University of Virginia Library

37. XXXVII.
An Old Resident of Newtown.

HARRY FLINT, in his new home, far away on
the Pacific coast, has gained strength once
more; and with strength, courage, and action and
success. The letters which have come to him from
time to time have not been so pleasantly colored as
he could have wished; more especially the amiable
sisterly one, which bade him hope (if he would only
come back) to stand as groomsman for Mr.
Adolphus Quid; but yet, they had weaned him
more and more from the old home ties, and shaken
off from his manly heart altogether any remnant
weaknesses which fed his sentiment and diverted his

force from the great battle of the world, in which
he hoped to win both name and fame.

There had grown up a pride, indeed, in his manly
loneliness, which may, perhaps, have been corrupted
by selfishness, but which had, after all, that unity
of direction, and concentration of energies which
insured success. He reads, with a swift unconcern,
all which the garrulous old aunt tells him of the
gossip of Newtown. He cares very little about the
fine carriage, which fills a fine paragraph, and
which drives regularly to the Bodgers' door. In
idle hours, he even cultivates a familiarity with
those books which speak of the tender passion as a
weakness; he has considerable appreciation of their
authors; he thinks they must be men of sense. He
rather pities young Quid, who he hears is so far
gone. Of course he pities Kitty, too; but thinks
(in his letter) that it will be a nice match.

He speaks in a business-like way of possibly
marrying, “some of these days,” a rich Spanish
Señora of California, and wants to know what little
Bessie thinks of that?

Bessie, of course, is horrified, and so is the aunt;
and both think he must have grown very mercenary
in that terrible San Francisco. But when the
letter comes from the old aunt, detailing the harsh
scandal about Harry Flint, and his forgery, the

young man is waked again, and finds he cares more
about the good or bad opinion which may be had
of him, in the old home village, than he had once
believed. I think even that, with all his sentiment
rooted up and thrown away—as he believes—he
yet feels a very quick-acting and sensitive pride
about the opinion which Miss Kitty or Mrs. Quid
(as the case may be) entertains of his character.

As for any tenderness of feeling on her part, he
snaps his fingers at that; of course he does. But
even she, shall never despise him, or think lightly of
his honor. I think he would have even suffered a
reproach and accusation so unreasonable to brood
upon the benighted minds of the Bivinses, and
other town's-folks; perhaps he would have been careless
of Mrs. Fleming's opinion; but that Kitty, for
whom he had once cherished a dreamy, boyish sentiment—commemorated
even now with dried roses—
that she should hear men call him criminal, is what
he will not suffer. She may think lightly if she
chooses of his sentiment (as, indeed, he does now-a-days
himself), but as for his manly honesty, she
shall have no triumph there, whether as Mrs. Quid
or Kitty. She shall never have two opinions on
that subject.

Harry Flint, therefore, prepares, though at great
inconvenience to his business, to go home and make

his character good; he will at least show the good
gossips of Newtown that he ran away from no
exposure, of whatever sort.

The aunt, and Bessie, who was indeed, ailing, and
far thinner than when he left the country, receive
him with open arms. And they tell him, little by
little, all the news; how the old Squire, only a day
or two after he had gone, was drowned in such a
terrible way; and how there had been a great many
rumors about the property; and how a strange lady
from over seas had claimed it as hers, and afterwards
gone; and how Mrs. Fleming had sold her
old home, and come to live in the Bodgers' house,
of which Mr. Quid had kindly given her the rental;
and how the young man had been very attentive;
and how the old lady and all were so delighted with
it; and how it was said he had proved false, and
Kitty was so cast down, but bore it so bravely; and
how finally there was a story that he (Harry)
(which they never believed for one second) had
forged a will, that gave the property to Kitty. All
these things were told him by the good old lady,
interrupted at quite frequent and irregular intervals,
by her repeating (as if he doubted it) how glad she
was that he had come.

