Love,—and the Philosopher: A Study in Sentiment

CHAPTER XVIII

IT is a curious, but undisputed fact that when our most ardent wishes are suddenly gratified, an unaccountable sense of dissatisfaction is apt to set in. Who can explain it? Anxiety is over—the tension of nerves is relaxed; and yet—and yet! We are all ungrateful creatures, often sad when there is no cause for sadness, and disappointed with good fortune when it smiles upon us,—we would always have a “something else” though we are unable to explain what that “something else” should be. It is a question of “temperament” we must suppose,—and probably it was a “temperamental” condition that moved pretty Sylvia Maynard to go, after the pleasant little tea-party was over and the men had retired to smoke in the old Doctor’s library, up to her own little bedroom and there give way to a passion of weeping. The tears and sobs came in a storm—a doctor would have said “hysteria” and advised the administration of cold water—but the emotional tempest in her mind was rather beyond physical remedy. She was brought face to face with the unexpected,—the Philosopher whom she had thought absorbed in self and the things of self had proved to be of different mettle altogether; and she now began to deplore the erroneous estimate she had made of his character. She had judged him by his crusty whims and cranks of temper, and had been unable to realise that these were not the real qualities of the man. But who could have imagined,—she demanded this quite desperately of herself—who could have imagined it possible for him to play the part he had taken in the rescue of Jack Durham, when all the time he was asserting that young man’s probable death, and rather sneering—yes, sneering! at her as a sort of prospective war widow! And not only that—he had practically proposed to her himself! It was a bewildering puzzle to her brain—though clear out of the tangle stood the fact that the Philosopher had assuredly justified himself as a friend and an unselfish one. And every now and again the poor little Sentimentalist was troubled by the thought—a wicked thought, she called it!—as to whether, after all, she had done wisely in refusing to marry him! Was Jack the better choice? At the very suggestion a hot blush burned her cheeks.

“Oh, what an ungrateful little wretch I am!” she said to herself, dashing away her tears. “I love Jack!—of course I love him!—and he loves me! After all, that is the great thing—his love for me!”

And what of the Philosopher’s love for her? Dared she consider it? It shone forth now in a new and beautiful light,—for it was surely love for Her that had moved him to do so much for Jack! Yes,—there could be no doubt he had done it all for her sake—in the wish to make her happy. Was that not love?—the very best kind of love? And she had let that go! Was she glad or sorry? “You cannot eat your cake and have it,” says an old proverb, but for the moment it seemed as though she wished to do both!

It took her some little time to compose herself, and she was only brought to a realisation of things as they now were by her father’s voice calling her.

“Sylvia! Sylvia!”

“Yes, Dad!”

“They’ll all stay to dine—Jack and his father, with Craig. It’s quite right, I suppose?”

“Yes!—of course!” and she ran to the top of the stairs to answer. “Dinner will be ready at eight o’clock.”

Her father retired again within his sanctum, and she hastily proceeded to bathe her tear-stained face and swollen eyes. Looking at herself in the glass she was angry that she had so spoilt her appearance by what she justly termed “an ugly cry.”

“And whatever did I cry for?” she asked herself. “I ought to be perfectly happy! I’ve been fretting about Jack for months, and now here he is, home again safe and well—and—and I’m going to be married to him. Married to him!—just think of it!—I wonder when!”

The prospect was, for a moment, almost alarming. Quickly she strove to put away the thought, and busied herself in brushing and arranging her lovely hair, though with a curious lack of interest. She was conscious that she ought to look her best on this special evening, and from a sense of positive duty in this respect she chose one of her prettiest evening gowns,—a mysterious “creation” of delicate ivory and pale blue,—yet do what she would her eyes remained heavy and her face pale.

“Poor Jack!” she soliloquised softly. “He has been through such a lot of suffering! I must try and make him very happy—if I can!” Her meditation broke off with a snap here,—and she sighed—“Poor Philosopher! I wish I could make him happy too!”

She glanced again at her own reflection in the mirror with a deep sense of disparagement and shame. It was simply dreadful, she declared to herself, to be fond of both men! She was troubled by the most contradictory cross-currents of feeling,—Jack, she knew, was devoted to her, and he was charming,—young, good-looking and in every way one of the best of brave fellows; on the other hand, the Philosopher, Walter Craig, shining light of a select and learned circle, and distinguished for many brilliant intellectual attainments, was elderly, cranky and uncertain of temper as well as uncouth and rude of behaviour,—yet he also was devoted to her and had proved his devotion by a perfect unselfishness. She worried her little inconsistent sentimental self over what seemed to her a tangle of perplexing possibilities and uncertainties, out of which came the clear and sharp reproach to her own conscience of having mistaken the character of a man who was much above the average of men, as men go—while Jack—was he above the average? Oh, she could not, she would not think any more about it!

