"Who is?"
"I am inclined to be of the opinion you air," said Mr Simlins slowly."I won't say I be—but I don't know how to do no better."
"Thank you, Mr. Simlins—" was the somewhat sorrowful reply,—"you may see what I do, but you do not see what I know. And for you, my friend—pray to know!—there can be no mistakes in the advice that comes from heaven."
There was a minute's silence, till they came to a turning.
"I'd be glad to see you," said Mr. Simlins in a somewhat lowered tone,—"ary one of you—down to my house, any time.Youcan take care of her the rest of the way. Good night!"—
He turned off abruptly down a road that led his way.
They had been walking with slackened steps during this conversation, and the lingering memory of it still checked the pace of the two now left together:
"Silence accompanied; for beast and bird,They to their grassy couch, these to their nests,"
had all retreated. And when Mr. Linden spoke, it was not in his own words.
"'I thank thee, uncreated Sun,That thy bright beams on me have shined!I thank thee, who hast overthrownMy foes, and healed my wounded mind!I thank thee, whose enlivening voiceBids my freed heart in thee rejoice!
"'Thee will I love, my joy, my crown!Thee will I love, my Lord, my God!Thee will I love—beneath thy frownOr smile, thy sceptre or thy rod!What though my flesh and heart decay,Thee shall I love in endless day!'"
The silence of the evening fell again unbroken. Unless a breath caught somewhat interruptedly—so gentle a break—might be said to break it. Faith said nothing, except by that caught breath. Mr. Linden's step was the only one heard. Silently then he gave her his arm, and they went on at a quicker pace.
After a while Faith broke the silence. She spoke in a very quiet voice; as if choosing her words; and hesitated a little sometimes as if timidity checked her.
"Mr. Linden, I want to ask you about something that troubles me—I don't know what is right. I know I know very little—I know I cannot say much or can't say it well—but I feel sometimes as if I must speak to everybody I can reach, and tell them what I do know, and beg them to be safe and happy. And then something tells me that if I do so, people will think me crazy, or be offended,—that it is not my business and I can't do it well and that I had better not try to do it at all.—Is that 'something' right or wrong?"
"'Let him that heareth, say Come,'" Mr. Linden replied. "It is part of the sailing orders of every Christian to speak every other vessel that he can,—which does not mean that he should go out of his own proper course to meet them, nor that he should run them down when met."
"Nor, I suppose," said Faith, "that he should trouble himself about his voice being very low or very hoarse. I thought so. Thank you, Mr. Linden."
"The voice of true loving interest is generally sweet—and rarely gives offence," he said. "If people never spoke of religious things but from the love of them, there would be an end to cant and bad taste in such matters."
She said no more.
"How does Charles twelfth behave?" said Mr. Linden as they neared home."Has he 'reacted' again—or does he give you both hands full?"
"He behaved nicely!" said Faith. "As to filling my hands, I suppose they wouldn't hold a great deal to-day; but I hope to have them fuller before long."
"Then I may send you another scholar?"
"O yes!" said Faith. "Have you one for me?"
"Perhaps two, if circumstances make my hands too full."
"Do I know them?"
"I am not sure how well, nor whether you know them at all by name; but you will like to teach them for different reasons. At least I have."
"I don't know"—said Faith. "If you have taught them, Mr. Linden, they will be very sorry to come to me!"
"Then you may have the pleasure of making them glad."
She laughed a little, but soberly; and they reached their own gate.
It was past the usual Sunday tea time; and soon the little party were gathered at that pleasantest, quietest of tea-tables—that which is spread at the close of a happy Sunday. It had been such to two at least of the family sitting there, albeit Faith's brow was unusually grave; and it had not been _un_happy to Mrs. Derrick. She entered, by hope and sympathy, too earnestly and thoroughly into everything that concerned Faith—rested too much of her everyday life upon her, to be unhappy whenshesmiled.
After tea, as he often did, Mr. Linden went out again; and the two were left alone. Mrs. Derrick occupied herself with reading in the old family Bible, where she turned over leaf after leaf; but Faith, on a low seat, sat looking into the remains of the little fire which had been kindled in the supper room. Looking at the glowing coals and grey flickering ashes, with a very grave, meditative, thoughtful gaze.
"Mother—" she said at length, turning her face towards Mrs. Derrick'sBible.
"Well child?" said her mother a little abstractedly.
"I wish, mother, you would ask Mr. Linden to read and pray at night—and let Cindy and Mr. Skip come in?"
"Why Faith!" said Mrs. Derrick, now fully roused,—"how you talk, child! Wish I'd do this, and wish I'd let 'tother—don't I let you and Mr. Linden do pretty much what you've a mind to?"
It was incomprehensible to Faith that her mother's permission should have to do with any of Mr. Linden's actions; but she merely repeated,
"I wish you'd ask him, mother."
"I guess I will!" said Mrs. Derrick—"when I do you'll know it, and he too. Ask him yourself, pretty child," she added, looking at Faith with a very unbent brow.
"But mother," said Faith with a little tinge in her cheeks,—"it would be much better that you should ask him. You are the person to do it."
"I should like to see you make that out," said Mrs. Derrick. "I don't think I'm such a person at all."
"Only because you are the head of the family, mother," Faith said with a little fainter voice.
"Well, if I'm the head of the family I'll do as I like, for once," said Mrs. Derrick. "I'd like to hear him, I'm sure,—child it would seem like old times,—but I wouldn't ask him, for a kingdom!"
Faith looked at her, half laughing and grave too—but gave up the point, seeing she must.
"And while you're about it, Faith, you can just ask him to make his boys behave. Sam Stoutenburgh did nothing all meeting time but look at you. So I guess the sermon didn't dohimmuch good."
Faith went back to the contemplation of the fire. However, she apparently had not made up her mind thatshewas 'the person,' or else was not ready to act upon it; for when Mr. Linden was heard opening the front door Faith ran away, and came down no more that night.
"It occurs to me, Parson Somers," said that gentleman's lady wife, as she salted and sugared his morning bowl of porridge; "it occurs to me, that Pattaquasset is getting stirred up with a long pole."
"Ah, my dear?" said Mr. Somers—"'Stirred up! Well—what makes you think so?"
"Why—" said Mrs. Somers tasting the porridge—"Jenny! fetch some more milk. How do you suppose Mr. Somers is going to eat such thick stuff as that?—and when do you suppose he is going to get his breakfast, at this rate? If you let your head run upon Jem Waters in this style, Jenny, I shall forbid him the house. I always notice that the day after he's been here Mr. Somers' porridge is too thick."
"Well, my dear," said the parson,—"ha—the porridge will do very well. I thought you were speaking of Pattaquasset when you spoke of something being 'stirred up.'"
