regretfully. "But Mr. Linden—ha—it strikes me that it would be useful for me to know your view of the cause of offence—whatever it is—before I know his. One may correct the other."
"There has been no offence given sir," said Mr. Linden. "That the Squire has taken offence we both know,—why he has taken it—ifI know—I have no right to tell you, Squire Deacon might justly complain of me if I did. It is from no disrespect to you, believe me."
"I say!" said Cindy coming into the room with a basket,—"here's Sam Stoutenburgh been and fetched some Stoutenburgh Sweetenings—for his teacher, he says. I'm free to confess," added Cindy as she set down the basket by Mr. Linden, "he said if hewouldlike to do anythin' better with 'em, it would just be to shy 'em at Squire Deacon's head—so I guess they aint over and above ripe."
"Ha!—Very pleasant, certainly!—very gratifying," said Mr. Somers rising. "Mr. Linden—I have no more to say. You are a gentleman, sir, and understand these matters. I will see what I can do. Mrs. Derrick—I thank you for your tea, ma'am—I am sorry there should be anything disagreeable,—but I have no doubt it will all be set right—The Squire is a good-feeling man—I have no doubt of it. Miss Faith—ha!—why Mrs. Derrick this colour is too deep, it isn't natural. It looks feverish!"
"Do the Pattaquasset ladies use any rouge but their own sea breezes?" asked Mr. Linden.
"Ha! wedoget the sea breezes here—pleasantly," answered Mr.Somers. "Good evening!"—
Mr. Linden accompanied the visiter to the little gate, and returning paced up and down the moonlit porch, followed only by his shadow.
While Mr. Somers was enjoying his cup of unexpected tea at Mrs. Derrick's, Squire Deacon and Miss Cilly had a sociable tête-à-tête over theirs; for Joe Deacon, who was in the full enjoyment of some fourteen years of boyhood, scarcely made a third in the conversation until his appetite was satisfied.
Conversation indeed hardly existed during the first portion of the meal. Miss Cilly poured out her tea and broke her biscuit with a certain prim sort of elegance which belonged to that young lady—as at least she believed. But sipping tea and nibbling biscuit went on in company with thoughts.
"Sam, what are you bothering yourself about Mr. Linden for?"
"How long since you was made a trustee?" said the Squire, beginning his sentence with an untranslatable sort of grunt, and ending it in his teacup.
"Give us the sugar bowl down this way, Cilly," said Joe,—"this apple sarce is as sour as sixty."
"I've been your trustee ever since you was up to anything," said his sister. "Come Sam—don't you begin now. What's made you so crusty?"
"It aint the worst thing to be crusty," said the Squire, while Joe started up and seized the sugar bowl. "Shews a man's more'n half baked, any how."
Miss Cilly vouchsafed a rather sour smile to these manifestations of disposition on the part of both her brothers.
"Well, what has he done?"
"Sure enough," said the Squire, (he kept his small stock of big words for company) "whathashe done? That's just what I can't find out."
"What do you want to find out for? What ails him?"
"Suppose he hasn't done nothing"—said the Squire,—"is that the sort o' man to teach litteratur in Pattaquasset?"
"Lit—what?" said his sister with an arch of her head.
"Anything you've a mind to," said the Squire sulkily.
"I wouldn't say anything against Mr. Linden's literature, if I was you; because it's my belief, Sam, it'll stand any pecking you make at it. What's given you such a spite at him? You're a goodnatured fellow enough in general."
"The whole temperature of Pattaquasset's come about sincehecome," replied the Squire comprehensively.
"He's a gentleman!" said Miss Cilly bridling again. "He won't hurt anybody's manners—not the best—if they was to copy him."
"He didn't hurt mine," said Joe patronizingly. "To be sure I didn't go to him long."
"Do the boys like him, Joe?"
"Well I daresay they wouldn't if they could help it," said Joe, "ifthat'sany comfort. Some other folks likes him too,—besides Sam."
"Aint he a good teacher?"
"Firstrate—" said Joe, "taught me allIever learned. I didn't go but four weeks, and Sam thought 'twarn't no use for me to hold on any longer. My! Cilly—he'd make you roll up your eyes in arithmetic!"
