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FLINT
HIS FAULTS, HIS FRIENDSHIPS
AND HIS FORTUNES
FLINT
His Faults, His Friendships
and His Fortunes
BY
MAUD WILDER GOODWIN
AUTHOR OF "THE HEAD OF A HUNDRED," "WHITE
APRONS," "THE COLONIAL CAVALIER," ETC.
BOSTON
LITTLE, BROWN, AND COMPANY
1897
_Published_, _1897_,
BY LITTLE, BROWN, AND COMPANY.
University Press:
JOHN WILSON AND SON, CAMBRIDGE, U.S.A.
Dedicated to Miriam.
TABLE OF CONTENTS.
* * * * * *
CHAPTER PAGE
I. THE DAY OF SMALL THINGS 1
II. MINGLED YARN 11
III. OLD FRIENDS 35
IV. THE DAVITTS 57
V. THE OLD SHOP 71
VI. THE GLORIOUS FOURTH 87
VII. ON THE BEACH 102
VIII. THE MARY ANN 125
IX. NORA COSTELLO 139
X. FLYING POINT 154
XI. THE POINT OF VIEW 174
XII. "PIPPA PASSES" 188
XIII. A SOLDIER 205
XIV. TWO SOUL-SIDES 218
XV. A BIRTHDAY 236
XVI. YES OR NO 252
XVII. A LITTLE DINNER 270
XVIII. A MAIDEN'S VOW 289
XIX. A SLUM POST 303
XX. THE UNFORESEEN 323
XXI. GOD'S PUPPETS 338
XXII. THE END 356
Flint:
His Faults, His Friendships, and
His Fortunes
CHAPTER I
THE DAY OF SMALL THINGS
"Say not 'a small event.' Why 'small'?
Costs it more pain that this ye call
'A great event' should come to pass
Than that? Untwine me from the mass
Of deeds which make up life, one deed
Power should fall short in, or exceed."
_The following chapter is an Extract from the Journal
of Miss Susan Standish, dated Nepaug, July 1, 189-._
We are a house-party.
To be sure we find pinned to our cushions on Saturday nights a grayish
slip of paper, uncertain of size and ragged of edge, stating with
characteristic New England brevity and conciseness the amount of our
indebtedness to our hostess; but what of that? The guests in those
stately villas whose lights twinkle at us on clear evenings from the
point along the coast, have their scores to settle likewise, and
though the account is rendered less regularly, it is settled less
easily and for my part, I prefer our Nepaug plan.
We are congenial.
I don't know why we should be, except that no one expects it of us. We
have no tie, sacred or secular, to bind our hearts in Christian love.
We have in fact few points in common, save good birth, good breeding,
and the ability to pay our board-bills as they fall due; but
nevertheless we coalesce admirably.
We are Bohemian.
That is, our souls are above the standards of fashion, and our incomes
below them, and of such is the kingdom of Bohemia. A life near to
Nature's heart, at eight dollars a week, appeals to us all alike.
We are cross.
Yes, there is no denying it. Not one of us has escaped the irritation
of temper naturally resulting from ten days experience of the fog
which has been clinging with suffocating affection to earth and sea,
putting an end to outdoor sport and indoor comfort, taking the curl
out of hair, the starch out of dresses, the sweetness out of
dispositions, and hanging like a pall over all efforts at jollity.
Irritation shows itself differently in each individual of our
community. As is the temperament, so is the temper.
Master Jimmy Anstice, aged twelve, spends his time in beating a tattoo
on the sofa-legs with the backs of his heels. His father says: "Stop
that!" at regular intervals with much sharpness of manner; but lacks
the persistent vitality to enforce his command.
My nephew, Ben Bradford, permanently a resident of Oldburyport, and
temporarily of Cambridge, sits in a grandfather's chair in the corner,
"Civil Government" in his lap, and "Good-Bye, Sweetheart," in his
hand. Even this profound work cannot wholly absorb his attention; for
he fidgets, and looks up every few minutes as if he expected the
sunshine to walk in, and feared that he might miss its first
appearance.
I, for occupation, have betaken myself to writing in this diary,
having caught myself cheating at solitaire,--a deed I scorn when I am
at my best.