"So I was," said the lady, while Jenny blushing beyond her ordinary peonic hue, ran about in the greatest confusion, catching up first the water pitcher and then the molasses cup. "'Do very well?'—no, indeed it won't!—but men never know anything about housekeeping."
"Well, my dear, but about Pattaquasset?—I know something about Pattaquasset. Is there any trouble in the village? It's a very peaceable place," continued Mr. Somers, looking at his distant breakfast dish,—"always was—ha—I wish you'd let me have my porridge. Is there any trouble, my dear?"
"I can't tell,—" said Mrs. Somers, adding critical drops of milk,—"see for yourself, Mr. Somers. If there isn't, there may be.—One set of things is at sixes, and another at sevens. There—that's better, though it's about as far from perfection as I am."
"We're none of us perfect, and so—ha—my dear, we can't blame the porridge," said Mr. Somers with slight jocularity which pleased at least himself. "But Pattaquasset is about as near the impossible state as most places, thatIknow. What have you heard of, Mrs. Somers? You deal in rather—a—enigmatical construction, this morning."
"Who said I had heard anything?" said the lady,—"I only said, use your eyes, Mr. Somers,—open your study window and let the light in. Just see what a rumpus we've had about the school, to begin."
"Ha! my dear," said Mr. Somers, "if opening the window of my study is going to let trouble come in, I'd rather—ha—keep it shut! Judge Harrison thinks the teacher is a very fine man—and I've no doubt he is!—and the Judge is going to give him a great celebration. I have no doubt we shall all enjoy it. I think the disturbance that has been made will not give Mr. Linden any more trouble."
"Why who cares about his trouble?" said Mrs. Somers rather briskly,—"I dare say he's very good, Mr. Somers, but I sha'n't fret overhim. I'm not sure but he's a littletoogood for my liking—I'm not sure that it's quite natural. Jenny! fetch some more biscuit!—how long do you suppose Mr. Somers and I can live upon one?"
Parson Somers eat porridge and studied the philosophy of Mrs Somers' statements.
"My dear," said he at length,—"I am not sure that you are correct in your view—indeed it seems to me—a—rather contradictory. I don't know what the stir is about; and I don't think there is any occasion, my dear, for you—a—to fret, about anything. Not about Mr. Linden, certainly. The disaffection to the new school was—a—confined to very few! I don't think it has taken root in the public mind generally. You will be better able to form a judgment on Thursday."
"Bless your heart! Mr. Somers," said his wife, "what's Thursday to do? If you think I've said all Icouldsay—why there's no help for it. Now there's Sam Deacon—don't come to meeting half the time lately,—and to match that, Faith Derrick walks into Sunday school with one of those Seacomb children tagging after her."
"Well," said Mr. Somers looking exceedingly mystified,—"what's the harm in that? If Miss Faith chooses to do it, it shews, I am sure, a—a charitable disposition,—praiseworthy!"
"Mr. Somers!"—said the lady. "Is it possible you can think for one moment that I mean what you mean? If she came to Society too, I should know what to make of it, but when people work alongside of some folks, and not alongside of others, why it's as long as it's broad. Then Maria Davids says she drove those boys over to Neanticut 'tother day—or helped drive 'em. What do you think of that, Mr. Somers?"
Mr. Somers looked as if his wife was too fast for him.
"My dear," said he however, plucking up,—"I think I would trust Faith Derrick as soon as Maria Davids, or—any other young lady in Pattaquasset! If she did go to Neanticut I presume it was all as it should be. Squire Deacon never was—a—very remarkable for being a religious man or anything like that; and you can't help folks working alongside of each other—they will do it," said Mr. Somers relapsing into his jocular mood. "I am a man of peace, my dear, and you should be a woman of peace."
"Why you don't suppose I believed what Maria Davids said?" replied Mrs. Somers. "Her words are not worth their weight in gold—and she isn't a bit too good to be jealous. But the thing is, if Faith didn't do that, whatdidshe do? Jenny! fetch in the tub of hot water, and be spry!"
With Jenny and the hot water walked in a somewhat rough-looking boy, who declared without much ceremony, beyond doffing his cap, that "'ma sent him to find out where the sewin' meetin' was to be this week."
"Who are you?" said Mrs. Somers, dipping a cup in the hot water and wiping it with a 'spryness' that was quite imposing. "Is your name Bill Wright?"
"No 'taint," said the boy. "Guess again."
"You'll never pay anybody for much trouble that way," said Mrs. Somers dipping in the corresponding saucer. "Jenny—did you ever hear of anybody's getting along in a dish-tub without a mop?"
"Who is it wants to know, sir?" said Mr. Somers politely. "Who is your father?"
"He's farmer Davids."
"Oh! and are you Phil?"
"Yes! What be I goin' to tell her?"—This interrogatory being sent in the direction of the dish-tub.
"Why you can tell her two things," said Mrs. Somers, eying Phil from head to foot. "In the first place, the Society'll meet down at Miss Bezac's; and in the second, as soon as your mother'll teach her children how to behave themselves I shall be very glad to see them."
"The Society'll meet down to Miss Purcell's?"
"Miss Bezac's"—said Mrs. Somers, preserving a cheerful and brisk equanimity in the midst of her sharp words that was quite delightful. "Pay more attention to your lessons, Phil Davids, and you'll be a better boy, if you look sharp."
"What lessons?" said the boy blackly.
"All you get—at home and abroad. You go to school I fancy," repliedMrs. Somers.
The boy glanced towards the clock and began to move off, answering by actions rather than words.
"You were over at Neanticut, I suppose, Saturday," said Mr. Somers affably. To which the answer was a choked and unwilling 'yes.'
"Well who drove you over?"
"He druv," said Phil. "I'm going—"
"And the ladies—weren't there ladies along?"
"Yes—They druv too."
"Did you have a fine time?" said Mrs. Somers.
"Yes!Idid," said Phil very gloomily.
"Why what did you do more than the rest?"
"I didn't do nothing!" said Phil, blurting out,—"and he went and took all my nuts away. He's the devil!"
The boy looked at the minute as if he was a young one.
"Hush, hush!" said Mr. Somers. "You—you oughtn't to speak that way—don't you know? it's not proper."
"I hope he boxed your ears first," said Mrs. Somers—"I'm certain you deserved it. What made him take your nuts away?"
"He wanted 'em to make a present to you"—said the boy; and with another glance at the hands of the clock, he darted out of the house and down the road towards the schoolhouse, as if truly he had expected to meet there the character he had mentioned.
"My dear—" said Mr. Somers—"do you think it is quite—a—politic, to tell Mrs. Davids she don't bring up her children right? Mrs. Davids is a very respectable woman—and so is Farmer Davids—none more so."
"I don't know what you call respectable women—" said Mrs. Somers—"I should be sorry to thinkhewas. But I just wish, Mr. Somers, that you would preach a sermon to the people about cutting off their children's tongues if they can't keep them in order. I declare! I could hardly keep hands off that boy."