"Now Sam Deacon, what do you expect to do by all this fuss you're making?" said his sister judicially.
"What's the use of cross-examining a man at that rate?" said the Squire restlessly. "When I do anything, you'll know it."
"You'll make yourself a fool, one of these fine mornings; that's what I count upon," said Miss Cecilia. "He's a match for you, I have a presentiment, Sam."
"He won't be for you," said the Squire with some heat.
"There's Mr. Simlins goin' along," said Joe, who having finished his supper was gazing out of the window. "O my! if he was cut up into real simlinses, what a many there'd be!"
"You hush, Joe!" said his sister wrathfully. "He's comin' in."
And Mr. Simlins' tall figure did indeed come through the gate and up the walk, from which a very few more steps and minutes brought him to the tea table.
"Well, Mr. Simlins!" said Miss Cecilia as she gave him his cup,—"you've got back. I heard you were returned."
"Yes!" said the farmer deliberately stirring his tea,—"I've got back! And I'm glad, for one. I've been visiting my relations in New Jersey; and I've made upmymind that the Simlinses made a good move when they come to Connecticut."
"You found them all well?" said Miss Cecilia politely.
"Well, no, I didn't," said Mr. Simlins. "How's a man to find five hundred and fifty people all well? 'Taint nature. How's things with you, Squire?"
"Wheat's done well—corn middlin'," replied the Squire, while Joe got behind his sister's chair and whispered,
"There's another name in the diction'rysoundslike your'n, though they aint spelled just alike."
"Goin' to school, Joe?" growled Mr. Simlins.
"Nosir," said Joe. "Mr. Linden teached me all he knowed in a jiffy,—and all I know, too."
"Well—are the other boys learnin' yet?" said Mr. Simlins, as he spread a slice of bread pretty thick with butter.
"S'pose so"—said Joe,—"all they kin."
"It's hard work!" said Mr. Simlins. "I feel it now! Never ploughin' made my back ache like learnin'. I wonder whatever they made me school trustee for, seein' I hate it like pison. But s'pose we mustn't quarrel with onerous duties," said the farmer, carrying on sighing and bread and butter and tea very harmoniously together. "I shouldn't mind takin' a look at your last copy-book, Joe, if it would be agreeable."
"O Mr. Linden kep' that," said Joe unblushingly, "'cause it was so good lookin'."
"He was so fond of you?" said Mr. Simlins. "How come he to let you go?"
"I staid away," said Joe, drumming on the back of Miss Cecilia's chair."Cilly's got the rest of the copy-books—she likes the writin' too."
"Joe, behave yourself!" said his sister. "Mr. Simlins knows better than to believe you."
"Did you ever get flogged, Joe, for bad writin'?" said the farmer.
"Worse'n that!" said Joe, shaking his head,—"I've had to do it over!"
"Now you've got to do it over for me," said Mr. Simlins. "You write your name for me there—the best you kin—and 'Pattaquasset, Connecticut'—I want to see what the new school's up to."
"No"—said Joe—"I aint agoin' to do it. You ask one of the other boys. It wouldn't tell you nothin' if I did, 'cause I learned writin' afore,—and I didn't go to him but four weeks, besides." And Joe at once absented himself.
"Is it workin' as straight with all the rest of 'em as it is with him?" said Mr. Simlins. "You and me's got to see to it, you know, Squire—seein' we're honorary individuals."
"Yes," said Squire Deacon, rousing up now Joe was gone—he had a wholesome fear of Joe's tongue—"Yes, Mr. Simlins,—and it's my belief itwantsseein' to—and he too."
"Joe,"—said Mr. Simlins. "Ne-ver fear—he'll see to himself."
"Here's some ofhiswritin'," said Joe, returning with a spelling book. "All the boys gets him to write in their books." And laying it down by Mr. Simlins, Joe took his final departure.
"What do the boys want him to write in their books for?" growled Mr.Simlins, surveying the signature.
"I believe," said Miss Cecilia, "he is very popular in the school."
"Well, Squire," pursued Mr. Simlins, "can Joe clinch this?"
"He aint with me—if that's what you mean," said Squire Deacon. "A man's writing don't prove much."
"Don't go no furder," said Mr. Simlins assentingly. "Well Squire—ifyou'll go furder I shall be wiser."
