Produced by Daniel Fromont
[Transcriber's note: Susan Warner (1819-1885) & Anna Warner
(1824-1915), _Say and seal_(1860), Tauchnitz edition 1860 volume 1]
COLLECTION
OF
BRITISH AUTHORS
VOL. CCCXCVIII.
SAY AND SEAL.
IN TWO VOLUMES.
VOL. I.
"If any man make religion as twelve, and the world as thirteen, such a
one hath not the spirit of a true New England man."
HIGGINSON.
PREFACE.
It is a melancholy fact, that this book is somewhat larger than the
mould into which most of the fluid fiction material is poured in this
degenerate age. You perceive, good reader, that it has run over--in the
latest volume.
Doubtless the Procrustean critic would say, "Cut it off,"--which point
we waive.
The book is really of very moderate limits--considering that two women
had to have their say in it.
It is pleasant to wear a glove when one shakes hands with the Public;
therefore we still use our ancestors' names instead of our own,--but it
is fair to state, that in this case there are a pair of gloves!--Which
is the right glove, and which the left, the Public will never know.
A word to that "dear delightful" class of readers who believe
everything that is written, and do not look at the number of the last
page till they come to it--nor perhaps even then. Well they and the
author know, that if the heroine cries--or laughs--too much, it is
nobody's fault but her own! Gently they quarrel with him for not
permitting them to see every Jenny happily married and every Tom with
settled good habits. Most lenient readers!--when you turn publishers,
then will such books doubtless be written! Meantime, hear this.
In a shady, sunshiny town, lying within certain bounds--geographical or
imaginary,--these events (really or in imagination) occurred. Precisely
when, the chroniclers do not say. Scene opens with the breezes which
June, and the coming of a new school teacher, naturally create. After
the fashion of the place, his lodgings are arranged for him beforehand,
by the School Committee. But where, or in what circumstances, the scene
may close,--having told at the end of the book, we do not incline to
tell at the beginning.
ELIZABETH WETHERELL.
AMY LOTHROP.
NEW YORK, _Feb. 1, 1860_.
SAY AND SEAL.
BY
THE AUTHOR OF "WIDE WIDE WORLD,"
AND
THE AUTHOR OF "DOLLARS AND CENTS."
_COPYRIGHT EDITION_.
IN TWO VOLUMES.
VOL. I.
LEIPZIG
BERNHARD TAUCHNITZ
1860.
SAY AND SEAL.
VOL. I.
CHAPTER I.
The street was broad, with sidewalks, and wide grass-grown borders, and
a spacious track of wheels and horses' feet in the centre. Great elms,
which the early settlers planted, waved their pendant branches over the
peaceful highway, and gave shelter and nest-room to numerous orioles,
killdeer, and robins; putting off their yellow leaves in the autumn,
and bearing their winter weight of snow, in seeming quiet assurance
that spring would make amends for all. So slept the early settlers in
the churchyard!
Along the street, at pleasant neighbourly intervals--not near enough to
be crowded, nor far enough to be lonely--stood the
houses,--comfortable, spacious, compact,--"with no nonsense about
them." The Mong lay like a mere blue thread in the distance, its course
often pointed out by the gaff of some little sloop that followed the
bends of the river up toward Suckiaug. The low rolling shore was
spotted with towns and spires: over all was spread the fairest blue sky
and floating specks of white.
Not many sounds were astir,--the robins whistled, thief-like, over the
cherry-trees; the killdeer, from some high twig, sent forth his sweet
clear note; and now and then a pair of wheels rolled softly along the
smooth road: the rush of the wind filled up the pauses. Anybody who was
down by the Mong might have heard the soft roll of his blue
waters,--any one by the light-house might have heard the harsher dash
of the salt waves.
I might go on, and say that if anybody had been looking out of Mrs.
Derrick's window he or she might have seen--what Mrs. Derrick really
saw! For she was looking out of the window (or rather through the
blind) at the critical moment that afternoon. It would be too much to
say that she placed herself there on purpose,--let the reader suppose
what he likes.