“I shall marry Jack,” she said, resolutely. “I must marry him, because he wants to marry me. He has made up his mind for it. Mr. Craig is too old to marry,—he would be miserable with a wife! He wouldn’t get on with her at all—certainly not with one like me! I’m such a little fool!”

“Yes, Sylvia!—perhaps you are!” agreed her subconscious self. But, after all, she was no more of a little fool than thousands of other girls as good and sweet and well-meaning as she, who take their impulses for deep emotions and their sentiment for real life!

She made herself very charming that evening at dinner,—bewilderingly so to Jack, who in his lover-like pride and ecstasy could hardly take his eyes away from her. The Philosopher, on the contrary, appeared to be very hungry,—he studied his plate with critical attention, and manifested a well-nigh greedy satisfaction with his food. When Dr. Maynard ordered a bottle of extra choice champagne to be opened in honour of Jack’s return, the Philosopher smiled knowingly.

“You keep this for special occasions, eh, Maynard?” he said. “Hope you’ve got some for the wedding day!”

Sylvia uttered a little exclamation.

“Oh, don’t talk about that!” she said, pleadingly. “No—please don’t! Not yet!”

“Not yet indeed!” said old Mr. Durham, drawing his fuzzy brows together in an attempted frown. “I should think not! Why, where’s the money coming from?”

“Money?” echoed Sylvia, wonderingly.

“Ah! Money! Money to marry on—money to keep house with! Don’t you ever think of that, little woman?”

A warm flush crimsoned her cheeks,—she glanced appealingly at Jack.

“Oh, it’s no use your looking sweet at that harum-scarum fellow!” went on Durham, with evident enjoyment in his own remarks. “He’s out of the fighting now—can’t play the hero any more—and hasn’t a penny to bless himself with! He’s got to depend on his poor old father! Eh, Jack? His poor old father! What a rascal he is, eh?”

Jack smiled, and looked across the table at his “poor old father” cheerily enough.

“I shall soon get to work,” he said. “The Boches haven’t crippled me, though they tried hard at it. There’s plenty for me to do, and I’ll do it.”

The Philosopher put on his glasses and surveyed him critically.

“I presume you are familiar with the special line of ‘plenty’ on which to spend your energies?” he said. “Is it oil or nuggets?”

Jack laughed gaily.

“Both, perhaps!” he answered. “Dad knows best! He had me trained as an engineer of all sorts—I’m not very good at it, but I know a thing or two. Anyhow I shall soon earn enough to marry on.”

“Oh, you will, will you?” and his father lifted his glass of champagne and waved it towards him. “Well, here’s to your luck, my boy!—and God be thanked I’ve got you back again!”

The earnestness of his words, voice and manner created an emotional pause in the conversation, and Sylvia drank her wine quickly to stop the tears that threatened to fall.

“And about that Oxford publisher,” said Dr. Maynard, suddenly.

They all laughed, except the Philosopher, who turned a reproving eye upon his friend.

“That Oxford publisher is a fact,” he said. “You apparently doubt his existence, Maynard! Nor am I likely, I, of all men—to advance a mere figment as a publisher? He is no airy vision!—he is a hard, inexorable fact! He will be here to-morrow.”

“Positively, Craig, you are a wonderful fellow!” said Dr. Maynard, with a smile. “You seem to manage everything your own way!”

The Philosopher gave a little shrug of his shoulders.

“Not quite!” he said. “But probably if I had everything my own way it would be very bad for me. As concerns the Oxford publisher I have nothing to do with him except persuading him to come here and ‘consider’ the publication of your great work. For a publisher to ‘consider’ anything is a great concession. A publisher is a majestic being. He holds, as it were, the fate of the future in his hands. For if the Publisher will not publish the author what becomes of the Author’s work? Horrible to contemplate! It may perish! The dear little child of six years who has just committed the crime of writing verses which its parents pay a press-man to ‘boom,’ may be denied a full hearing! Think of it! Though truly as long as the author pays for being published, it will be all right. But you, my dear Maynard, will not pay—”

“Cannot!” interposed the old Doctor.