And freed from the fear of contradiction, the Squire had not the least objection to going further.
"He's not the man to have here," said Squire Deacon,—"I saw that the first day I saw him. I tried him,—and he didn't toe the mark."
"How did you try him?" growled Mr. Simlins. "I'd like to know how much he's up to.Ihaint found it out yet."
"I tried him, sir," said the Squire, "I tried him with a classical story. Now Miss Faith gave in at once, and saidshedidn't know what it was; but t'other one made believe as though he knew all about it. And if a man aint classical, Mr. Simlins, what is he?"
"I aint classical," growled Mr. Simlins again, "but then I don't set up for to be. I s'pose that makes a difference, Squire; don't it?"
"Some people's more than they set out to be, and some people's less," replied the Squire.
"Well,—doesheset up for to be classical in school? What does he teach 'em?"
"I reckon he sets up for 'most everything he ever heard spoke of, Mr. Simlins. Teach 'em? why he teaches 'em out of all sorts o' superflus books!"
"Does!" said Mr. Simlins with a surprised look. "Our boys don't want none o' your superficies. They've got their bread to make. Give us an invoice o' them books, Squire."
"Just you look at 'em for yourself, Mr. Simlins—then you'll know. Step down there some day in school time and look over the boys. Now I can understand figurs with any man, butwhat'sthe use o' crosses and straight lines and Vs turned wrong side up?"
Mr. Simlins pushed back his chair and rubbed his chin.
"Well Squire—you and me are trustees—what in your judgment and opinion had we ought to do, in these precedents?"
"Get rid on him—Isay," replied the Squire promptly. "Then here he is, leadin' all the girls round town, and for all any one of 'em knows he's a married man."
"Humph I think so?—What do the folks say of him?" said Mr. Simlins. "There's Mrs. Derrick—what doesshesay of him—he's in her house, she ought to have an idee. And Faith—now I'd take that gal's judgment on a most anything—What dotheythink about him, Squire?"
"Never asked 'em a word," said the Squire stoutly—"nor heard 'em say one, neither. But he gets fur'n letters all the time, Widow Stamp says—and female writin' too. Who knows but he's got a wife in some fur'n country?—or two"—added the Squire, without specifying where the plural belonged. "I'm a justice of peace, Mr. Simlins, and this shouldn't be let go on."
Mr. Simlins looked up from under his brows with a queer look at his host.
"If he hastwo, he must want the school—bad!"—said he. "Well Squire, I'll go along and see what can be done. If I was you, mean time, I'd not say much to no one. There's Judge Harrison, you know;—we can't act without him. Good night t'ye! Squire, I guess he hainttwo?—Anyhow, I wouldn't let fly no warrants till I saw my bird sitting somewhere. It's bad to have 'em hit in a wrong place."
And it was well it was darkish and nobody to look at him; for Mr. Simlins went grinning pretty much all the way between Squire Deacon's house and the house of Mrs. Derrick, where Mr. Linden was entertaining his shadow in the moonlit porch.
"Good even to you!" growled Mr. Simlins as he came up. The grin was gone, and the farmer stood with his wonted solemnity of face and manner. "Where's the rest o' your folks?"
"The rest ofmyfolks are a good way off, Mr. Simlins," said the person addressed, giving the questioner his hand; while his shadow exchanged civilities with the shadow of Mr. Simlins. "When did you come back? I am glad to see you?"
"I'm glad to see myself," said Mr. Simlins. "There's no State likeConnecticut, sir. Where'syourbringin' up place?
"No one place has had that honour, Mr. Simlins,—I have been brought up from one to another."
"Not Connecticut, eh?"
"Not altogether—I am here just now, as you see,—getting a part of my education. I am one of the Say and Seal people in a way. Won't you come in, Mr. Simlins?"
"Well—I'd as lief see Faith and Mrs. Derrick as a'most any other two folks in Pattaquasset,—but they're a long ways off, you say?"
"No further than the parlour, I believe."
Mr. Simlins was willing to go as far as the parlour, and so the party on the porch adjourned thither. A bright lamp lit the room, by which Faith was mending stockings; while Mrs. Derrick sat in an easy chair a little further off, rocking and knitting.