And with this suggested and suggestive text, Mr. Somers retired to his study.
It had been a busy day with more than Mr. Somers, when towards the close of the afternoon Faith came out upon the porch of her mother's house. She had not read more than one delicious bit of her letter on the ride home from Neanticut; the light failed too soon. After getting home there was no more chance. Saturday night, that Saturday, had a crowd of affairs. And Monday had been a day full of business. Faith had got through with it all at last; and now, as fresh as if the kitchen had been a bygone institution—though that was as true of Faith in the kitchen as out of it—she sat down in the afternoon glow to read the letter. The porch was nice to match; she took a low seat on the step, and laying the letter in her lap rested her elbow on the yellow floor of the porch to take it at full ease.
It was not just such a letter as is most often found in biographies,—yet such as may be found—'out of print.' A bright medley of description and fancy—mountains and legends and scraps of song forming a mosaic of no set pattern. And well-read as the writer was in other respects, it was plain that she was also learned in both the books Faith had had at Neanticut. The quick flow of the letter was only checked now and then by a little word-gesture of affection,—if that could be called a check, which gave to the written pictures a better glow than lit up the originals.
It was something to see Faith read that letter—or would have been, if anybody had been there to look. She leaned over it in a sort of breathless abstraction, catching her breath a little sometimes in a way that told of the interest at work. The interest was not merely what would have belonged to the letter for any reader,—it was not merely the interest that attached to the writer of it, nor to the person for whom it was written; it was not only the interest deep and great which Faith felt in the subjects and objects spoken of in the letter. All these wrought with their full power; but all these were not enough to account for the intent and intense feeling with which Faith bent over that letter, with eyes that never wavered, and a cheek in which the blood mounted to a bright flush. And when it was done, even then she sat still leaning over the paper, looking not at it but through it.
A little shower of fringed gentian and white Ladies' tresses came patting down upon the letter, hiding its delicate black marks with their own dainty faces.
"These are your means of transport back to Pattaquasset," said Mr.Linden. Faith looked up, and rose up.
"I had come back," she said, drawing one of those half long breaths as she folded up and gave him the letter. "I can't thank you, Mr. Linden."
"I thought you were not reading, or I should not have ventured such an interruption. But I am in no hurry for the letter, Miss Faith. How do you like Italy?"
"I like it—" said Faith doubtfully,—"I don't know it. Mr. Linden," she went on with some difficulty and flushing yet more,—"some time, will you tell me in what books I can find out about those things?—those things the letter speaks of."
"Those which concern Italy, do you mean! I can arrange an Italy shelf for you up stairs—but I am afraid I have not very much here to put on it."
"No indeed!" said Faith looking half startled,—"I didn't mean to give you trouble—only some time, if you would tell me what books—perhaps—"
"Perhaps what?" he said smiling,—"perhaps I wouldn't?"
"No," she said, "I mean, perhaps youwould;and perhaps I could get them and read them. I feel I don't know anything."
That Faith felt it was very plain. She had that rare beauty—a soft eye. I do not mean the grace of insipidity, nor the quality of mere form and colour; but the full lustrous softness that speaks a character strong in the foundations of peace and sweetness. Many an eye can be soft by turns and upon occasion; it is rarely that you see one where sweetness and strength have met together to make that the abiding characteristic. The gentleness of such an eye has always strength to back it. Weakness could never be so steadfast; poverty could not be so rich. And Faith's eye shewed both its qualities now.
Mr. Linden merely repeated, "I will arrange it for you—and you can take the books in what order you like. Perhaps I can send you another journey when they are exhausted," he added, turning the letter softly about, as if the touch were pleasant to him. She stood looking at it.
"I don't know how to thank you for letting me read that," she said. "It would be foolish in me to tell you how beautiful I thought it."
"Sheis—" her brother said, with a tender, half smiling half grave expression. And for a minute or two he was silent—then spoke abruptly.
"Miss Faith, what have you done with your 'Philosophe'? You know, though the rooms in the great Temple of Knowledge be so many that no one can possibly explore them all, yet the more keys we have in hand the better. For some locks yield best to an English key, some to a French; and it is often pleasant to take a look where one cannot go in and dwell."
She flushed a good deal, with eyes downcast as she stood before him; then answered, with that odd little change of her voice which told of some mental check.
"I haven't done anything with it, Mr. Linden."
"That requires explanation."
"It isn't so hard as one of your puzzles," she said smiling. "I mean to do something with it, Mr. Linden, if I can; and I thought I would try the other day; but I found I didn't know enough to begin—to learn that yet."
"What other key are you forging?"
"Whatotherkey?" said Faith.
"I mean," he answered with a tone that shewed a little fear of going too far, "what do you want to learn before that?"
"I don't know," said Faith humbly.—"I suppose, English. It was a grammar of yours, Mr. Linden, a French grammar, that I was looking at; and I found I couldn't understand what it was about, anywhere. So I thought I must learn something else first."
"Never was philosopher so put in a corner!" said Mr. Linden. "Suppose you take up him and the dictionary and let me be the grammar—do you think you could understand what I was about?"
The blood leapt to her cheek; part of her answer Faith had no need to put in words, even if he had not seen her eyes, which he did. The words were not in any hurry to come.
"When you have been teaching all day already"—she said in a tone between regretful and self-reproving. "It wouldn't be right."
"Mayn't I occasionally do wrong?—just for variety's sake!"
"Youmay—and I don't doubt you would. I was thinking of my own part."
"I am glad you don't say you have no doubt Ido," said Mr. Linden. "I suppose you mean that I would if sufficient temptation came up, which of course it never has."
Faith looked an instant, and then her gravity broke up. "Ah, but you know what I mean," she said.
"You will have to furnishmewith a dictionary next," he said smiling. "Look at my watch—Miss Faith, how can you have tea so late, when I have been teaching all day?—it isn't right,—and cuts off one's time for philosophizing besides."
Faith ran into the house, to tell the truth, with a very pleased face; and tea was on the table in less time than Cindy could ever understand. But during tea-time Faith looked, furtively, to see if any signs were to be found that little Johnny Fax had been made to yield up his testimony. Whether he had or no, she could see none; which however, as she justly concluded with herself, proved nothing.
The new grammar was far easier understood than the old. Although Mr. Linden unfolded his newspaper, and informed Faith that he intended to read 'uninterruptedly'—so that she 'need feel no scruple about interrupting him'—yet he probably had the power of reading two things at once; for his assistance was generally given before it was asked. His explanations too, whether Faith knew it or not, covered more ground than theFrenchexigency absolutely required,—he was not picking this lock for her, but giving her the grammar key.