“True! Cannot. Then,—whether it will be all right or all wrong, nobody can predict.”

“It will be all right,” interposed Jack, suddenly and with fervour, “if you’ve taken it in hand!”

The Philosopher almost blushed. Certainly a pale red suffused the higher portion of his cheek-bones. Then he waved his hand deprecatingly.

“You over-rate my poor powers!” he said. “But—‘sufficient for the day is the evil thereof.’ The Publisher may not be made of adamant—many publishers are!—possibly when he sees Miss Maynard—”

“Oh!” exclaimed Sylvia, “I could never persuade a publisher, I’m sure!”

“How can you be sure?” queried the Philosopher, blandly. “Your persuasion—quite unconscious, no doubt! has persuaded a far more difficult type of being!”

“Yes?” and she made the query wonderingly.

“Yes!—and very much yes!” and he smiled,—then, as she rose from the dinner table and prepared to leave the men to their smoke—“You are going? We shall be swift to follow—at all events one of us will!”

His smile broke into a kindly laugh as Jack sprang up and held open the dining-room door for his “rose-lady” to pass out. His adoring eyes fixed upon her as she went made her nervous, and she was glad to get away by herself into the seclusion of her own little morning-room where, as she now remembered with a whimsical touch of regret, the Philosopher had found her, as he declared, on her “high horse.” It was a long time since she had mounted that “tall quadruped,”—the spirit of doing so had rather deserted her.

“I don’t think I shall ever ride the high horse again!” she said, with a little sigh. “I couldn’t do it with Jack—he’s too kind. He never rubs one up the wrong way. Yet, of course,—sometimes—”

Yes! Sometimes it does one good to be rubbed up the wrong way! It starts the electricity in pussy-cat’s fur, and wakes the half-asleep individuality in a human being. She thought about this for some few minutes—she also tried to recall the Philosopher’s various rudenesses, cynicisms, and ugly, unbecoming ways—but, considered in the recent light in which he had shown his character, they were not so very bad,—they all “seemed now in the waste of years, such a very little thing!”

“I’m sorry!” she said, half aloud to the silence around her. “Sorry I misunderstood his temperament! But he was,—he could be quite odious and snappy!—and I’m sure he would have been twenty times worse as a husband!”

Here her meditations came to an end—for a pleading voice said:

“My ‘rose-lady’! All alone? May I come in?”

And Jack entered, holding out his hand, in the palm of which lay a little heart-shaped gold brooch.

“I’ve brought this back to you, dear!” he said, his voice tremulous as he spoke. “I managed to keep it all through everything,—you remember giving it to me? It’s been my safe-conduct!—yes!—I used to feel I couldn’t lose my grip on life as long as I had it with me. Now let me put it back on this dear little neck”—and kneeling in front of her he pinned it carefully among the lace of her gown. “There! It has seen a lot of fighting!—but I’ve brought it home to its sweet and beautiful native peace. And now—”

She was silent, but tears filled her eyes—and, as he knelt before her, his face upturned to hers, she gently put her arms round his neck and kissed him. With that she sealed her fate and settled her future.

CHAPTER XIX

“Jack is to have everything his father can give him,” continued Maynard. “Yes, everything! His father is making him the head of his business in the States; and his marriage settlement—well!—my dear child!—it is amazing!—most generous and magnificent! He told me he had determined to do nothing for his son till he had ‘proved his mettle’—but now!—now, since the boy went to fight of his own free will and choice, and nearly sacrificed his life in the war, he has no hesitation in making him the sharer of all his wealth. And you—you”—his voice trembled, and he put out his arms and drew her closely to him—“you will be a rich woman, my child!—safe from all care and harm,—thank God for that!—you will have all the comfort and charm of life such as you should have—and when I am gone—”

“Oh, but you’re not going, Dad!” she exclaimed, half laughing and crying together. “If I am rich, really rich, the first thing to be done is to publish your great book!—yes, Dad!—the very first thing! That Oxford publisher will take it all right now!”

Her affectionate delight in this idea was irresistible, and as she clung tenderly round her father’s neck and kissed him again and yet again she might have been a mere child in the simplicity of her joy at the thought of being able to launch the ponderous “Deterioration of Language” on an indifferent world.

“I must go and tell Mr. Craig,” she said, then—“I must let him know that there will be no difficulty, and no expense spared.” Here she clapped her hands. “No expense spared! Just think of it!”

