Part 1 (1/2)
Flint.
by Maud Wilder Goodwin.
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 pa.s.s Than that? Untwine me from the ma.s.s 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 cus.h.i.+ons on Sat.u.r.day 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 fas.h.i.+on, 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 suns.h.i.+ne 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!”