But Faith knew it and felt it; and tasted the help thus given, with an appreciation which only it needed to do all its work; the keen delight of one seeking knowledge, who has never been helped and who has for the first time the right kind of help. Indeed, with the selfishness incident to human nature, she forgot all about Mr. Linden's intention to read uninterruptedly, and took without scruple or question, all the time he bestowed upon her. And it was not till some minutes after she had closed her books, that her low, grateful "You are very good, Mr. Linden!" reached his ear.
Now the fact was, that Faith had been much observed that afternoon,—her reading-dream on the steps had been so pretty a thing to see, that when Squire Deacon had seen it once he came back to see it again; and what number of views he would have taken cannot be told, had he not been surprised by Mr. Linden. Naturally the Squire withdrew,—naturally his enlarged mind became contracted as he thought of the cause thereof; and not unnaturally he walked down that way after tea, still further to use his eyes. The house was in a tantalizing state. For though the light curtain was down, it revealed not only the bright glow of the lamp, but one or two shadowy heads; and the window being open (for the evening was warm) low voices, that he loved and that he did not love, came to his ear. Once a puff of wind floated the curtain in—more tantalizing than ever! Squire Deacon could see Mr. Linden bending aside to look at something, butwhatthe Squire could not see; for there came the edge of the curtain. In a warm state of mind he turned his face homewards, proclaiming to himself that he didn't care what they did!—the result of which was, that in ten minutes more he was knocking at Mrs. Derrick's door, and being promptly admitted by Cindy entered the parlour just as Faith had shut up her book and uttered her soft word of thanks.
It was something of a transition! But after a moment's shadow of surprise on her face, Faith came forward and gave the Squire her hand. She would have let him then explain his own errand; but as he did not seem very ready to do that, or to say anything, Faith stepped into the breach.
"How is Cecilia, Mr. Deacon? I have not seen her in a long time."
"She's firstrate," said the Squire, colouring up; for Mr. Linden's "how do you doagain, Squire Deacon?" not only implied that they had lately met, but that the occasion was not forgotten.
"It's a sort of suffocating evening," added the Squire, wiping his forehead. "I don't recollect so warm an October for a year or two. Cilly's been out of town, Miss Faith, and since she come back she's been complainin' ofyou."
Faith was near saying that she hoped the warm weather would last tillThursday; but she remembered that would not do, and changed her ground.
"I am sorry anybody should complain of me. Is that because I didn't go to see her when she was away?"
"I'm sure the rest of us could have stood it, if youhadcome when she was gone, Miss Faith," said the Squire gallantly. "Seems to me we haven't seen you down to our house for an age of Sundays."
"I will try to come of a week day," said Faith. "I think you never saw me there Sunday, Mr. Deacon."
"I suppose an age of Sundays must be seven times as long as any other age," said Mr. Linden. "Isn't that the origin of the phrase, Squire Deacon?"
"Very like," said the Squire—who didn't care to be interrupted. "I don't know much about originals,—when a man has a position to fill, sir, he can't study knick-knacks. What a handsome book, Miss Faith! such a becoming colour."
"Don't you like the inside of books too, Mr. Deacon?" said Faith.
"I daresay I should that one," said the Squire,—"the outside's like a picture—or a view, as some people call it. Looks just like a grain field in spring. What's the name of it, Miss Faith?"
Half prudently, half wickedly, Faith without answering took the book from the table and put it in Mr. Deacon's hand.
The Squire's face looked like anything but a grain field in spring then—it was more like a stubble in November; for opening the book midway and finding no help there, he turned to the title page and found the only English words in the book, in very legible black ink.
"So!" he said—"it's his'n, is it!"
"Yes, it is mine," said Mr. Linden,—"almost any man may have so much of a library as that."
The Squire glanced suspiciously at Faith, as if he still believed she had something to do with it; but he did not dare press the matter.
"Miss Faith," he said, calling up a smile that was meant to do retrospective work, "have you heard tell of the queer things they've found down to Mattabeeset?"
"What things, Mr. Deacon?"
"Some sort o' bird's been makin' tracks down there," said the Squire leaning back in his chair, with the look of one who has now got the game in his own hands; "makin' tracks criss-cross round; and they do say the size on 'em might have come out of the ark, for wonder."
"How large are they, Mr. Deacon? and what sort of bird is it?"
"Well if I was a descendant of Noah, I s'pose I could tell you," said the Squire with increased satisfaction,—"I'm sorry I can't, as it is. But if you're curious, Miss Faith (and ladies always is in my experience) I'll drive you down there any day or any time of day. I want to see 'em myself, that's a fact, and so does Cilly. Now Miss Faith, name the day!"
The shortest possible smile on Mr. Linden's face at this sudden and earnest request, did not help Faith to an answer; but the Squire was happily forgetful for the moment that there were more than two people in the room, and leaning towards Faith he repeated,
"The sooner the quicker, always, in such cases! because folks can never tell what may happen."
"No," said Faith, "they cannot—especially about weather; and I have got some particular work to attend to at home, Mr. Deacon, before the weather changes. I wish you and Cecilia would go down and bring us a report. I should like that. But for the present Mr. Skip and I have something to do."
"It's good you want Mr. Skip, for I don't," said the Squire, stiffening a little. "Is that one of the new-fashioned ways of saying you won't go, Miss Faith?"
"What's your objection to Mr. Skip?" said Faith pleasantly. "I am glad nobody else wants him, forwedo."
"Well, I say I'm glad you've got him," said the Squire, relenting under the power of Faith's voice. "But what ailsyouMiss Faith, to go tackin' round like one o' them schooners against the wind? Aint it a straight question as to whether you'll take an excursion to Mattabeeset?"
"Very straight," said Faith smiling and speaking gently. "And I thoughtI gave a straight answer."
"Blessed if I can see which road it took!" said Squire Deacon,—"save and except it didn't seem to be the right one. 'No' 's about as ugly a road as a man can foller. Guess I spoke too late, after all," said the Squire meditatively. "How's your furr'n news, Mr. Linden? Get it regular?"
"Yes—" said Mr. Linden,—"making due allowance for the irregularity of the steamers."
Faith looked up in no little astonishment, and took the eye as well as the ear effect of this question and answer; then said quietly,
"Have you any business in the post-office, Mr. Deacon?"
"Not a great deal, Miss Faith," said the Squire, with a blandness on one side of his face which but poorly set off the other. "I go down for the paper once a week, and 'lection times maybe oftener, but I don't do much in the letter line. Correspondence never was my powder magazine. I shouldn't know where to put two or three femin_ine_ letters a week—if I got 'em."
If he had got what somebody wanted to give him at that moment!—Squire Deacon little knew what risk he ran, nor how much nearer he was to a powder magazine than he ever had been in his life.
"A sure sign that nobody will ever trouble you in that way," Faith said somewhat severely But the Squire was obtuse.
"Well I guess likely," he said, "and it's just as good they don't. I shouldn't care about living so fur from any body I was much tied up in—or tied upto, neither. I can't guess, for one, how you make out to be contented here, Mr. Linden."