Dr. Maynard smiled.

“My dear, my dear!” he remonstrated. “You must ask Jack—”

“Jack will do anything I tell him!” she declared. “And he’ll be proud—ever so proud, to help publish your great, great book! Of course he’ll be proud! Who wouldn’t be!”

“My dear child!” and her father shook his head at her deprecatingly. “You don’t seem to grasp the position! Here you are, engaged to marry the heir to millions of dollars and you think of nothing but my tiresome old book! Very sweet of you, but not very reasonable, is it? Jack may prefer to buy a few diamonds for you, rather than pay for the printing and publishing of work which is certain not to be favoured by the general public—”

She interrupted him with a kiss.

“Diamonds!” she exclaimed. “Diamonds for me! Absurd! Just think of it! I don’t want them, Dad! They wouldn’t suit me—I’d rather have—roses!”

She ran off gaily and sought the Philosopher, whom she found smoking in the loggia which led out of the drawing-room into the garden. As he saw her coming he held up a warning hand.

“Now, don’t!” he said. “Don’t rush at me with your news because I know it already! I told you—or rather I hinted—that old Durham was a millionaire. His nut-cracker face expressed it. A hard old, close-fisted, never-give-in, American grasper and grabber!” Here he smiled benevolently. “And now he’s loosened the strings of his money-bags in favour of his only son, as he should do, during that son’s life-time—an eminently practical arrangement—saves all the death duties. And you”—here he bent his fuzzy brows and looked searchingly at her—“you will be one of the richest little ladies in the world!—dear, dear me! I wonder how you’ll stand it!”

She came close to his side and stood looking at him wistfully. Somehow, despite his rather shabby old coat and not very well arranged hair his personality had a singular attractiveness,—a something quite out of the common. Out of the common!—yes—that was it! Intellectuality had graven certain distinctive marks on his features not found among “ordinary” men, and she bethought herself that she had seen these very lines of thought, study and attainment smooth out into an almost boyish softness when his eyes had rested on herself, or when she had looked up at him in quiet attention as she was looking now.

“You wonder how I’ll stand it!” she said. “Being rich? Yes,—I wonder how I will! Not very wisely, I’m afraid! I’ve never been rich,—and just now I can only realise one advantage of it—I can pay all the expenses of publishing Dad’s book!”

The Philosopher drew his pipe slowly from his mouth and looked at it.

“Oh, that’s what you want to do, is it?” he remarked, somewhat gruffly. “Well! I’m not surprised! Very sentimental, and very like you! To put your first big pocket-money into the ready maw of a publisher is just what I expected of you!”

She came a little closer, and touched his hand timidly.

“You are trying to be sarcastic,” she said. “But you know you’re not, really! You know it’s right for me to help Dad,—and you know it’s a pleasure—”

“Dad’s not a pauper,” he interrupted. “To hear you talk one would think he was! Why, my dear child, he’s been paying me for my services in the revision and completion of his work—”

“I know he has!” and she lifted her eyes trustfully to his face. “But he couldn’t very well afford it. You see, you’ve been very kind and patient, and no doubt you have made it easy for him—but now—now—”

“Now—now—what?” and the Philosopher wrinkled his face up in an alarming frown. “Now you propose to foot the bill? Nothing of the kind! I won’t have it! Do you understand? Sentiment can go too far—it always does with you!—but in this particular case I won’t have it! I decline to be affronted,—even by you!”

“Affronted? Oh, I wouldn’t vex you for the world!” And quick tears sprang to her eyes. “Indeed I wouldn’t! I want to tell you how sorry I am—very, very sorry!”

“Sorry for what?”

And the words were more like a snap than a phrase.

Her little hand pressed closer on his arm.

“For many things!” she murmured, penitently. “I’m sure—I see now that I have often quite misunderstood you—”

“Naturally!” he interrupted. “I’m not easy to understand! I should despise myself if I were! ‘To be great is to be misunderstood.’ You’ll find that in Emerson’s Essays.”

She gazed at him wonderingly.

“That’s clever talk,” she said. “Or I suppose it is. I’m talking just simply—I want to say what I feel—”

“Never do that!” and he smiled. “People who say what they feel never have any friends!”

She gave a little movement of impatience.

