THE POINT OF VIEW
_Extract from the Journal of Miss Susan Standish. Nepaug, August First._
[_From which it will appear that contemporary
journals are not always trustworthy._]
This August weather is really unbearable. Nobody but flies can be
happy in it, and they are part of the general misery. I sleep with a
handkerchief over my face to keep off the pests; but I invariably wake
to find one perching on every unprotected spot, and the others buzzing
about my ears, and making such a noise that I can't sleep a wink after
five o'clock.
It is a very long time between five o'clock and breakfast. It would be
a sufficient incentive to a blameless life, to know beforehand that
you were to be condemned to think over your past for three mortal
hours every morning.
This is what I do; and though I suppose I have been as respectable as
most people, I find cold shivers running down my back when I remember
some things, and the blushes of a girl of sixteen mounting to my
wrinkled forehead, when I think of others. On the whole, the silly
things are the worst. I think at the Judgment Day I would rather
answer up to my sins than my sillinesses--especially if my relatives
were waiting round. The only way I can turn my thoughts out of the
uncomfortable reminiscent channel which they make for themselves at
five o'clock in the morning, is to think as hard as I can about
somebody else. Lately, I don't find this so difficult; for our
household here at Nepaug includes some interesting people, and,
moreover, some very queer things have happened lately, I thank Heaven,
I have none of Dr. Cricket's curiosity; but I should be ashamed if I
were so indifferent to those about me as not to take an interest in
their concerns. This interest has led me of late to ponder on recent
events, and speculate as to their causes.
When I asked some very simple and natural questions of Winifred
Anstice, she snapped at me like a snapping-turtle; but I did not
discontinue my investigation on that account. On the contrary, I
resolved to be all the more watchful; and when it comes to putting two
and two together, there are few who have a more mathematical mind than
Susan Standish.
On Friday evening, we had a picnic supper at Eagle Rock.
Mr. Flint (superior as usual) preferred to go in the only society
which interests him, and therefore set off _alone_ in his dory. His
absence did not have any visibly depressing effect on the party in the
sail-boat. Winifred was at her very best; and Philip Brady seemed to
appreciate her. If I were a matchmaker, I should have tried to throw
them together, for they do seem just cut out for each other; in spite
of all my efforts to give them opportunities of making each other's
acquaintance on intimate terms, they never appeared to take advantage
of them. But on Friday it was different. In the first place, anything
more warm-blooded than an oyster must have fallen in love with
Winifred at first sight on that evening. She wore a white flannel
yachting-dress, and a red-felt hat cocked up on one side, and as she
stood against the sail in the sunset, she was--Well, I'm too old to be
silly; but really that girl is something worth looking at when she is
nice. To-day, she looked like a frump, and talked like a fury.
The wind on Friday died out soon after we started; and at one time I
was afraid Mr. Flint would have the satisfaction of getting to the
Point before us; but, providentially, it sprang up again and, indeed,
I need not have worried, for it seemed he was afraid of being bored,
and did not start till six o'clock. Brady says he was always like
that, even in college; that when they were invited anywhere, Flint
would always put off the start, and would say, "Your coming away
depends on your hostess; but your going depends upon yourself."
"If it had been _my_ house," said I, "his _staying_ away would have
depended on his hostess. I have no patience with a rude man."
"Flint rude?" said Philip.
"Most decidedly rude, I should say."
"Oh, but he is not rude. He is only indifferent."
"Indifference is rudeness."
"Then I'm afraid, Miss Standish," broke in Winifred, "we must all be
rude to most of the world. That is, unless we belong to the Salvation
Army, like Nora Costello, and take an interest in everybody or rather
every soul."
"Very remarkable girl, that Nora Costello," said Philip. "I don't
quite know what it was that made her so interesting."
"_I_ know," answered Winifred, with a little laugh; "it was her
looks."
"Or her manner," suggested Philip.
"Oh, her manner without her looks would not have carried at all.
Manners are only thunder. It is looks that strike."
"You should know," Philip said quite low. Just at this moment Jimmy
Anstice, with that exasperatingly inopportune way of his, called
out:--
"Look, Fred! Did you see that fish jump? Gracious! He must have gone
up two feet! What makes a fish jump? Papa, Papa, do you hear me? What
makes a fish jump?"
"I don't know, my dear; I suppose to get food, or because he wants
air."
"Then why doesn't he jump oftener?"
It has always been one of Professor Anstice's pet theories that a
child's mental development is promoted by the stimulation of
intellectual curiosity. As a result, Jimmy has been encouraged to ask
questions to an extent which the world at large finds somewhat
tiresome. For my part, I think one of the most useful accomplishments
connected with the tongue is the art of holding it; and I believe in
its early acquirement by the young.