"How do you know that I do, sir?"
There was a little pause at that—it was a puzzling question to answer; not to speak of a slight warning which the Squire received from his instinct. But the pause was pleasantly ended.
"Faith!" said a gentle voice in the passage—"open the door, child—I've got both hands full."
Which call Mr. Linden appropriated to himself, and not only opened the door but brought in the great dish of smoking chestnuts. Faith ran away to get plates for the party, with one of which in defiance of etiquette she served first Mr. Linden; then handed another to the Squire.
"I hope they are boiled right, Mr. Linden. Have you seen any chestnuts yet this year, Mr. Deacon?"
"I've seen some—but they warn't good for nothing," said the Squire rather sourly. "Thank you, Miss Faith, for your plate, but I guess I'll go."
"Why stay and eat some chestnuts, Squire Deacon!" said Mrs. Derrick."Those are Neanticut chestnuts—firstrate too."
"I don't like Neanticut chestnuts—" said Squire Deacon rising—"never did,—they're sure to be wormy. Good night, Miss Faith—good night, Mr. Linden. Mrs. Derrick, this room's hot enough to roast eggs."
"Why the windows are open!" said Mrs. Derrick—"and we might have had the curtains drawn back, too, but I always feel as if some one was looking in."
Which remark did not delay the Squire's departure, and Mrs. Derrick followed him to the door, talking all the way.
During which little 'passage' Faith's behaviour again transcended all rules. For she stood before the dish of chestnuts, fingering one or two, with a somewhat unsteady motion of the corners of her mouth; and then put both her hands to her face and laughed, her low but very merriment-speaking laugh.
"Miss Faith," Mr. Linden said, "I think Job was an extraordinary man!—and the chestnuts are not so bad as they are reported, after all."
Faith became grave, and endeavoured to make trial of the chestnuts, without making any answer.
"Child," said Mrs. Derrick returning, "I don't think the Squire felt just comfortable—I wonder if he's well?"
Which remark brought down the house.
"By the way—" said Mr. Linden looking up,—"did you lose a bow of ribband from your sunbonnet, the other day at Neanticut?"
Faith owned to having lost it somewhere.
"I found it somewhere—" said Mr. Linden with a rather peculiar look, as he took out the bow of ribband.
"Where did you find it, Mr. Linden?"
"I found it here—in Pattaquasset."
"Where?"
But he shook his head at the question.
"I think I will not tell you—you may lose it again."
And all Faith's efforts could get no more from him.
The Thursday of the great school celebration arrived; and according to Faith's unexpressed wish, the weather had continued warm. It was the very luxury of October. A day for all the senses to disport themselves and revel in luxurious beauty. But the mind of Pattaquasset was upon the evening's revel, and upon the beauty of white cambric and blue ribbands. The mind of Faith Derrick was on somewhat else.
"Mother," she said, "do you know there must be a fire up in Mr.Linden's room as soon as the weather gets cold?"
"Of course, child."
"Well there is nothing in the world up there to put wood in."
"It used to lie on the floor—" said Mrs. Derrick, as if the past might possibly help the future. "That does make a muss."
"It's not going to lie on the floor now," said Faith. "I am going to get Mr. Skip to make me a box, a large box, with a top—and I will cover it with some carpet or dark stuff, if you'll give me some, mother. It must be dark, because the wood of the room is. I am going to stuff the top for a seat, and it will look very nice."
"Anything does that you take hold of," said her mother. "Yes, child, I'll give you all I've got,—you can look for yourself and take what you like best."
The immediate work of the day was to 'clear ship'—in other words, to do all the day's work in the former part thereof, so as to leave time for the unwonted business of the afternoon. Mrs. Derrick even proposed that Faith should get dressed. But Faith said there was time enough after dinner; and that meal was gone through with as usual.
With this slight variation in the table talk. Mr. Linden suggested to Faith the propriety of philosophizing a little, as a preparative for the dissipation of the evening; and declared that for the purpose, he would promise to bring his toilette within as narrow bounds as she did hers.
Faith's face gave answer, in the sort of sparkling of eye and colour which generally met such a proposition, and which to-day was particularly bright with the pleasure of surprise.
"But," she said warningly, "I can dress inveryfew minutes!"
So she did, and yet—and yet, she was dressed from head to foot and to the very point of the little white ruffle round her throat. Hair, bright as her hair was, and in the last degree of nice condition and arrangement, the same perfect presentation of hands and feet and white ruffles as aforesaid;—that was the most of Faith's dressing; the rest was a plain white cambric frock, which had its only setting off in her face and figure. The one touch of colour which it wanted, Faith found when she went down stairs; for upon the basket where 'Le Philosophe' commonly reposed, lay a dainty breast-knot of autumn tints,—fringed gentian with its delicate blue, and oak leaves of the deepest red, and a late rose or two.
It is a pity there was nobody to see Faith's face; for its tints copied the roses. Surprise and doubt and pleasure made a pretty confusion. She held in her hand the dainty bouquet and looked at it, as if the red leaves could have told her what other hand they were in last; which was what Faith wanted to know.
A step on the porch—a slight knock at the front door, naturally drew her thoughts and feet thither, but whatever Faith expected she did not expect to see Sam Stoutenburgh. One might almost go further and say he did not expect to see her, for he gazed at her as if she had been an apparition—only that his face was red instead of white.
"How do you do, Sam," said Faith, coming back a little to everyday life. "Do you want to see Mr. Linden?"
"O no, Miss Faith!" said Sam—as if it were the last thing in the world he wanted to see.
"Well Sam—what then?"
But Sam was slow to say what then—or indeed to say anything; and what would have been his success is to this day unknown, for at that moment Mr. Linden came down stairs.
"Do you want me, Sam?" he said, approaching the front door.
"No, sir," said Sam (playing both parts of an unwilling witness)—"I—I thought you were out, Mr. Linden."
"O—" Mr. Linden said. "I beg your pardon!" And he not only went into the parlour but shut the door after him.
To no purpose! With him went the remnant of Sam Stoutenburgh's courage, if he had had any to begin with, and after one more glance at Faith he fairly turned his back and fled—without striking his colours. Faith went back to the parlour.
"What is the matter with the boy?" she said, "I couldn't get anything out of him, Mr. Linden."
A somewhat peculiar smile came with the words,
"Couldn't you?"
Faith noticed it, but her thought was elsewhere. She came back to the table, took up the flowers, and said a little timidly,
"Do you know who put these here, Mr. Linden?"
The look changed. "I think I do," he said.
Her look did not change, except to a softened reflection of the one with which she had first viewed them. She viewed them still, bending over them doubtfully; then glancing up at him she shook her head and said,
"You are dressed before me, after all, Mr. Linden!"
