Say and Seal, Volume I

"You aint, neither!—I know you aint. Reuben Taylor says you aint."

The lamplight did not serve to reveal Faith's changes of face and colour, neither did Dr. Harrison wait to observe them.

"What do you mean, sir?" he said, catching hold of the boy's arm. "Why do you speak so to a lady?—what isn't she?"

"Somebody's sweetheart," said the boy resolutely. "She aint. ReubenTaylor says she aint."

"You'll never be, my fine fellow," said the doctor letting him go,—"if you don't learn more discretion. I must tell Mr. Linden his boys want a trifle of something besides Algebra. That don't give all the relative values of things."

"Pray do not! don't speak of it, Dr. Harrison!" said Faith.

He tried to see her face, but he could not.

"Hardly worth while," he said lightly. "Boys will be boys—which is an odd way of excusing them for not being civilized things. However if you excuse him, I will."

Faith said nothing. She was trying to get over the sudden jar of those words. They had not told her anything she did not believe—she thought no other; but they gave her nevertheless a keen stir of pain—a revival of the pain she had quieted at Neanticut; and somehow this was worse than that. Could Reuben Taylor talk about her so?—could Reuben Taylor have any authority for doing it? But that question would not stand answering. Faith's red oak leaves were a little AEgis to her then, a tangible precious representative of all the answer that question would not wait for. No sting of pain could enter that way. But the pain was bad enough; and under the favouring shadowy light of the lamps she strove and strove to quiet it; while the doctor went on talking.

"Indeed,"—said he—going on with the subject of Phil's speech,—"I am obliged to him for his information—which was of course incorrect. But I am very glad to hear it nevertheless. Other people's sweethearts, you know, are 'tabooed'—sacred ground—not to be approached without danger to all concerned. But now—if you will allow me, I think I shall claim you for mine."

Whatever look the words may have, they did not sound rude. They were said with a careless half-amused, half gentle manner, which might leave his hearer in doubt whether the chief purpose of them were not to fall pleasantly on her ear and drive away any disagreeable remainders of Phil's insolence. But Faith scarce heard him. She was struggling with that unbidden pain, and trying with all the simplicity and truth of her nature and with the stronger help she had learned to seek, to fight it down. She had never thought such an utterly vain thought as that suggested in Phil's words; in her humility and modesty she chid herself that it should have come into her head even when other people's words had forced it there. Her humility was very humble now. And in it she quietly took up with the good she had, of which her roses were even then breathing sweet reminders in her face; putting from her all thought of good that did not belong to her and she could not deserve.

The uncertain light favoured her well, or Dr. Harrison would have seen too much of her face-play. They had been going on and on, and the doctor had been as usual talking, and she had managed now and then to seem to give an answer—she never remembered to what; and her part in the conversation all along had been so modestly small that the doctor hardly knew when or whether she had ceased to comprehend him. But they emerged at last upon the lawn, where Faith was taken possession of and marched off by the old Judge, nothing loth.

The doctor casting about for another fish to throw his line at, spied Reuben Taylor, standing alone, and eying as Mr. Linden and Faith had done the gay scene about the house, now gay with the many-coloured lamps.

"Well, my man," said the doctor easily accosting him as he stood there, "you did very well this afternoon. How long have you been at the school?"

Reuben made answer with his usual respectful courtesy.

"Are you a friend of Miss Derrick's?"

"I think Miss Derrick is my friend, sir," said Reuben with a little flush.

"Is she?" said the doctor. "Well don't you think that comes to the same thing?"

"No sir."

"No? What's the difference? I'm not examining you now—I am asking for information."

"I think you must know, sir," said Reuben, respectfully but firmly, after a glance at his questioner.

"Do you?" said the doctor laughing slightly. "Well, if you are not her friend, it don't signify. I was going to remark to you, if you were, that ladies don't generally care to have their private affairs talked about, and however much you may know, it is not always worth while to tell it."

"I neither know nor have said anything, Dr. Harrison," said Reuben, drawing himself up a little, and looking full in the doctor's face.

"You're Reuben Taylor, aren't you?"

"Yes sir—I'm not anybody else though."

"No," said the doctor carelessly. "Well, it isn't necessary you should be, for present purposes. I heard you quoted as authority just now, on something which touched that lady's affairs, whose friend you say you are not—and I think, your friend though she may be, she was not particularly gratified with your interference."

"Miss Faith knew it was a wrong quotation," said Reuben quietly.

"You are sure of that?"

"Quite sure, sir—if it was anything about her which ought not to have said."

"Don't know that it was," said the doctor; "it's well enough sometimes to set people right when they are wrong—what I say is, that ladies don't always thank one for it."

Reuben flushed a little.

"You don't know me, Dr. Harrison," he said—"I can't expect you to take my word; but I have nothing to add to it."

"And I have nothing to add to mine," said the doctor lightly. "I heard you quoted—that's all; I supposed you would know what for."

"Who did you hear, sir?"

"Don't know, really," said the doctor—"only he was a rude fellow—if you can tell one by such a description among your mates, it was he."

And the doctor strolled away.

Reuben on his part seemed to recognize the description, for taking a sort of intuitive bee-line through people and trees, he suddenly brought up with the question,

"Phil Davids, what have you been saying about me?"

"I s'pose you think folks have nothing to do but talk about you now.You're a long way out!"—was the careless answer.

"What did you say I said?" said Reuben.

"I never heard you say anything, as I know, that was worth tellin' over. When I do, I'll let somebody know it, I tell you."

"I suppose that means that you won't answer my question," said Reuben."What I want to know is, not what I said, but what you say I said."

"About what?"

"About Miss Faith Derrick."

"I don't say you said nothing about her—I never heard you call her name, as I know."

"Like enough," said Reuben, with a sort of resolute patience; "but what did you say I said that had to do with her in any way?"

"Who do you think you air?" said Phil.

"I tell you what, Phil Davids," said Sam Stoutenburgh, who had heard the last question or two, "if you don't keep your tongue off Miss Derrick, I'll pitch you up into a pine tree so far that you'll see stars before you come down—or I'm not Stoutenburgh nor stout, neither!" and Sam—who was a little of a young giant—backed Phil up against the tree that was nearest in a sort of preparatory way that was rather breathless. Phil however was as tough as shoe leather.

"Suppos'n you keep eyes off her, then," said he struggling. "It's a poor rule that don't work both ways."

"What have you been about?" said Sam,—"come, own up for once—just to try how it feels."