At the time, then, that the village clock was striking four, when
meditative cows were examining the length of their shadows, and all the
geese were setting forth for their afternoon swim, a stranger opened
Mrs. Derrick's little gate and walked in. Stretching out one hand to
the dog in token of good fellowship, (a classical mind might have
fancied him breaking the cake by whose help Quickear got past the
lions,) he went up the walk, neither fast nor slow, ascended the steps,
and gave what Mrs. Derrick called "considerable of a rap" at the door.
That done, he faced about and looked at the far off blue Mong.
Not more intently did he eye and read that fair river; not more swiftly
did his thoughts pass from the Mong to things beyond human ken; than
Mrs. Derrick eyed and read--his back, and suffered her ideas to roam
into the far off regions of speculation. The light summer coat, the
straw hat, were nothing uncommon; but the silk umbrella was too good
for the coat--the gloves and boots altogether extravagant!
"He ain't a bit like the Pattaquasset folks, Faith," she said, in a
whisper thrown over her shoulder to her daughter.
"Mother--"
Mrs. Derrick replied by an inarticulate sound of interrogation.
"I wish you wouldn't stand just there. Do come away!"
"La, child," said Mrs. Derrick, moving back about half an inch, "he's
looking off into space."
"But he'll be in.--"
"Not till somebody goes to the door," said Mrs. Derrick, "and there's
not a living soul in the house but us two."
"Why didn't you say so before? Must I go, mother?"
"He didn't seem in a hurry," said her mother,--"and I wasn't. Yes, you
can go if you like, child--and if you don't like, I'll go."
With a somewhat slower step than usual, with a slight hesitating touch
of her hand to the smooth brown hair which lay over her temples, Miss
Faith moved through the hall to the front door, gently opened it, and
stood there, in the midst of the doorway, fronting the stranger. By no
means an uncomely picture for the frame; for the face was good, the
figure trim, and not only was the rich hair smooth, but a little white
ruffle gave a dainty setting to the throat and chin which rose above
it, both themselves rather on the dainty order.
I say fronting the stranger,--yet to speak truth the stranger was not
fronting her. For having made one more loud appeal to the knocker,
having taken off his hat, the better to feel the soft river breeze, he
stood as before "looking off into space;" but with one hand resting
more decidedly upon the silk umbrella.
Faith took a minute's view of decidedly pleasant outlines of shoulders
and head--or what she thought such--glanced at the hand which grasped
the umbrella handle,--and then lifting her own fingers to the knocker
of the door, caused it gently to rise and fall.
A somewhat long breath escaped the stranger--as if the sound chimed in
with his thoughts--nothing more.
Faith stood still and waited.
Perhaps that last sound of the knocker had by degrees asserted its
claim to reality; perhaps impatience began to assert _its_ claim;
perhaps that long elm-tree shadow which was creeping softly on, even to
his very feet, broke in upon the muser's vision. Certainly he turned
with a very quick motion towards the door, and a gesture of the hand
which said that this time the knocker should speak out. The door
however stood open,--the knocker beyond his reach; and Miss Faith so
nearly within it, that he dropped his hand even quicker than he had
raised it.
"I beg your pardon!" he said, with a grave inclination of the head. "I
believe I knocked."
"Yes, sir--I thought you had forgotten," said Faith; not with perfect
demureness, which she would like to have achieved. "Will you please to
come in?" And somewhat regardless of consequences, leaving the hall
door where it stood, Faith preceded her guest along the hall and again
performed for him the office of door-opener at the parlour, ushering
him thus into the presence of her mother.
Mrs. Derrick was seated in the rocking-chair, at the furthest corner
from the window, and perfectly engrossed with the last monthly
magazine. But she came out of them all with wonderful ease and
promptness, shook hands very cordially with the new comer, seated him
in her corner and chair before he could make much resistance, and would
also have plunged him into the magazine--but there he was firm.
"If you would only make yourself comfortable while I see where your
baggage is?" said the good lady.
"But I can tell you where it is, ma'am," said he looking up at
her,--"it is at the station, and will be here in half an hour."
"Well when did you have dinner?" said Mrs. Derrick, resolved upon doing
something.
"Yesterday," was his quiet reply. "To-day I have been in the cars."
"O my! my!" said Mrs. Derrick,--"then of course we'll have tea at once.