After Jimmy's curiosity in regard to the habits of fish had expended
itself, there was no more _tête-à-tête_. Everybody was shouting this
way and that; and then the boat brought up at the rocks, and those of
us who could jump, jumped out, and those who couldn't, clambered out;
and Jimmy Anstice flopped into the water above his knees, as usual,
and had to sit by the fire getting dry, when he should have been
running errands and making himself useful. Small boys, being neither
ornamental nor interesting, should be either useful or absent.
Winifred and Brady started off after driftwood. I invited Ben to help
me with the coffee; but he said, "Presently," and made off after the
other two. Really, that boy may come to something if he selects his
profession with care. He can't see when he's not wanted, which may
make him a success in the ministry.
Well, at last, we got our two fires started, and the tablecloth
spread; and the coffee tasted so good I just hoped Mr. Flint would
come to have some, because he made some disagreeable remarks in the
morning on the subject of picnics. Some people are never satisfied
unless they can spoil the enjoyment of others.
While we were eating, everybody was jolly and all went well, except
that Philip would tell stories,--Western stories about "commercial
gents" and "drummer hotels" and such things. He tells a story very
well; but he also tells it very long. With the tact upon which I
justly pride myself, I tried to shut him up or draw him off; but each
time Winifred would bring him right back, with "What was it you were
just going to tell, Mr. Brady?" or "As you were saying when Miss
Standish began," I was a good deal annoyed, for I couldn't quite make
out whether she was really interested, or whether she was making fun
of us both. Now I have a very keen sense of humor; but I don't like a
joke at my expense. At last Philip offered to give us a comic poem
from the "Bison Spike;" but _that_ I _couldn't_ stand; and I pretended
that the coffee was boiling over, and Winifred jumped up to attend to
it. Philip, of course, went to her assistance, and afterward, as he
stood before the fire with Winifred beside him, I could not help
thinking what a fine looking couple they would make. His golf suit
brought out the fine proportions of his stalwart figure. The firelight
played over his firm chin, his broad, square forehead, and his frank,
kind eyes. He would make a good husband for any girl; and a judicious
wife could soon break him of his habit of telling stories.
I dare say they would have had an interesting talk, if Ben Bradford
had not come up with his hands full of stone chips, which he calls
arrowheads. That ridiculous boy walks the furrows of old Marsden's
potato-fields for hours together, with the sun blistering the back of
his neck, quite contented if he brings home a dirty bit of stone,
which his imagination fits out with points and grooves. At Flying
Point, he had apparently reaped a rich harvest of these treasures. His
companions inspected them with civil but languid curiosity. While they
were turning them this way and that, and striving hard to be
convinced that the bulkiest had undoubtedly been employed by the
Indians as a pestle for corn-grinding, we heard the grating of a boat
on the beach. Of course it was Mr. Flint.
Ben called out to him to hurry up and have some coffee before it was
cold; to which he coolly answered that he had had supper before he
started; and there I had put off ours half an hour for him, and then
kept the coffee boiling another half hour! I would have liked to shake
him.
Winifred saw that I was justly indignant; and though she can be as
peppery as anybody over her own quarrels, she is always bent on
smoothing down other people; so she called out:--
"Well, fortunately, Mr. Flint, you are not too late for 'the feast of
reason and the flow of soul;' and I am sure you did not get that all
alone there at the inn." I wondered if he appreciated that rather neat
little stab. Winifred does those things well, with a demure manner
which leaves people in doubt whether her remarks are vicious or simply
blundering. "Come, Leon," she added, turning to young Davitt, "you
know you promised to recite something for us."
Leonard stood up like a boy at school, and recited the speech from
"Marmion" where he and Douglas give it to each other like Dr. Cricket
and a hom[oe]opathic physician. Then he bobbed his head, just like a
schoolboy again, and said he must go. Winifred followed him, and
spoke to him, almost in a whisper. What they were talking about I
could not catch; but I heard her say, "I will do it for you, Leon; but
I wish to goodness it were anything else." Then Leonard answered, just
as if she had given him some great thing: "Oh, thank you, thank you!"
and then he disappeared. At the same moment Mr. Flint took his place
by her side.
Instead of joining us all, and making a jolly party, what does he do
but stand in the shadow of the three big pines talking to Winifred in
that insultingly low voice which seems to imply that people are
listening. I did, however, catch one or two things. I distinctly heard
Winifred say: "Oh, do go away!" and I heard him say: "I hope you will
cease to fear me when--" There I lost it again; but what could it
mean? Winifred _fear_ him!--fear _him_! She, who never feared the face
of clay! There is only one explanation, and yet that is too wildly
improbable!
