MISS FLINT'S ROMANCE.
IN after-days I knew that Cousin Dorothy's regard for Herbert
Kenningham was neither owing to Mrs. Burford's introduction, nor to the
very distant relationship which really could be traced between Miss
Flint and her guest.
The truth was, that my cousin's fair girlhood had not been without its
romantic episode, though no one looking at the elderly spinster of
to-day, with her eccentricities of dress, speech, and manner, would
have suspected this.
The visitor in whose honour the plate had been brought from the bank,
and the Hall turned its best side out, could not have connected any
memory of Miss Flint's young days with her evident partiality for
himself. Had he known all, he might have done so.
As Cousin Dorothy looked in the face of her young guest, she saw the
living semblance of another Herbert Kenningham, his uncle and her
distant cousin. Looking at the young man of to-day, her thoughts went
back over long years, and she pictured herself as a girl of nineteen,
an only child, a rich heiress, followed, flattered, sought by many, who
all pleaded in vain.
Apart from the crowd stood one—that far-away cousin—just five years
older than herself, a model of brave young manhood, with a nature
equally strong and tender. Cousin Dorothy could call to mind how
his elders trusted him, how little children haunted his steps and
tried to coax him into companionship, and how dogs would follow him
uninvited, happy in being near him. She remembered his patience with
the pertinacious youngsters, his courtesy to the old and unattractive,
his kindness to animals, for the veriest mongrel was sure of a pat and
a kind word.
Cousin Dorothy was just the one to appreciate all that was good and
noble in this only individual who kept aloof from her. But she could
not understand why he ever lingered near, yet never asked for what her
heart told her was indeed his already. She did not dream that poverty
sealed his lips, and that, whilst she joyfully thought, "I have enough
for both," his feeling was, "Were I to ask Dorothy to become my wife,
she might judge that I was only one amongst the fortune-hunters who are
always besieging her, and speak of me as she has done of others."
So the words which might have changed the future of two lives were
never spoken, and the paths of Dorothy Flint and Herbert Kenningham
crossed no more.
Neither married, but he died in a foreign land at six-and-thirty, and
just when fortune was favouring him after twelve years of hard work.
From his sick-bed, he wrote to Cousin Dorothy, and told her that,
through all this time, she had held the chief place in his thoughts and
had been the one love of his life.
He told her of his struggles, made easy through long years by the hope
of seeing her again, and of telling the tale which so often trembled on
his lips during his days of poverty. He sent her a ring, only a plain
gold one, with the motto "True till death" inside it, and asked her to
wear it for his sake.
Cousin Dorothy placed the ring on her wedding-finger, and from that
moment never removed it. She would have gone to the bedside of the
sender had this been possible, but the news of his death followed so
immediately after his letter announcing his serious illness, that there
was no chance of this.
From that time began those eccentricities of speech, dress, and manner
which had grown with her years and made her the Dorothy Flint whom I
have endeavoured to picture as I knew her.
People imagined that she loved money, and hoarded it for its own sake,
but they were mistaken. Cousin Dorothy regarded her wealth as the
thing which had stood between her and Herbert Kenningham, and proved a
misfortune instead of a blessing.
"Why should I care to spend on myself what has robbed me of him?" she
asked herself in the time of her great sorrow. "My wealth sealed his
lips and hindered him from telling, in time, the story of his true,
pure love. What could rich clothing or rich jewels do to make amends
for the loss of a faithful heart? They are less than nothing to me
now, and I will have none of them. But I have one source of joy and
comfort. Though we were parted by a mere shadow, I know that through
all those years the noblest nature I ever met with, placed me first in
its esteem, the kindliest heart beat true to me!"
In this thought Cousin Dorothy found her best consolation. All that
the world values or wealth can buy would never have given comfort to
a nature like hers. Had I known these particulars when the namesake
of Cousin Dorothy's dead love first came to Lint Hall, the knowledge
would have spared me some of the jealous feeling which his presence
engendered in my mind, though I should still have made myself fairly
miserable on account of his being thrown so much into Nelly Burford's
society. Miss Flint's openly expressed hostility to myself, made me put
the worst construction on her motives in bringing him to the Hall.
I cannot tell how Betsy Harwood obtained her information, except on the
principle which I have named as peculiar to country towns in general,
namely, that everybody knows everything about everybody else. Betsy
it was who told me that there had been "a fine to-do about Miss Nelly
coming to Rose Cottage."