"Well," said Mr. Simlins, "when the sun goes downIthink it is time to knock off work; but womenkind don't seem to think so."
"I guess when the sun goes down your work's knocked off, Mr. Simlins," said Mrs. Derrick.
"Fact, Mrs. Derrick, when I'm to home; but when a man's visiting he has to work nightandday. Moonlight's moonlight now. I declare, in Jersey I thought it was broad sunshine.—You haven't been down to my place yet, Mr. Linden?"
"No sir, not within the gate."
"The Simlins' have held that place, sir, off and on, for nigh three hundred years. We're a good many Simlins'—and we're a good set, I'll say it! a pretty good set. Not thin-skinned, you know,—we can take a scratch without bein' killed—but we never would stand bein' trampled on. We're soft-hearted too; plenty o' what I may calltendrils, ready to take hold of anything; and when we take hold wedotake hold. We cover a good deal of ground in the country, here and elsewhere—in the various branches. My mother was a Mush, and my grandmother was a Citron; a good families those, sir; can't do better than take a wife from one of them, Mr. Linden, if you are so disposed;—you haven't got one already, have you?"
"What, sir?" said Mr. Linden, with more sharpness than he often shewed, and which made Mrs. Derrick drop her knitting and look up.
"I thought you wasn't a married man—are you?" said Mr. Simlins, the grin just shewing itself again on his face.
"Is that one of the charges brought against me?" said Mr. Linden, a little too roused himself to pay much heed to Mr. Simlins' questions.
"Well I didn't know as you'd think it a 'charge,'" said Mr. Simlins with an unchanged tone. "I guess you mean to make it true some day, don't you?"
The question fell unheeded—the charge did not; it touched him deeply; touched the proud sense of character; though no words gave evidence of the fact.
"Faith, child," said Mrs. Derrick in that moment of silence, her whisper as low as she thought would reach across the table, "ought we to be here?"
But a very emphatic, "Yes!" from the window, prevented the need ofFaith's answer.
"I was only recommending," said Mr. Simlins, "in case you wanted help to make up your mind. The Citrons are all gone to New Jersey—there's a few of the Mushes ramblin' round Connecticut yet. Well Mr. Linden—I hope you and your boys get on commodiously together?"
"Just look into that basket on the table, and see what one of em brought him to-night," said Mrs. Derrick. "Those are Stoutenburgh Sweetings, Mr. Simlins."
Mr. Simlins looked at the Sweetings and then looked towards the window.
"I'd like to hear you speak a little on that point," he said. "Fact is, there's been some winds blowin' about Pattaquasset that aint come off beds o' roses; and I'd like to find where the pison is and clap a stopper on it for the future. It's easy done."
Mr. Linden looked up with his usual expression, only the smile was grave and a little moved, and answered,
"I could say a good deal on that point, Mr. Simlins. Yet I had rather you should ask the boys than me."
"Don't want to ask the boys nothin', bless you!" said Mr. Simlins. "What I want to say is this;—what's the matter between you and the Squire? I've been askin'him, and he says you learn the boys to make a V wrong side upward—I can't make nothin' of that," said Mr. Simlins, with again the approach to a grin;—"'taint over easy to tell whetherhisVs are one side up or 'tother. Now I'd like to know from you where the hitch is. The Squire aint likely to set the Mong in a configuration just yet—but if he's swingin' a torch round, I'd jest as lief put it out afore the sharks fly."
"But Mr. Simlins, don't you think it is rather hard measure to ask me why people dislike me?"
"Well—I don't see as I do," said Mr. Simlins placidly;—"'cause I know pretty well it's some chymistry idee of his own; and if I could get hold of it, you see, I should have a better handle. I guess the school never went on better than it's goin';hedon't know beans."
"How do you know that I do?" said Mr. Linden smiling. "Why don't you ask him? I think at least half his ill will arises from a mistake."
"Have askedhim," said Mr. Simlins—"just come from there;—but he's pretty much like them V's we were speakin' about; don't spell nothin'. What's his mistake about then? if I knowed that, I could bring things to a concert."
"Why," said Mr. Linden with grave deliberation, "suppose he wants to buy your house? and takes a walk up that way to set forth his terms."