Doctor Cricket, his hands nervously clasped behind him, has been
walking up and down the room, now overlooking my game and
remonstrating against the liberties I was taking with the cards (as if
I had not a right to cheat myself if I like!) and then flying off to
peer through his gold-bowed spectacles at the hygrometer, which will
not budge, though he thrusts out his chin-whisker at it for the
fortieth time.
"The weather is in a nasty, chilly sweat," he says grumpily; "if it
were my patient, I would roll it in a blanket, and put it to bed with
ten grains of quinine."
"Not being your patient, and not being dosed with quinine, it may be
better to-morrow," Ben retorts saucily.
Ordinarily, the Doctor takes Ben's sallies with good-humored contempt.
To-day, he is in other mood. He smiles--always a bad sign with him, as
the natural expression of his truly benignant mood is a fierce little
terrier-like frown.
"My poor boy!" he says sympathetically. "The brain is going fast, I
observe. Steep a love-story, and apply it over the affected part!"
I see Ben wrestling with a retort; but before he has it to his mind,
something happens. The door opens and a girl enters. Ben's face lights
up. The sunshine has come.
There is something more than a suggestion of sunshine about Winifred
Anstice, even to those of us who are neither of the age nor the sex to
fall under the glamour of sentimental illusions. I have often
speculated on the precise nature of her charm, without being able to
satisfy myself. She is not so extraordinarily pretty, though her hair
ripples away from her forehead after the American classic fashion, to
which style also belongs the little nose, straight in itself, but set
on at an angle from the brow, which, to my thinking, forms a pleasing
variation from the heavier, antique type. The classic repose is wholly
lacking. The eyes are arch, bright, and a little daring; the mouth
always on the verge of laughter, which is not quite agreeable, for
sometimes when there is no visible cause for amusement, it gives one
an uncomfortable feeling that perhaps he is being laughed at
unbeknown, and a person need not be very stingy not to relish a joke
at his expense.
Perhaps this sounds as if Winifred were hard, which she is not, and
unsympathetic, which she never could be; but it is not that at all. It
comes, I think, of a kind of bubbling over of the fun and spirits
which belong to perfect physical condition and which few girls have
nowadays. I suppose I ought not to wonder if a little of this vigor
clings to her manner, making it not hoidenish exactly, but different
from the manner of Beacon Street girls, who, after all said and done,
have certainly the best breeding of any girls the world over. Ben
doesn't admire Boston young ladies; but then he hates girls who are
what he calls "stiff," as much as I dislike those whom he commends as
"easy." Of course he gets on admirably with Winifred, who accepts his
adoration as a matter of course, and rewards him with a
semi-occasional smile, or a friendly note in her voice.
After all, Winifred's chief charm lies in her voice. For myself, I
confess to a peculiar sensitiveness in the matter of voices,--an
unfortunate peculiarity for one condemned to spend her life in a
sea-board town of the United States. Like Ulysses, I have endured
greatly, have suffered greatly; but when this girl speaks, I am
repaid. I often lose the sense of what she is saying, in the pure
physical pleasure of listening to her speech. It has in it a
suggestion of joy, and little delicate trills of hidden laughter
which, after all, is not laughter, but rather the mingling of a
reminiscence and an anticipation of mirth. I cannot conceive where she
picked up such a voice, any more than where she came by that carriage
of the head, and that manner, gracious, yet imperative like a young
queen's. Professor Anstice is a worthy man and a learned scholar; but
the grand air is not acquired from books.
"How glum you all look!" Winifred exclaims, as she looks in upon us.
At his daughter's entrance, the face of Professor Anstice relaxes by a
wrinkle or two; but he answers her words as academically as though she
had been one of his class in English.
"_Glum_ is hardly the word, my dear; it conveys the impression of
unamiability."
"Precisely," persists Mistress Winifred, not to be put down, "that is
just the idea you all convey to me."
"Why shouldn't we be unamiable," answers Ben, eager to get into the
conversation, "when there is nothing to amuse us, and you go off
upstairs to write letters?"