Harry made an early call upon Mrs. Fleming and
Kitty—as was very proper. They were “extremely

glad” to see him, both mother and daughter; and
“looking so well, too, for they had heard of his
having been very ill.” Kitty was very courteous
and very dignified; Harry did not allow enough for
a change of a year and more. He should have
remembered that he had put on considerable dignity
himself. I have no doubt in my own mind but that
he was more studiedly courteous than the young
lady herself. Of course he made no allusion to
their benefactors, the Quids; it was a sore subject
—not for him, of course—but for them.

I think the womanly dignity of Kitty rather worried
him. As a lawyer of reputation in a far-away
city, who had cultivated considerable energy of purpose,
who rather smiled now-a-days at all weaknesses
of sentiment, and looked indifferently upon
young women generally, I think he had counted
upon a little more of timidity and awe—so to speak
—on the part of the young country lady. And his
worry was all the greater, because—as he remarked
to himself, as he strode between the hollyhock blossoms
to the gate—she had retained all her old good
looks, with a little softening of the livelier colors in
her face, which even added to her prettiness. Had
he been in young Quid's place, he thought he would
hardly have jilted her; and yet he didn't know—so
many things were to be taken into account.

It is very odd how a man will play the knave and
liar to his own heart, and yet if a neighbor but hint
at his falsity, he contests the matter like a hero.
Harry Flint determined in his own mind to show
the most hypocritical and stolid indifference to Miss
Fleming and all her affairs; and yet he worked himself
into quite a tempest of indignation about the
idle gossip of the village.

This last was very useless, indeed, for the bare
sight of Harry's honest, manly face, in the street of
the little town, disarmed all reproach, and satisfied
the old ladies, one and all, that they had done him
wrong. This, however, was not enough for Harry.
He was determined to trace the matter to its
source; and succeeded, indeed, in reducing the
charge to the reports of Miss Bivins and her respectable
parent, the Justice of the Peace. The
equanimity of this old gentleman was considerably
disturbed by a threat of instant prosecution on the
part of his old office-clerk, who showed a vigor and
a familiarity with legal affairs which would certainly
never have ripened to such a degree, in the office by
the meeting-house corner.

Squire Bivins volunteered indeed full explanation
of the grounds of his suspicion, and his regrets that
it should have become a subject of village talk.
Harry, who was really of a forgiving nature, listened

kindly to his old master in law; put him right
on several points; gave him to understand what
errors he had labored under; and ended with assuring
him that the signature of Mr. Bodgers was a
genuine one, and that he had remarked at the time
its unlikeness to the usual writing of the Squire,
who, he might remember, was suffering from a disabled
arm.

Squire Bivins felt a pride in the energetic, manly
cast of his old clerk, and was rejoiced more than
any creature in the town to find the matter set
right, and the character of friend Harry made good.
He begged that he would come to his house to tea,
and assured him that Mehitabel would be deeply
grieved to find that she had carelessly done him the
injury by repeating such suspicions. He hoped
Harry would allow her the favor of excusing herself
in person.

Mehitabel cooked her apology in a prodigious
plate of muffins, set off with a pot of last year's jelly.

In the course of the tea-drinking, conversation
turned very naturally upon the Quids. Miss Mehitabel
thought that the young man had behaved
very ungenerously; for herself, she had foreseen his
falsity, and warned Miss Kitty long before matters
had become so serious (she did not say how serious).
She pitied Kitty from her heart; but thought she

had brought it on herself; indeed, by Mehitabel's
account, she was very angry with her interference,
and received young Quid afterwards with greater
fondness than ever. The old Squire, in confirmation
of Mehitabel's statement, gave a ludicrous account
of his interview with Mrs. Fleming, in which he
ventured to hint that the young suitor was mercenary
in his views.

He thought he should not interfere in any love
matter again.

Harry ate his muffins with a poor relish.

“And it was odd,” continued the Squire, “that
they, so quiet people, should have taken just such a
fancy as that; now, I should have thought,” and a
genial smile lit up the old Squire's lip, “that an
honest, sensible young fellow, like—Harry Flint, for
instance, would have been much more to their taste.”

“Oh! yes!” exclaimed Mehitabel; and thereafter
blushed in an extraordinary manner, at her
own enthusiasm.