"Well—suppose he does"—said Mr. Simlins attentively.
"He finds you and Judge Harrison in the porch, you talk about the crops and the weather, and he tells you he wants your house. What do you say to him?"
"I tell him I don't sell it to no one but a Simlins—nor that neither till I can't live in it no longer myself."
"Is that your fault—or Judge Harrison's?" said Mr. Linden, setting the basket of Stoutenburgh Sweetings on the little table in the full light of the lamp. "Miss Faith, if those are 'sweetenings,' they may as well do their office."
The farmer sat with his elbows on his knees, touching the tips of his fingers together in thoughtful fashion, and softly blowing the breath through his lips in a way that might have reached the dignity of a whistle if it had had a trifle more of musicalness.
"Is them the sort of lessons you give in school?" he said at length without stirring.
"Why?" said Mr. Linden with a little bit of a smile.
"Ingen-uous," said Mr. Simlins. "It's as good as a book, Mrs. Derrick," added he glancing up at the rocking chair, "is Squire Deacon wantin' to buy your house?"
"My!" said Mrs. Derrick, again laying down her knitting, "can't he be content with his own? I hope he don't want ours," she added, some fear mingling with her surprise.
"Miss Faith," said Mr. Linden, "do you think if I gave you an apple you would give me a knife?"
"I hope he don't," growled Mr. Simlins as he rose up. "I never heerd that he did. Miss Faith—them Stoutenburgh Sweetings is good eatin'." Faith after setting a pile of plates and knives on the table, had taken up her stocking again.
"Yes Mr. Simlins—I know they are."
"Then why don't you eat one?"
"I don't want it just now, Mr. Simlins—I'd rather finish my work."
"Work!" said the farmer taking an apple. "Well—good evening! I'll go and look after my work. I guess we'll fix it. There's a sight o' work in the world!"
With which moral reflection Mr. Simlins departed.
"There'll be more work than sight, at this rate," said Mr. Linden when he came back from the front door. "Mrs. Derrick, how many stockings does Miss Faith absolutely require for one day?"
"Why I don't know sir—and I don't believe I ever did know since she was big enough to run about," said Mrs. Derrick, her mind still dwelling upon the house.
"Miss Faith, my question stands transferred to you."
"Why you know," said Faith, intent upon the motions of her needle,—"I might require tomendin one day what would last me to wear a good many—and I do."
"But,
'The day is done—and the darknessFalls from the wing of night.'"
"I never mend stockings till then," said Faith smiling over her work."Are Sam's apples good?"
"By reputation."
"I thought you were trying them! Why you asked me for a knife, Mr.Linden—and I brought it."
"I'm sure I gave you an apple. Perhaps you thought it was a ball of darning cotton."
"No, I didn't," said Faith laughing. "But what use is my apple to your knife, Mr. Linden?"
"Not much—it has served the purposes of trade."
"But what is the purpose of trade, Mr. Linden, if the articles aren't wanted?"
"I see you are dissatisfied with your bargain," he said. "Well, I will be generous—you shall have the knife too;" and Mr. Linden walked away from the table and went upstairs.
The parlour was very still after that. Faith's needle, indeed, worked with more zeal than ever, but Mrs. Derrick rolled up her knitting and put it in her basket, sighing a little as she did so: then sat and thought.
"Faith, child," she said after a long pause, "do you think the Squire would ever take our house?"
Faith hesitated, and the answer when it came was not satisfactory.
"I don't know, mother."
Mrs. Derrick sighed again, and leaned back in her chair, and rocked; the rockers creaking in rather doleful sympathy with her thoughts. Then an owl on a tree before the door hooted at the world generally, though Mrs. Derrick evidently thought his remarks personal.
"I can't think why he should do that to-night, of all nights in the year!" she said, sitting straight up in her chair. "It never did mean good. Faith—what should we do if he did?"—this time she meant the Squire, not the owl.
"Mother!"—said Faith, and then she spoke in her usual tone.—"We'd find a way."
"Well!—" said Mrs. Derrick, rocking back and forth. Then she startedup. "We've got to have biscuits for breakfast, whether or no! It's goodI remembered 'em!" And she hurried out of the room, coming back to kissFaith and say,
"Don't fret, pretty child, whatever happens. Go to bed and to sleep,—I'll make the biscuit." And alert and busy she left the parlour.