"You should follow my example, and _do_ something. When I went
upstairs Miss Standish was in a terrible temper, scowling at the ace
of spades as if it were her natural enemy; but since she has taken to
writing in that little green diary that she never will let me peep
into, she has a positively beatified, not to say sanctified,
expression. And there is Ellen Davitt hard at work too, and as
cheerful as a squirrel--just listen to her!"
With this the girl stands still, and we listen. The waitress in the
next room, apparently in the blithest of spirits, is setting the
tea-table to the accompaniment of her favorite tune, sung in a high,
sharp, nasal voice, and emphasized by the slapping down of plates.
"Tell me _one_ thing--tell me trooly;
Tell me _why_ you scorn me so.
Tell me _why_, when asked the question,
You will always answer '_No_'--
No, sir! No, sir! No-o-o, sir--No!"
The voice is lost in the pantry. Smiles dawn upon all our faces.
"A beautiful illustration of the power of imagination!" says Dr.
Cricket. "Ellen is contentedly doing the housework because she fancies
herself an heiress haughtily repulsing a host of suitors. It is the
same spirit which keeps the poet cheerful in his garret, or a young
Napoleon in his cellar, where he dines on a crust and fancies himself
an emperor."
"Steep an illustration and apply it over the affected part!" drawls
Ben.
The Doctor prepares to be angry; but Winifred, scenting the battle and
eager to keep the peace, claps her hands and cries out, "Excellent!"
with that pretty enthusiasm which makes the author of a remark feel
that there must have been more in his observation than he himself had
discovered.
"There, Ben, if you are wise you will act on this clever suggestion of
Dr. Cricket's, and travel off to the land of fancy, where you can make
the weather to suit yourself, where fogs never fall, and fish always
bite, and sails always fill with breezes from the right quarter, and
whiff about at a convenient moment when you want to come home--oh, I
say!" she adds with a joyful upward inflection, "there's the sun, and
I am going for the mail."
"I'll go with you," volunteers Master Ben.
"Thank you, but Mr. Marsden said that I might drive his colt in the
sulky."
"Not the _colt_!" we all cry in chorus.
"The _colt_," she answers with decision.
"Not in the sulky?"
"Yes, in the sulky."
"Surely, Professor Anstice--" I begin; but before I have time for
more, Winifred is out of the room, and reappears, after ten minutes,
strangely transformed by her short corduroy skirt and gaiters, her cap
and gauntleted gloves, to a Lady Gay Spanker. I do not like to see her
so; but then I am fifty years old, and I live in Massachusetts.
Perhaps my aversion to the sporting proclivities of the modern woman
is only an inheritance of the prejudices of my ancestors, who thought
all worldly amusements sinful, and worst of all in a woman. Even the
Mayflower saints and heroes had their cast-iron limitations, and we
can't escape from them, try as we will. We may throw over creed and
catechism; but inherited instinct remains. The shadow of Plymouth Rock
is over us all.
Just here I look up to see Winifred spin along the road before the
house, seated in a yellow-wheeled sulky, behind the most unmanageable
colt on this side of the Mississippi, as I verily believe. Of course
Mr. Marsden is very glad to have the breaking process taken off his
hands; but if I were Professor Anstice I don't think I should like to
have my daughter take up the profession of a jockey. I must admit,
however, that she looks well in that tight-fitting jacket, with the
bit of scarlet at her throat, and her hair rippling up over the edges
of her gray cap.
I wonder why I chronicle all this small beer about Winifred Anstice
and old Marsden's colt. I suppose because nothing really worth noting
has occurred, and it is not for nothing that a diary is called a
commonplace book. I find that if I wait for clever thoughts and
important events, my journal shows portentous gaps at the end of the
week, and I promised myself that I would write something in it every
day while I was at Nepaug. For my part, I enjoy the old-fashioned
diary,--a sort of almanac, confessional, receipt-book, and daily paper
rolled together; so I will just go on in my humdrum way. As it is only
for myself, I need not fear to be as garrulous and egotistical as I
please. Besides, a journal is such a good escape-valve for one's
feelings! Having written them out, one is so much less impelled to
confide them, and confidences are generally a mistake--yes, I am sure
of it. They only intensify feelings, and at my age that is not
desirable. At twenty, we put spurs into our emotions. At fifty, we put
poultices onto them.