Harry Flint ate his muffins with a poor relish.

Finally the talk turned upon the will, and upon
the chances the Flemings might have of recovery.
Harry Flint, if for no other purpose than to make
public declaration of his having witnessed the instrument,
was anxious to see the matter forced to an
issue. There was an entry in the will in favor of

the village authorities of Newtown, and in this
interest Mr. Flint might safely exert himself without
trenching upon his indifferent humor with respect
to the Flemings.

Squire Bivins, moreover, at the suggestion of
Harry, took an early occasion to call upon the
general legatee, Miss Kitty, and to consult with
her about taking necessary measures for bringing
the affair to trial.

It was very droll, “very droll indeed,” said
Squire Bivins, but Miss Kitty did not wish to meddle
at all in the matter. They had accepted favors
from Mr. Quid; they were even now living in the
house to which he held legal claim. Mr. Quid had
generously been the first to make known the will,
and to place it in the hands of Mr. Bivins. He
had already made communication of these things to
Mrs. Fleming, and had been liberal in his professions
of regard.

In short, there were various reasons—perhaps
more than I have named—why Kitty, with a strange
delicacy, without absolutely opposing any action
for establishing a will (which by Mr. Bivins' own
account, was legally incomplete), did not wish to
be engaged in the affair.

“It's great nonsense in the girl,” said Mr. Bivins,
and I think I should have agreed with him.

Harry Flint bit his lip. He thought she must
have loved him very much.

The scruples of Mrs. Fleming were, however,
more easily subdued. The case was arranged under
the joint management of Squire Bivins and Mr.
Harry Flint. The rumor which would get about,
that the claimants under the will bore a bitter
grudge against the heir-at-law, and that the solitary
witness to the instrument and principal instigator
of the suit was a wooer of Miss Kitty, did not at
all contribute to the success of the cause. The
plaintiffs even were disheartened; the argument
was poorly conducted. On the other hand, the
defence was clever and vigorous, and nobody seemed
surprised at the speedy decision of the court,
which threw out the will, as being informal and
utterly worthless.

The decision was legal, perhaps; but it seems to
me that it was very unjust. Indeed, I am inclined
to think there is a great distinction oftentimes
between law and right; the same distinction obtains,
in the opinion of many people, between lawyers and
thoroughly honest men.

Mr. Quid, senior, in a moment of enthusiasm,
proposed to re-confer the life-lease of the old Bodgers'
mansion upon Mrs. Fleming and daughter;
but Mrs. Fleming, under the advices, I daresay,

of Kitty, declined to accept this overture; and
gathering together the remnants of her little property,
she prepared to go out from the Bodgers'
house, and to occupy, with Kitty, a humble cottage
in the village.

Mrs. Dyke, relenting somewhat from her usual
dignity, hoped Kitty “would soon come back again,
and `of right,' to the old house.”

But Kitty, thinking of Mr. Quid, and wounded
at the thought, said, “the time would be very far
off.”

The little village troop of girls followed her to
the cottage, and made it joyous with their voices;
and newly-planted vines, taken from the old stock
at home, grew fastly in the sunshine, and braided
shadows on the cottage-porch. There was one voice
wanting to the school choir; it was that of Bessie
Flint. She was ill.

Except for this, Harry Flint would before that
time have been again on his way to his home by the
Pacific. But there was something in the eye and
in the voice of Bessie which bade him stay—to the
end. It seemed to him that she was going. The
physician gave little hope; so he waited. It was a
dreary stay for him—now by the sick-bed; now in
the dull village street; now walking in the wood.

Miss Fleming sometimes came to the house where

Bessie lay ill, on little errands of kindness, and the
sufferer always greeted her heartily; and the old
aunt was never tired of speaking her praises. She
wondered very much why Harry took such pains to
avoid her.

But Harry said to himself, walking in the wood,
“Let me have a fresh heart and a whole one, or
none at all.

So it seems, that with all his manliness, his sentiment
is not wholly gone. There are few men
indeed, in whom it does not sometimes break out,
whatever professions they may make.