And ran away. She was back again in three minutes, with the flowers upon her breast; and if there had been but one adornment in the world that would have fitted her just then, the giver of the flowers had found it. Faith had altered nothing, she had only put them in the right place; and the effect was curious in its beauty. That effect of her flowers was probably the only one unknown to Faith herself, though it was with a face blushing with pleasure that she came in and sat gravely down to be a philosopher.
She gave her teacher little trouble, and promised to give him less. She had excellent capacity, that was plain; with the eager desire for learning which makes the most of it; both the power and the will were there to appropriate and use every word of Mr. Linden's somewhat lawless but curiously skilful manner of instructing her. And the simplicity of her attention was perfect. She did not forget her flowers, probably, during this particular page of philosophizing, for a little tinge on her cheek never ceased to speak of pleasure all through the time; but that was the sole sign of distraction, if distraction there were. Less grave, but more intent, than Mr. Linden himself, the information that Mr. Skip had driven the little wagon round before the door, came to her ears all too soon.
The drive to the Judge's was not very long; it might have been three quarters of a mile; so even at the old horse's rate of travelling they were soon there.
Judge Harrison's house was large and old-fashioned, yet had much more style about it than any other house in Pattaquasset pretended to; and the same was true of its arrangements and furniture. It was comfortable and ample; so was everything in it; with besides that touch of ease and fitness and adaptation which shews always—or generally—that people have lived where there is a freedom from fixed standards. It was so here; for Judge Harrison's family during the life-time of his wife had always spent their winters and often part of their summers away from Pattaquasset—in one of the great cities, New York generally, or at some watering-place. There was also however an amount of good sense and kind temper in the family which made no difference, of intention, between them and the rest of Pattaquasset when they were there; so that they were extremely popular.
Mr. Skip and old Crab were in very good time; there were not more than half assembled of all the good company asked and expected this afternoon. These were all over, in the house and out of the house; observing and speculating. The house was surrounded with pleasant grounds, spreading on two sides in open smooth lawns of considerable extent, and behind the house and the lawns stretching back in a half open shrubbery. On one of the lawns long tables already shewed their note of preparation; on the other there was a somewhat ominous array of benches and chairs; and among them all, round and about everything, scattered the people.
Mrs. Derrick and Faith went upstairs to the unrobing room, where the latter was immediately taken into consultation by Miss Harrison on some matters which promised to keep them both busy for some time. Mr. Linden meanwhile received a very cordial welcome from Judge Harrison, who was cordiality itself.
"Well, Mr. Linden! we've got a good day! Good for the boys and good for us. We've ventured to depart a little from your—instructions! but—I hope—in such a way as not to compromise you. My son and daughter have managed it. I'll introduce him to you"—said the old gentleman looking about,—"but he's somewhere just now."
"I should like to know first, Judge Harrison, what my instructions were," said Mr. Linden, as his eyes likewise made search for the missing doctor.
"O," said the Judge, "all right! I understood your feelings exactly. I used that word because the right one didn't come. I have to do that often. I've heard of the 'pen of a ready writer'—I'm sure I'd rather have the tongue of a ready speaker; but it don't matter for me now. My friends take me as they find me, and so will you, I have little fear. Julius!—Here's my son, Dr. Harrison, Mr. Linden."
Dr. Harrison must have a word of introduction to the reader, though he was one of those who need very little in actual life. He was a handsome man, young but not very young, and came up at his father's call and honoured the introduction to his father's guest, with that easy grace and address which besides being more or less born with a man, tell that much attrition with the world has been at work to take away all his outward roughnesses of nature. He was handsomely dressed too, though not at all in a way to challenge observation. His coat would have startled nobody in Pattaquasset, though it might have told another that its wearer had probably seen France, had probably seen England, and had in short lived much in that kind of society which recognizes the fact of many kinds of coats in the world. His greeting of Mr. Linden was both simple and graceful.
"I am very happy to see you," he said as he shook hands. "I should certainly have come to see you before, but I am more a stranger in Pattaquasset than anybody. I have hardly been at home since I returned; business has drawn me to other quarters—and I am only fortunate enough to be in time for this occasion. It's a good time for me," said he looking round,—"I can renew my old acquaintance with everybody at once—I think all Pattaquasset is here."
"Not grown out of your remembrance, has it?" said Mr. Linden. "How long have you been away?"
"Well—it's had time to grow out of everything! especially out of my memory. I have not been here for five years—and then only for a few days—and before that at College; so I may say I have hardly been here since my boyhood. I don't know anybody but the old ones. I shall apply to you, if you will allow me," said he, drawing himself and Mr. Linden a little more apart from the centre of reception. "Who, for instance, is that very—well-dressed—young lady just entering the hall?—good-looking too."
The doctor's face was very quiet—so were his words; but his eye was upon Miss Cecilia Deacon, who in a low-necked blue silk, with an amber necklace and jet bracelets, was paying her respects to the Judge and his daughter. With equal quietness Mr. Linden made answer.
"By the way," said the doctor suddenly, "I believe we owe this pleasant occasion—very pleasant I think it is going to be—to you."
"Accidentally and innocently, I assure you."
"Yes—of course,"—said Dr. Harrison, with the air of one who needed no information as to Mr. Linden's view of the subject, nor explanation as to its grounds. "But," said he speaking somewhat low,—"my father has the interests of the school—and indeed of all Pattaquasset—truly at heart, and my sister has entered into all his feelings. I am a kind of alien. I hope not to be so.—But, as I was saying, my father and sister putting their heads together, have thought it would have a good effect upon the boys and upon certain interests of the community through them and their parents too, to give some little honours to the best students among them—or to the cleverest boys—which, as you and I know, are not precisely synonymous terms. Would you think well of such an expedient? My father is very anxious to do nothing which shall not quite meet your judgment and wish in the matter."
"I shall leave it in Judge Harrison's hands," said Mr. Linden after a moment's silence: "I should be very sorry to gainsay his wishes in any respect. And some of the boys deserve any honours that can be given them."
"Do they?" said the doctor. "Can you indicate them to me?"
"No," said Mr. Linden smiling. "I shall leave you to find out."
"Leaveme"—said the other. "How did you know what office they had charged upon me? Well—I am making as long a speech as if I were a member of Congress. By the way, Mr. Linden, can you imagine what could induce a man to be that particular member of the body politic? it occupies the place of the feet, I think; such members do little but run to and fro—though I remember I just seemed to give them the place of the tongue—unjustly. They don't do the real talk of the world."
"The realtalk?" said Mr. Linden. "Indeed I think they do their share."
"Of talk?" said the doctor with an acute look at his neighbour. "Well—as I was saying—my sister has provided I believe some red and blue, or red and something, favours of ribband—to be given to the boys who shall merit them. Now to find out that, which you won't tell me, I am to do, under your pleasure, some more talking—to them in public—to see in short how well they can talk to me. Do you like that?"