"The master might have no right to take his daughter out with him or to
call on a friend, by the way Mrs. Burford lectured him," said Betsy.
"But how did Mrs. Burford know that they had been here?" I asked. "She
only came home that evening, and went away directly with her husband to
fetch Magnus."
"It was the roses that told. You know we have some here different from
any in the town, and finer, too. You remember, Master John, how you
gathered the very best for Miss Nelly. Well, she carried them home
and took the greatest care of them, but she was wearing some the day
her brother came. He is such a boy for flowers, and directly he saw
the roses, he called out, 'Nelly, those are from Rose Cottage. Mrs.
Henderson used to give me such when I called upon her with my mother.
Let me smell them; there are none so sweet.'
"Miss Nelly had the roses fastened near her throat, and she bent over
Magnus for him to smell them. He laid his hand on them as if to pull
them away, but she said, 'I have more, dear, fresher than these, and
only half open. I will fetch them for you.'
"The boy loosed his hold of the roses, and Miss Nelly ran to fetch
the others. He had these in his hand when Mrs. Burford came in, and
he called to her, 'See what Nelly has brought to me! They are from my
favourite bush at Rose Cottage.'
"Though the lad is so ill, and he had only just got into the house, as
one may say, Mrs. Burford's face went as red as fire, and she turned to
Miss Nelly.
"'How did you get flowers from Rose Cottage, Ellen?' she asked, in that
stern voice of hers, enough to frighten one.
"Miss Ellen went white and red, but she looked up in her honest way,
and said—
"'I called there with my father the day you came back, before you
fetched Magnus from school. I had no chance of telling you before.'
"'You called at Rose Cottage! Your father took you! And pray what
business had you there? I suppose you planned this disgraceful visit
purposely when I was away.'
"Mrs. Burford was angry, though I don't see myself there was any
disgrace about calling here, if even you had been out of the way, Mr.
John. I take it there's no disgrace in being plain working folks and
living in a little house, so as you pay your way and do what's right to
the best of your power.
"Miss Ellen answered that there was no planning about it; that she was
out walking with her father, and he called at Rose Cottage to speak
to me, and afterwards they stopped and had tea with you, Mr. John.
She said she did not know we all lived here till then, but she was
very glad we had left the old house, which was not good enough for her
friend and playfellow Jack, but now everything about him was fit for a
gentleman born, like you are, Mr. John, though it might not be grand or
have cost such a lot of money as their furniture had done.
"I can't tell you all that was said, only that there was a great
disturbance, and Mrs. Burford raked up all the ill-natured things that
she used to be so fond of saying soon after your father died, and had
them over again. She told Miss Nelly that she had low tastes that
nothing would cure, and she should go away again till she learned to
know better; that if ever she disgraced herself by again speaking to
young Simpson, she should pay for it in a way she little counted on.
"The more angry Mrs. Burford got, the calmer Miss Nelly was. She
answered her quite firm and steady, and said—
"'Mother, I am sorry that I cannot agree with you, but I should be
grieved indeed if I could feel anything but regard and esteem for my
dear friend Jack. It seems so strange that you, who once could not
say enough in his favour, should speak so harshly and cruelly about
him, and for no fault. My father and grandfather say that Jack is a
good, brave fellow, whom everybody honours, not for what he has, but
for what he is. Nobody speaks ill of Jack but you, mother, and surely
every one else cannot be wrong. His life is open for all to see, and he
has proved by it that he can be as thorough a gentleman whilst earning
his bread at Oakhill Station, as he could ever have been at Lint Hall.
Father is as proud of Jack as ever.'
"'Gentleman or not, I insist upon it that you never speak to John
Simpson again,' says Mrs. Burford. For, poor body! I believe she was
just at her wits' end to find something ill-natured to fling at Miss
Nelly about you; only she couldn't, and for a good reason.
"'Do you hear, Miss?' she went on. 'I expect you will give me your word
never willingly to see that wretched young man for the future.'
"'I hear, mother,' said Miss Nelly, 'but I can give no such promise,
for I should not keep it. I hope I shall see Jack, and much oftener
than I have done of late years. But I will promise this, that when
father and grandfather Burford forbid my speaking to him, and agree
with your opinion of him, I will give up my old friend.'"
"Poor Nelly! I am sorry for the unpleasantness between her and Mrs.
Burford. It would be very hard for her to oppose her mother, but Mr.
Burford has always favoured our continuing friends, and he brought
Nelly here quite unexpectedly to me," said I to Betsy.