Faith's sleep was quiet, but not unbroken. For at that time when all well-disposed people, young or old, are generally asleep (in such a well-ordered community as Pattaquasset) it pleased the younger portion of said community to be awake. Yet they were well-disposed—and also ill! For repairing in a body to Mrs. Derrick's house they gave her nine cheers for her lodger,—thence departing to Squire Deacon's, they gave him as many groans as he could reasonably want for himself. After which the younger part of the community retired in triumph.
It was said, by one adventurous boy, that falling in with Mr. Simlins they impressed him—that his voice helped on the cheers, but not the groans: and indeed the whole story needs confirmation.
Faith heard the groans but faintly, owing to the distance, but the cheers were tremendous.
It is painful to add that Joe Deacon was vociferous in both parties.
"I hope your rest was disturbed last night," said Faith rather gaily, as she came in to the breakfast-table with a plate of biscuits and set them down before Mr. Linden.
"Thank you! you have reason to be quite satisfied in that respect."
"But did you hear them after they left our house?"
"I heard them—really or in imagination—all night, thank you again,Miss Faith—and am as sleepy this morning as you can desire."
"It wasn't I," said Faith. "Now what notice, Mr. Linden, will you think it proper to take of such a proceeding?"
"That was one thing which kept me awake."
"But as you are sleepy now, I suppose the point is decided?"
"You are as quick at conclusions as Johnny Fax," said Mr. Linden smiling, "who always supposes that when I am not using my pen myself I am quite ready to let him have it."
"Does he get it?"
"What should you advise?"
"O Mr. Linden!" said Faith,—"I should advise you to do—just what you do!"
"Unsound!" he said,—"I thought you were a better adviser. But about this matter of the boys—I shall probably read them a lecture, wherein I shall set forth the risk they run of getting sick by such exposure to the night air; also the danger I am in of being sent away from my present quarters, because ladies prefer sleep to disturbance. Having thus wrought up their feelings to the highest pitch, I shall give them a holiday and come home to dinner."
Faith laughed her little low laugh of pleasure; at least it always sounded so. It might be pleasure at one thing or at another; but it was as round and sweet a tone of merry or happy acknowledgment, as is ever heard in this world of discordances.
"But are you really sleepy, sir?" said Mrs. Derrick. "I'm so sorry! I thought they were doing nothing but good. I never once thought of their waking you up."
Mr. Linden laughed too, a little.
"I shall get waked up"—he said,—"in the course of the day. Unless somebody has drugged my coffee."
"Judge Harrison was here this morning, Mr. Linden, with a message for you," said Faith. "Mother, will you tell Mr. Linden what Judge Harrison said?"
"I'd rather hear you, child, by half," said her mother, with a smile whereon the house cast a little shadow. "Tell him yourself, Faith." And Mrs. Derrick sighed, and took her napkin and rubbed off a spot on the coffeepot.
"Judge Harrison came—" said Faith, and paused.
"And went away"—said Mr. Linden.
"Yes," said Faith. "He stopped on his way somewhere, and came into the kitchen to talk to us. He said he would like, if you would like it, he would like to have a great exhibition of the boys—he knows about the school, he says, and there hasn't been such a school in Pattaquasset since he has been here himself; and he would like to shew it up to the whole town. So if Mr. Linden approved of it, Judge Harrison said, he would have a gathering of all the countryside in some nice place—the Judge has plenty of ground and can get anybody else's besides; and the boys should have a great examination, and after that there should be an entertainment under the trees, for boys and all. And he wanted mother to speak to Mr. Linden, and see whether he would like it. And mother wouldn't," said Faith as she finished.
Mr. Linden raised his eyebrows slightly—then let them fall and likewise his eyes. Then sent his cup to be replenished, gravely remarking to Faith that if she had any drugs, she might put them in now!
"What kind of drugs would you like, Mr. Linden?" said Faith.
"Any that are deeply sedative."
"Sedative?" said Faith, with that look which he often drew from her,—very earnest, half wistful, half sorrowful,—"I don't know what it means, Mr. Linden."