“Oh, you won’t be serious!” she exclaimed. “I really do wish to make you see what I mean! You’ve been so very, very good and kind to Jack—you’ve done so many generous things—and I thought you were quite different,—I thought you were selfish—”

“So I am!” he declared. “Thoroughly, hopelessly selfish! Now listen to me, you funny child!—listen, and you’ll see how selfish I am!” Here he took the little hand that lay on his arm and looked at it. “Not wearing an engagement ring yet? No? Ah, but you’ll have it on to-day some time, mark my words! And I thank heaven I’m not the man to give it to you!”

Her soft blue eyes questioned him silently.

“Don’t look at me like that!” he said, gruffly. “It makes no effect upon me! It’s very pretty—but I’m not to be ‘drawn’! I say I thank heaven I’m not the man who will put an engagement ring on that little finger of yours! I might have been!—it was a near thing at one time, wasn’t it?—that was when I thought it was all up with Jack and that you might be left all alone in the world. In that case I should have had to marry you!”

“Had to marry me?” she echoed,—and she withdrew her hand from his. “Surely there was no compulsion?”

“Oh, wasn’t there!” and he nodded portentously. “To my mind there was! Duty, duty! I considered myself bound to look after you. Why? Because you are a little sentimentalist, likely to be duped and ‘done’ by every one that ‘speaks you fair.’ You are bound to be protected and defended from a mischievous world. I was prepared to do it—I would have made the sacrifice—I would have submitted to the rack!”

“Oh!” And she lifted her head a trifle proudly. “Then, out of kindness—or pity—you would have married me against your own inclination?”

He sought for his tobacco pouch and began refilling his pipe. A little smile was on his lips.

“Against my own inclination? I should think so!—very much against it! God bless my soul! Think of my having to give up my splendid solitude, my days and nights of peace and happiness, just to be at the beck and call of a little woman who doesn’t know her own mind clearly for two days together! I doubt if you are even now quite sure as to which man would make you the best husband—I or Jack!”

She flushed a sudden crimson—tears sprang to her eyes—and she turned away her head. Quietly and almost tenderly he took her hand in his own and patted it.

“There, there!” he said. “I know you better than you know yourself! You are tormenting your mind with all sorts of foolish ideas,—sentimental ideas,—I’ve always told you that you will overdo the sentiment! You are thinking that perhaps you have treated me a little unfairly,—that when I ventured to suggest myself as a kind of protective wall,—that is to say a husband—between you and a rough world—your refusal disappointed me—or hurt me. You are quite mistaken! I was”—here he drew a long breath—“yes!—I was thankful! The relief was simply immense! If you had accepted my proposition—well!—I should have been utterly miserable! Yes!—I should have done my duty of course—I should have resigned myself to the slavery of married life with my usual philosophy—I should not have complained—and—and—I should have tried to be kind to you—but my life would have been a slow martyrdom! A fact! Ah, you may look at me as long as you like with those baby blue eyes of yours!—you will never discover anything in me but what you always saw and recognised from the first—sheer, downright selfishness! That’s it! What do you suppose I took so much trouble over Jack Durham for? Simply that he might get home and marry you—and so relieve my mind of a great burden. Many a time I was afraid he would die—and in that case I should have got in for it!—all up with me!—an elderly Benedick—”

She took her hand away from his.

“You really mean it?” she asked.

“Mean,—what?”

“That it would have been a great misery for you to have married me?”

She spoke so wistfully and her sweet upturned face expressed such innocent wonder that with all his best effort he had much ado to keep his self-possession. As she had released his hand, he took to fumbling in his tobacco pouch.

“I will not say ‘a great misery,’” he replied. “That is too strong! But it would have been—yes!—a great inconvenience!”

She was silent a minute,—then she said:

“Well, I’m very glad you have been so frank with me! I was rather unhappy—because—because—you’ve been so good, and I have misunderstood you. You have really saved Jack’s life—”

“For my own selfish purposes,” he put in.

“You may say that if you like!” and she gave a little gesture of incredulity. “But even if he had not lived, you need not have married me, surely! That is such a strange idea of yours! I should have refused you all the time!”

“Would you?” His eyes met hers for one second, then he turned away and lit his pipe. “I dare say you would! Anyhow as things have turned out, all is for the best! Jack is alive and well—Jack is a millionaire—and you are going to marry him, and publish your father’s book. Nothing could be more satisfactory. And you will be a happy, fortunate, brilliant little lady,—much loved and well taken care of—and I—”

“Yes? What of you?”

He smiled into her questioning eyes.