"And very glad the young lady was to come, Mr. John; and nobody could
say wrong there was, except just her cross-grained mamma. Not that Mrs.
Burford will get her own way about sending Miss Nelly away again. I
know better than that," and Betsy nodded sagaciously. "I have not quite
done with my story about the roses," she added, "for after Miss Nelly
as good as said she should always keep friends with you, Mrs. Burford
just scolded right and left, as one may say. Then she snatched the
roses from her daughter's dress and crushed them in her hand, thereby
getting more than she bargained for, seeing they were fastened with a
big pin, that buried itself deep in the palm and gave her something
else to talk about for a while after. She had more than that, too, for
the poor boy was so overdone by the noise and the scolding that he went
off in a dead faint, and it took some time to bring him to his senses
again. I dare say Mrs. Burford would be sorry enough when she saw her
poor boy so upset through her going on. But being sorry cannot always
mend mischief. Master Magnus had to be taken to bed, and seems likely
to stop there, by all accounts."
I was very much grieved to hear this about the sick boy, and I could
not help echoing Betsy's subsequent wish that ill-tempered people might
be forced to carry on their own shoulders the whole weight of trouble
caused by their hard words.
"Yes, Master John," said she, "that would teach them to think before
they speak. But the mischief is, they trouble other people too. I've
often said that 'hard words break no bones,' and mostly these old
sayings have a deal of good sense in them. I am beginning to think that
they sometimes do worse than break bones."
"Ay, Betsy, they wound tender hearts; they break friendships; they lay
up sorrowful memories. Sometimes the wounds are never healed; friends
meet no more as such, and the bitter words will not leave the memory
through the long years that follow," I replied.
"And those that have made all the mischief blame everybody but
themselves. I dare say, if one could know the truth, Mrs. Burford
blames you for Master Magnus being worse."
"Blames me!" I cried, amazed that Betsy could imagine that possible.
"How could she blame me, when I have neither seen nor spoken to Magnus
for years?"
"When people want somebody else to take the blame of their faults, they
can always find a way. Didn't you give those roses to Miss Nelly?"
"Of course I did?"
"And wasn't it the sight of them that made Mrs. Burford find out that
the young lady had been here with her father?"
"Certainly, but they came of their own accord."
"That's true enough, but the coming made Mrs. Burford angry, and depend
on it, she says it was all through you stopping at Oakhill, when she
thought by rights you should have gone away where nobody knew you. If
you had gone to Australia or America, you would not have been here; and
if you had not been here, nobody could have come having tea with you
and carrying home roses to vex Mrs. Burford. You can see, Mr. John; it
is all as plain as A B C. It was through your roses that the lady got
in a temper and made her son ill."
There was a humorous twinkle in Betsy's eyes as she made out the case
against me on Mrs. Burford's behalf.
"You are right," I replied. "If any one is determined to make out a
case against another, a way will be found, though it may be a crooked
one."
Mrs. Burford subsequently attacked her husband on the subject of that
visit to Rose Cottage, but found herself hopelessly worsted. Mr.
Burford showed sufficient firmness, and frankly told his wife that he
should use his own judgment with regard to the places to which he might
take his children.
"As to Nelly going abroad again," he said, "she will do nothing of the
kind. She is going to stay at home to be a comfort to me, and, I trust,
to you also. I have been deprived of my dear girl's sunny presence
far too long already, and I mean to enjoy as much of it as possible
in future. Where Nelly goes, I go. I am most thankful that she has
returned home unspoiled, and that she has remained faithful alike to
home affections and outside friendships. I was delighted to know this
in regard to Jack Simpson, her old playfellow. It quite brought back
old happy times to be Jack's guest in his little nest. I thought of his
poor father, at whose table you and I sat many a time in bygone years,
and how glad he would have been to see his lad what he is in spite of
changed fortunes. I tell you, I have not had such a pleasant hour for
years as that which Nelly and I spent at Rose Cottage. The memory of
it, and of those young bright faces, is like a poem, and I hope to
repeat it before long."
There were occasions when even Mrs. Burford had to own herself
vanquished, not in so many words, but to herself. Her husband, good,
easygoing, and indulgent as a rule, could be firm enough at times,
and when he was in such a mood, there was nothing for her but tacit
submission.
Naturally I did not know of this conversation when it took place, but
I heard the particulars from Mr. Burford himself, when I saw him about
another matter which troubled me not a little shortly afterwards.