"Better than they will, perhaps—as merit is sometimes modest."
"I assure you I would happily yield the duty into your hands—who would do it so much better—but I suppose you would say as somebody else—'Let my friend tell my tale.'—Who is that?" said the doctor slowly and softly,—"like the riding pole of a fence—as little to spare—and as rigid—isn't he?—and as long! Don't I remember him?"
"You ought—that is Mr. Simlins."
"Yes"—said the doctor musingly—"I remember him! I incurred his displeasure once, in some boyish way, and if I recollect he is a man that pays his debts. And that unfortunate—next—looks like the perspective of a woman."
But this lady Mr. Linden did not know. She was little, in form and feature, and had besides a certainpinched-inlook of diminutiveness—that seemed to belong to mind as well as body, temper, and life—and had procured her the doctor's peculiar term of description.
"The next thing is," said Dr. Harrison, as his eye slowly roved over the assembled and assembling people—"who is to give the favours? My sister of course does not wish to be forward in the business andIdon't—and you don't. _I _say, the prettiest girl here."
"I think the hands that prepared the favours should dispense them," said Mr. Linden.
"But she won't do it—and ladies have sometimes the power of saying no—they're generally persuadable!—Who's that?" said the doctor with a change of tone, touching Mr. Linden's arm,—"the one in white with a red bouquet de corsage—she's charming! She's the one!"
"That is Miss Derrick."
"She'll do,"—said the doctor softly to his companion, as Faith paused for a quick greeting of the Judge and then passed on out of sight;—"she's charming—Do you suppose she knew what she was about when she put those red leaves and roses together? I didn't know there was that kind of thing in Pattaquasset."
"Yes, they look very well," said Mr. Linden coolly.
"Julius!" said Mrs. Somers, laying hold of the elbow of the suggestive coat, "what do you mean by keeping Mr. Linden and yourself back here. That's the way with you young men—stand off and gaze at a safe distance, and then make believe you're fire proof."
"Don't make believe anything, aunt Ellen," said the young man lightly. "Prove me. You can take me up to the cannon's mouth—or any other!—and see if I am afraid of it."
"I shall prove you before I take you anywhere," said Mrs. Somers. "You needn't talk to me in that style. But it's a little hard upon the boys to keep Mr. Linden here out of sight,—half of them don't know whether they're on their head or their heels till they see him, I can tell from their faces."
"Mr. Linden," said the doctor with a gesture of invitation to his companion,—"shall we go? Does it depend upon your face which of the positions mentioned is to be assumed?"
The two gentlemen accordingly threaded their way to the scene of action; passing, among others, Squire Deacon and Mr. Simlins whom Mr. Linden greeted together. Mr. Simlins' answer was a mighty grasp of the hand. Squire Deacon's deserved little attention, and got it.
The party were now on the lawn, at one side of which the boys had clustered and were standing in expectation.
"I think, Mr. Linden," said the doctor, "if you will explain to the boys what is to become of them in the next hour, I will go and see about the fair distributor of the favours—and then I suppose we shall be ready."
It was well Dr. Harrison chose such a messenger,—no one else could have brought quietness out of those few dismayed minutes when the boys first learned what was 'to become of them'; and the Judge would have felt remorseful about his secret, had he seen the swift wings on which Pleasure took her departure from the little group. It took all Mr. Linden's skill, not to enforce submission, but to bring pleasure back; perhaps nothing less than his half laughing half serious face and words, could have kept some of the boys from running away altogether. And while some tried to beg off, and some made manful efforts not to feel afraid, others made desperate efforts to remember; and some of the little ones could be reassured by nothing but the actual holding of Mr. Linden's hand in theirs. So they stood, grouped in and out the trees at the further edge of the lawn, till their teacher disengaged himself and came back to the house, leaving the parting directions—to say what they knew, and not try to say what they knew not.
Meanwhile Dr. Harrison had found his sister, and after a little consulting the two had pressed their father into the service; and then the three sought Faith. She was discovered at last on the other lawn, by one of the tables, Miss Harrison having dismayfully recollected that she had asked Faith to help her dress them, and then had left her all alone to do it. But Faith was not all alone; for Mr Simlins stood there like a good-natured ogre, watching her handling and disposing of the green leaves and late flowers with which she was surrounded, and now and then giving a most extraordinary suggestion as to the same.
"Faith," said Miss Harrison after she had introduced her brother,—"I want you to give these favours to the boys. Somebody must do it, and I can't—and you must!"
"You see, my dear," said Judge Harrison, "Sophy and Julius want their fête to go off as prettily as possible; and so they want you to do this for them because you're the prettiest girl here."
"Then I can't do it, sir," said Faith. She blushed very prettily, to be sure, but she spoke very quietly.
"Faith! you will do it for me?" said Miss Harrison.
"I can't, Sophy."
"Nobody would do it so well as you—half!"
"But I can't do it at all." And Faith went on leafing her dishes.
"I dare put in no petition of my own," said the doctor then; "but I will venture to ask on the part of Mr. Linden, that you will do him and the school such a service."
Faith's dark eyes opened slightly. "Did he ask you, sir?"
"I cannot answer that," said the doctor, a little taken aback. "I have presumed on what I am sure are his wishes."
He did not know what to make of her smile, nor of the simplicity with which Faith answered, in spite of her varying colour,
"You have been mistaken, sir."
The doctor gave it up and said he was very sorry.
"Then whoshalldo it?" said Miss Harrison. "Miss Essie de Staff?"
"She'll do," said the Judge. And the doctor, raising his eyebrows a little, and dropping his concern, offered his arm to Faith to go to the scene of action. So it happened that as Mr. Linden entered the hall from one side door, he met the whole party coming in from the other, the doctor carrying the basket of blue and red favours which he had taken to present to Faith. But he stood still to let them pass, taking the full effect of the favours, the doctor, the red leaves and their white-robed wearer; and then followed in his turn.
All the inhabitants of the house and grounds were now fast gathering on the other lawn. Miss Sophy and her father separated different ways, the former taking the basket to commit it to Miss de Staff; and the doctor being obliged to go to his place in the performance, left his charge where he might. But nobody minded his neighbour now; Faith did not; the boys were drawn up in a large semicircle, and the doctor taking his place in front of them, all in full view of the assembled townsmen of Pattaquasset, proceeded to his duty of examiner.
He did it well. He was evidently, to those who could see it, thoroughly at home himself in all the subjects upon which he touched and made the boys touch; so thoroughly, that he knew skilfullywhereto touch, and what to expect of them. He shewed himself a generous examiner too; he keenly enough caught the weak and strong points in the various minds he was dealing with, and gracefully enough brought the good to light, and only shewed the other so much as was needful for his purposes. He did not catch, nor entrap, nor press hardly; the boys had fair play but they had favour too.