“I? I shall live in my usual way—a placid, comfortable, easy way—a selfish way—the life of a student and philosopher. I suppose I shall see you sometimes—”

“Oh, very often!” she said, quickly.

“Well!—very often then!” he agreed. “And I shall be glad to see you happy—”

“And will you be happy yourself?” she asked.

“Most assuredly! Why should I not be so? No wife, no household cares, no domestic squabbles,—just myself to consider and only myself. There now!—you look quite incredulous!—and why are you incredulous? Simply because you have too much sentiment. You imagine that happiness consists in being loved,—perhaps it does—for a time—”

“Only for a time?” she queried, with uplifted eyebrows.

“Of course—everything is only for a time—life itself is only for a time. Love—or what is called love, is more transitory than life. Look at the war widows! They were supposed to ‘love’ their husbands—but they are quite ready and eager to take on new men. No, my dear child!—there’s no such thing as what you imagine to be ‘love.’ And you need not for one moment make me an object of compassion in your mind—because I know that fact and accept it. Possibly when I was younger, a woman might have liked me, or I might have liked a woman for a month or so—”

She laughed.

“As you like me!—or thought you did!” she said. “And you would have married me on that basis—if I would have had you!”

He smiled—that peculiarly attractive smile of his which made the plain, hard, intellectual lines of his face soften and become handsome.

“True! If you would have had me!” he echoed. “And I should have done my duty in taking care of you,—lest the winds of heaven should visit your face too roughly.” His voice was for the moment almost musical in its tone of kindness. Then he took her hand. “There, little girl! Don’t worry yourself or give another thought to this grumpy old fellow! You may make yourself quite sure that I am entirely happy—happy to have known you, for you are a winsome little creature!—and happier still to have been useful in bringing back the man you love and who loves you, to his home and good fortune. And”—here he paused for a moment meditatively—“if I am perfectly candid with you—brutally candid!—I am happiest of all in the positive knowledge that you are marrying Jack, and not me! That’s a great mercy! I thank heaven for my freedom!”

She gave him one flashing upward glance, half of doubt, half of anger, and pulled her hand away from his,—then, turning with a swift little rush of her light feet and soft garments she ran out of the room.

He looked after her,—and his whimsical, indulgent smile brightened his features like a glimpse of the sun. Then he heaved a long sigh.

“That’s over!” he said, soliloquising to the air. “She’ll be all right now! No more sentimentality on my behalf! And I think—yes, I really do think I have told enough lies for one day!”

CHAPTER XX

And, seeing him thus “far gone,” she said no more. But often when the brilliant flash of the jewels on her hand caught her eyes she was conscious of a sadness inexplicable to herself,—the ring was a symbol of the end of one life and the beginning of another—the end of the simple, quiet “monotonous” country life she had led with her father,—and the beginning of a new and strange existence in which wealth would almost enforce social excitements and pleasures for which she had no great avidity.

“I had better have been the wife of an Oxford professor!” she said to herself, once in a little shame-faced way. “Only I’m not clever enough!”

And she took solitary farewell walks round the garden, and daily sat with her “Dad” in his study, moved by a vague sorrow and regret which she could not express without seeming more or less ungrateful to Jack and his father, both of whom vied with each other in “surprise” gifts and plans for her special pleasure. She knew she was a fortunate girl—she ought to consider herself so, as being beloved, honoured and safe for life; and yet—such are the curious contradictions and hesitations of human nature—she was not sure whether it would not have been better for her to be less fortunate,—to be one of those who “welcome each rebuff, that turns earth’s smoothness rough.”

Not even the delightful business of choosing her “trousseau” which she was careful to make as simple and inexpensive as possible, quite charmed away the shadow of depression that now and then clouded her mind.

“I ought really to have married quite a poor man,” she reflected, seriously. “I never dreamed Jack would be rich. I could always manage a simple house and simple ways of living—now if I were the wife of an Oxford professor—” She broke off in her meditations with a little sigh. “Only I never should be clever enough!”