Faith!"
"I'm here, mother. I'll go and see to it, right away."
But in some mysterious manner the stranger reached the doorway before
either of the ladies.
"Mrs. Derrick--Miss Faith--I told you that I had had no dinner, and
that was true. It is also true that I am in not the least hurry for
tea. Please do not have it until your usual time." And he walked back
to his seat.
But after the slightest possible pause of hesitancy, Faith had
disappeared. Her mother followed her.
"Child," she said, "what on earth is his name?"
"Mother! how should I know? I didn't ask him."
"But the thing is," said Mrs. Derrick, "I _did_ know,--the Committee
told me all about it. And of course he thinks I know, and I don't--no
more than I do my great-grandmother's name, which I never did remember
yet."
"Mother--shall I go and ask him?--or wait till after supper?"
"O you sha'n't go," said her mother. "Wait till after supper and we'll
send Cindy. He won't care about his name till he gets his tea, I'll
warrant. But what made you so long getting the door open, child? Does
it stick?"
"Why," said Faith, baring her arms and entering upon sundry quick
movements about the room, "it _was_ open and he didn't know it."
"Didn't know it!" said Mrs. Derrick,--"my! I hope he ain't
short-sighted. Now Faith, I'm not going to have you burn your face for
all the school teachers in Connecticut. Keep away, child, I'll put on
the kettle myself. Cindy must have found her beau again--it's as
tiresome as tiresome can be."
"It's just as well, mother; I'd rather do it myself. Now you go in and
find what his name is, and I'll have everything together directly. The
oven's hot now."
"I'll go in presently," said Mrs. Derrick; "but as to asking him what
his name is--la, child, I'd just as soon ask him where he came from."
And in deep thought on the subject, Mrs. Derrick stepped briskly about
the kitchen.
"Faith," she said, "where shall I ask him to sit?"
"Will you pour out tea--or shall I, mother?"
"What's that to do?"
"Why I was thinking--but it don't matter where you put him. There's
four sides to the table."
"Don't talk of my putting him anywhere, child--I'm as afraid of him as
can be." And Mrs. Derrick went back to see how time went with her guest.
It went fast or slow, I suppose, after all, somewhat according to the
state of his appetite. One hour and ten minutes certainly had slipped
away--if he was hungry he knew that another ten minutes was following
in train--when at length the parlour door opened again and Faith stood
there, with a white apron on and cheeks a good deal heightened in
colour since the date of their last appearance.
"Mother, tea's ready. Cindy hasn't got back." And having made this
gentle announcement, Faith disappeared again, leaving it to her mother
to shew the way to the supper-room.
This was back of the parlour and communicated with the kitchen, from
which Faith came in as they entered, bearing a plate of white biscuits,
smoking hot, in her hand. The floor was painted with thick yellow
paint, smooth and shining; plenty of windows let in plenty of light and
the sweet evening air; the table stood covered with a clean brownish
table-cloth,--but what a supper covered that! Rosy slices of boiled
ham, snowy rounds of 'milk emptyings', bread, strawberries,
pot-cheeses, pickles, fried potatoes, and Faith's white cakes, with tea
and coffee!
Now as Faith had laid the clean napkin for the stranger at the foot of
the table, opposite her mother, it cannot be thought presumption in him
that he at once took his seat there; thus relieving Mrs. Derrick's mind
of an immense responsibility. Yet something in his manner then made her
pause and look at him, though she did not expect to see him bow his
head and ask for a blessing on the meal before them. If that was
presumption, neither of his hearers felt it so,--the little flush on
the mother's cheek told rather of emotion, of some old memory now
quickened into life. Her voice even trembled a little as she said,--
"Will you have tea or coffee, sir?"
And Faith offered her biscuit.
"Or there's bread, if you like it better, sir."
"The biscuits are best," said her mother,--"Faith's biscuits are always
good."
And he took a biscuit, while a very slight unbending of the lines of
his face said that the excellence of Faith's handiwork was at least not
always so apparent.
"Miss Faith, what shall I give you in return that is beyond your reach
and (comparatively) within mine?"