The boys, on their part, were not slow to discover his good qualities; and it was certainly a comfort to them to know that they were acquitted or condemned on right grounds. Beyond that, there were curious traits of character brought to light, for those who had eyes to read them.
The two head boys—Reuben Taylor and Sam Stoutenburgh, though but little apart in their scholarship were widely different in the manifestation thereof. Sam Stoutenburgh's rather off-hand, dashing replies, generally hit the mark; but the steady, quiet clearheadedness of Reuben not only placed him in advance, but gave indications which no one could read who had not the key to his character. He coloured sometimes, but it was from modesty; while part of Sam Stoutenburgh's blushes came from his curls. Little Johnny Fax, by dint of fixing his eyes upon Mr. Linden's far-off form (he had been petitioned to stand in sight) went bravely through his short part of the performance; and proved that he knew what he knew, if he didn't know much; and of the rest there need nothing be said.
Among the lookers-on there were also indications. To those who did not know him, Mr. Linden's face looked as unmoved as the pillar against which he leaned,—yet the varying play of light and shade upon the one was well repeated in the other. Squire Stoutenburgh nodded and smiled, to himself and his neighbours, and made little aside observations—"Thattold, sir!"—"Always was a good boy!—studious."—"Yes—Reuben Taylor does well—very well, considering who his father is."
That father the while, stood alone—even beyond the outskirts of the gay party. With Miss Cilly's blue dress he had nothing in common—as little with Faith's spotless white. Dark, weatherbeaten, dressed for his boat and the clam banks, he stood there on the green turf as if in a trance. Unable to follow one question or answer, his eager eye caught every word of Reuben's voice; his intent gaze read first the assurance that it would be right, then the assurance that it was. The whole world might have swept by him in a pageant—and he would scarcely have turned to look!
There was one other listener perhaps, whose interest was as rapt as his; that was Faith. But her interest was of more manifold character. There was the natural feeling for and with the boys; and there was sympathy for their instructor and concern for his honour, which latter grew presently to be a very gratified concern. Then also Dr. Harrison's examination was a matter of curious novelty; and back of all that, lay in Faith's mind a deep, searching, pressing interest in the subject matters of it. What of all that,sheknew,—how little,—and how much the boys;—how vastly much Dr. Harrison; what far-reaching fields of knowledge there were in some people's minds. Where was Faith's mind going? Yet she was almost as outwardly quiet as Mr. Linden himself. All her shew of feeling was in the intent eye, the grave face, and a little deepening and deepening tinge in her cheeks.
The questioning and answering was over—the boys were all in their ranks—there was a little hush and stir of expectancy,—and Dr. Harrison gave his hand to a very bright lady with a basket and led her to a position by his side, filling the eye of the whole assembly. Faith looked over to her with a tiny giving way of the lips which meant a great self-gratulation that she was not in the lady's place. There she stood, very much at home apparently,—Miss Essie de Staff, as fifty mouths said at once. She was rather a little lady, not very young, nor old; dressed in a gay-coloured plaid silk, with a jaunty little black apron with pockets, black hair in curls behind her ears, and a glitter of jewelry. It was not false jewelry, nor ill put on, and this was Miss Essie de Staff. She belonged to the second great family of Pattaquasset; she too had been abroad and had seen life like the Harrisons; but somehow she had seen it in a different way; and while the de Staffs had the shew, the Harrisons always had the reality of precedence in the town.
And Dr. Harrison, raising slightly again his voice, which was a melodious one, said,
"The ladies of Pattaquasset intend to honour with a blue ribband the five elder boys who have spoken best; and with a favour of red ribband the five little boys who have done the same on their part. Miss Essie de Staff will do us the honour to bestow them.—Reuben Taylor, will you come forward—here, if you please."
The 'favours' made a little stir among the group; and Reuben, who had been too much absorbed in the examination for its own sake to think much of the question of precedence, came forward at first with hesitation—then steadily and firmly.
Miss Essie stepped a little forward to meet him, gave her basket to Doctor Harrison, and taking a blue favour from it she smilingly attached the same securely to the left breast of Reuben's coat.
"Don't leave your place," said the doctor to him in a low tone;—"I mean," he added smiling,—"go back to it and stay there.—Sam Stoutenburgh!"—
The doctor spoke like a man a little amused at himself for the part he was playing, but he did it well, nevertheless. And Reuben, who would fain have put himself and his blue ribband out of sight behind the rest, went back to his place, while Sam stepped briskly forward and received the decoration in turn. Very different his air from Reuben's,—very different Reuben's grave and grateful bend of the head from the way in which Sam's hand covered at once his heart and the blue ribband. The four boys next in degree to Reuben were severally invested with their blue stars.
"Johnny Fax!"—said Dr. Harrison. "Miss Essie, you are laying us under nameless obligations.—Johnny, come and get your ribband."
Johnny came—looking first at Dr. Harrison and then at Miss Essie, as if a little uncertain what they were going to do with him; but apparently the fluttering red favour pleased his fancy, for he smiled a little, and then looked quite away over Miss Essie's shoulder as she bent towards him. For which neglect of the lady's face his youth and inexperience must account. But when the favour was on, Johnny's eyes came back, and he said simply,
"Thank you, ma'am. Shall I keep it always?"
"By all means!" said Miss Essie. "Never part with it."
The five little fellows were made splendid; and then there was a pause. Miss Essie stepped back and was lost. Doctor Harrison made a sign with his hand, and two servants came on the lawn bringing between them a table covered with a red cloth. It was set down before Dr. Harrison and his sister came beside him.
"My dear friends," said the doctor raising his voice again, and giving his sister at the same time the benefit of a slight play of face which others were not so situated they could see,—"You have all done yourselves and somebody else, a great deal of credit. I hope you will thank him;—as we wish to shew our pleasure to you. It was not to be expected that everybody would be first this time—though on the next occasion I have no doubt that will prove to be the case; but as we could not of course in consequence give stars to all, we will do the best we can. Reuben Taylor—"
Again Reuben came forward; the doctor had pulled off the red cloth, and a tempting pile of books, large and small and nicely bound, rose up to view upon the table. And Miss Harrison as Reuben came near, chose out one of the best and handed it to him, saying softly, "You have done very well."
Now Miss Sophy Harrison was, as everyone knew and said, thoroughly good and kind, like her father. She had chosen the books. And the one she had given Reuben was a very nice copy of the Pilgrim's Progress. She might have felt herself repaid by the one earnest look his eyes gave her,—then he bowed silently and retired.
The list would be too long to go through. Every one was pleased this time; the Harrisons had done the thing well; and it may only be noted in passing that Johnny Fax's delight and red ribband were crowned and finished oil with an excellent Robinson Crusoe. Then broke up and melted off the assembled throng, like—I want a simile,—like the scattering of a vapoury cloud in the sky. It was everywhere and nowhere directly—that which before had been a distinct mass.