I never saw any one more unlikely to inspire an affection. Flint by
name and Flint by nature,--cold and hard as rock itself; and for a
girl like Winifred! It never could be!--and yet, I confess, I don't
know what to think.
After they had talked together for some time, he swung himself down
the bank, pushed off the dory, and we saw him pulling rapidly into the
middle of the bay.
"Well, if that doesn't beat the Dutch!" said Dr. Cricket.
"Hi, there!" cried Ben; and Brady, standing up, waved his hat, and
hallooed through his hand with a volume of voice that could be heard
all the way to Nepaug. But though Flint hallooed in return, he never
changed his course, nor slackened his speed.
When Winifred came back to us, a color like flame burned in her
cheeks, and her eyes were bright with unshed tears. No one but me
noticed it. Every one fell upon her with questions.
"What's the matter?"
"Why did he leave so suddenly?"
"Why did he come at all?"
"What did he have to say for himself?"
"Was this rude, or only indifferent?"
"Don't bury me under such an avalanche of inquiry," said Winifred,
with a little artificial laugh. "There really is nothing very
mysterious about Mr. Flint's departure. He is not a flying Dutchman. I
don't think he wanted to come at all; but he was afraid we might
think something had happened if he failed to appear. Ben, the fire
needs another log. Mr. Brady, did you bring your banjo, as you
promised?"
This was a master-stroke,--divert and conquer,--presto, Ben was off
after wood, and Philip tuning up for alleged "melodies;" but I was not
so easily put off the track.
"It took him some time to make his excuses," I said to her aside. She
looked up quickly.
"You are too shrewd to be put off like the others, Miss Standish; but
don't say anything more,--I'm so awfully tired."
The poor girl did look used up, and I knew she was longing to get
home, so I coughed violently, and asked Dr. Cricket for my shawl.
"You are taking cold," said he.
"Oh, don't mention it," I answered.
"But I will mention it," persisted the dear old goose. "You mustn't
stay out in this damp air."
"Don't let me break up the party."
"The party is all ready to break up, and it's time it did."
"Oh, yes," added Winifred in a tone of relief. "Do let us be going."
So that was the end of our Flying Point expedition. I might have
forgotten the episode in the shadow of the three pines, or at any rate
have come to the conclusion that I had failed to catch the true
meaning of the words I heard; but for the sequel.
The next morning Mr. Flint appeared on the porch as usual, but instead
of the cap and flannel shirt, the knickerbockers and canvas shoes
which formed his familiar Nepaug costume, he was attired in ordinary
citizen's dress. I must admit that the straw hat, linen collar, and
close-fitting blue suit were decidedly becoming; and, bitter as I felt
against him on Winifred's account (she came down to breakfast
confessing that she had not slept a wink), I was forced to admit that
Mr. Flint was a gentleman,--even a gentleman with a certain
distinction.
"Yes," he answered to the chorus of questions which met him, "I am
going back to town to-day. Yes, as you say, Mr. Anstice, quite
unexpected; but business men can't expect the vacations that fall to
the lot of college professors. Dr. Cricket, I believe you said you
were going on to New York to-night. I shall be glad if you will drop
in and have breakfast with me to-morrow morning at 'The Chancellor.'
That will give me the latest budget of news from Nepaug. Have you any
commissions, Miss Standish? What, none? I assure you, my eye for
matching silks is quite trustworthy. Now you, Jim, have more
confidence in me,--what can I send you from town?"
"A fishing-rod."
Flint and Winifred Anstice turned and looked at each other. What it
meant, I don't know; but I saw her color up to her hair. The others
had turned away for a moment to watch a schooner which had just come
in sight round the Point. Flint went up close to Winifred and said:
"And you--what will you have?"
"Your pardon."
"That you cannot have, for you don't need it. Will you take my thanks
instead?"
"You are too generous."
"With thanks?--that is easy. They are 'the exchequer of the poor.'"
"I trust, Mr. Flint," said Professor Anstice, who, having withdrawn
his attention from the schooner, could now bring it to bear nearer
home,--"I trust we may not altogether lose sight of you after these
pleasant days together, I shall be glad--"
"Papa!"
"Yes, my dear, I know you should be included. My daughter and I will
be glad to see you at our house on Stuyvesant Square." With this he
pulled out a card, but, discovering in time that it contained the
address of his typewriter, he returned it to his pocket and
substituted his own.
"I thank you," said Flint, with more of human heartiness in his voice
than I had ever heard before,--"I thank you, and I shall not fail to
avail myself of the privilege. Here comes the carryall! Good-bye!"
A moment later he was gone. Dr. Cricket goes by the night boat this
evening, and Philip Brady leaves on Monday. How dull we shall be!