Possibly--possibly, the slight grave opening of two rather dark eyes
confessed that in her apprehension the store thus designated, from
which he might give her, was very large indeed. But if that was so, her
lips came short of the truth, for she answered,--
"I don't want anything, thank you."
"Not even butter?"--with his hand on the knife.
Faith seemed inclined not to want butter, but finally submitted and
held out her plate. Whereupon, having helped her and himself, the
stranger diverged a little, with the rather startling question,
"What sort of a Flora have you in this neighbourhood?"
"There isn't any, mother?" said Faith, with a doubtful appeal towards
the tea-tray.
A pleasant look fell upon her while her look went away--a look which
said he would like to tell her all about the matter, then and there;
but merely taking another of the white biscuits, he went on to ask
whether the roads were good and the views fine.
"The roads are first-rate," said Mrs. Derrick. "I don't know much of
views myself, but Faith thinks they're wonderful."
"I don't suppose they are _wonderful_," said Faith; "but it is pretty
up the Mong, and I am sure, mother, it's pretty down on the shore
towards the sunsetting."
"And how is it towards the sunrising?"
"I never saw it--we never go down there then," Faith said, with a very
frank smile.
"Faith always stays by me," said Mrs. Derrick; "if I can t go, she
won't. And of course I never can at that time of day. It's quite a way
down to the shore."
"What shore?"
"It's the sea-shore--that is, not the real sea-shore--it's only the
Sound," said Faith; "but there is the salt-water, and it is as good as
the sea."
"How far off?" said the stranger, bestowing upon Faith a saucer of
strawberries.
Faith would have asked him to help himself, but taking notice mentally
that he was extremely likely to do so, she contented herself with
replying, "It's about two miles."
"And what are some of the 'good' things there?"
"Perhaps you wouldn't think it much," said Faith modestly;--"but the
water is pretty, and I like to see the ships and vessels on it going up
and down; and the points of the shore and the wet stones look such
beautiful colours when the sun is near set."
"I like stones--whether wet or dry," said her questioner.
"Most people here don't like them," said Faith. "But there are plenty
down by the sea-shore.--And plenty on the farm too," she added.
"Ah, people like and dislike things for very different reasons, Miss
Faith," he answered; "so perhaps your neighbours and I are not so far
apart in our opinions as you may think. Only I believe, that while
there is 'a time to cast away stones,' there is also 'a time to gather
stones together'--and therein perhaps they would not agree with me."
Faith looked up, and her lips parted--and if the thought had been
spoken which parted them, it would probably have been a confession that
she did not understand, or a request for more light. But if her face
did not say it for her she did not say it for herself.
If anybody could have seen Mrs. Derrick's face while these little
sentences went back and forth, he would have acknowledged it was worth
the sight. Her awe and admiration of every word uttered by the
stranger--the intense interest with which she waited for every word
spoken by Faith--the slight look of anxiety changing to one of perfect
satisfaction,--was pretty to see.
"Faith," she said when tea was over, and her guest had walked to the
front door to take another look at 'space,' "Faith, don't you think he
liked his supper?"
"I should think he would--after having no dinner," said Faith.
"But it was such a mercy, child, that you hadn't gone out to supper
anywhere--I can't think what I should have done. There's Cindy this
minute!--run and tell her to go right away and find out what his name
is--tell her I want to know,--you can put it in good words."
"Mother!--I'd rather ask him myself."
But that did not suit Mrs. Derrick's ideas of propriety. And stepping
out into the kitchen she despatched Cindy on her errand. Cindy
presently came back from the front door, and went into the dining-room,
but not finding Mrs. Derrick she handed a card to Faith.
"It's easy done," said Cindy. "I just asked him if he'd any objections
towards tellin' his name--and he kinder opened his eyes at me and said
no. Then I said, says I, Mis' Derrick do know, and she'd like ter.
'Miss Derrick!' says he--and he took out his pencil and writ that. But
I'd like to know _what_ he cleans his pencil with," said Cindy in
conclusion, "for I'm free to confess I never see brass shine so in my
born days."
Faith took the card and read,--
JOHN ENDECOTT LINDEN.
She looked a little curiously at the pencilling, at the formation of
the capitals and of the small letters; then laid it down and gave her
attention to the dishes of the supper-table.