During this time the “Philosopher” was an absentee,—he had undertaken to partially revise the proofs of “The Deterioration of Language” before bringing them on to Dr. Maynard for final correction, and he had installed himself in his own collegiate rooms for this purpose. The “great Book” was well on its way to be launched, like a literary Leviathan on the uneasy waters of public favour; the accepting publishers being fully nerved to the task by the “no expense to be spared” orders of the author’s prospective son-in-law, Jack Durham. And so the days and weeks went round in a swift circle till April showed a nymph-like face of tears and laughter through budding boughs of green and snowy garlands of wild cherry and pear-blossom, and the sunny morning dawned at last when the little “rose-lady” stepped forth from her maiden home to be married. Very sweet she looked in her soft garments of white—very serious, too, with blue eyes more full of tears than smiles; and among the few intimate friends asked to the wedding there was not one who had not some under-consciousness of the real gravity of marriage for a girl who had led so quiet and simple a life as Sylvia Maynard. Always in the country,—always the one companion of her father—completely contented to be without “social gaieties” so-called,—what a change from such a peaceful little home and routine of daily duties to be the wife of a millionaire!

Probably the thoughts of Walter Craig, F.S.A., who was, against his own inclination and protest, selected as “best man” by the bridegroom, wandered in this direction if one might form any opinion by the expression of his face. Once during the ceremony he caught a fleeting, almost frightened glance from the little “sentimentalist” bride; and a most insane desire possessed him to take her up in his arms as Shakespeare’s Petruchio took his Katherine and run away with her,—but his furrowed features and formal demeanour showed nothing of the strife within him. He placed the “philosophic” curb on his emotions, and feigned an almost frigid indifference when with other friends in the vestry at the signing of the marriage register he was permitted to kiss the bride. All the village turned out to see the wedding, and as the happy pair came through the old church doorway the school children scattered a shower of spring blossoms at their feet, and, led by “Riverside Sam,” broke into a hearty cheer. A silver rain of new sixpences flung broadcast by old Mr. Durham rewarded their enthusiasm, whereat the Philosopher moralised somewhat after the style of the “melancholy Jaques”—“Money’s the only wear!” And then,—in another two or three hours, which seemed to her less than minutes, the little bride, half sobbing, yet checking her tears as much as she could, clung fondly to her father in a farewell embrace, whispering, “I shall came back as soon as possible! You mustn’t feel lonely!” while she turned appealingly to the “Philosopher” saying—“Do stay with him for a little! Take care of him!” And with this she entered the beautiful “limousine” car, which was one of old Mr. Durham’s wedding gifts to his daughter-in-law, and was whirled away amid a shower of blossoms on her honeymoon with her proud and adoring young husband. A small group of friends gathered on the steps of the old Manor house to watch their departure,—more interested in the reported wealth of the bridegroom and the bridegroom’s father than in anything else—and as they dispersed, some of them made remarks to one another such as: “Artful little girl! Quiet, but clever enough to catch a millionaire!” or “She must have known her game all the time!” and “A pity we did not know more of that dull old man in the fishing cottage! He pretended to be deadly poor—” “And that’s why we didn’t call!” observed one more honest than the rest.

And so on, and so on. Perhaps the Philosopher—great light of Oxford, whom nobody present knew much about,—caught some of these sotto voce observations,—perhaps not,—anyway his facial expression became more and more saturnine and forbidding as he helped to “speed the parting guests.” The “dull old man in the fishing cottage,” millionaire Durham, did certainly gather up a few crumbs of “social” comment, and now and again a sardonic smile made extra wrinkles in his furrowed countenance, especially when one self-important personage, the local brewer, laid a patronising paw upon his shoulder, saying, “We must see more of you, Mr. Durham! Come and dine with us one day this week, will you?”

Whereat Durham replied slowly in a strong, nasal drawl:

“Thank you! I guess not! I’ve been living here over two years and have never been asked out to dine before—it would seem kinder strange to me to be doing it now!”

And the brewer retired discomfited, feeling the poignant flash of satire in the old man’s eyes more keenly than the blunt refusal of his invitation.

The April evening closed in with sweet moisture and warm scent of flowers, and the old Manor house, full of bridal blossoms and “remainders” of the wedding, looked, despite its floral garlanding, strangely empty and deserted, bereft of the flitting presence of its fair little mistress who was its chief charm. Vainly old Dr. Maynard strove to be cheerful, but it was an evident effort, and though he said little, his sudden loneliness made him deeply grateful for the society of the Philosopher, who had decided to stay on at the Manor for a day or two;—the Sentimentalist’s parting words “Take care of him!” had laid a sort of trust upon his mind which he was not disposed to ignore. Durham remained late, smoking and chatting till the moon lifted a silver round above the trees, and lighted the path to his cottage by the river; he was full of eager plans for the happy future of the just-wedded pair, and gave himself away quite unreservedly. Nothing was too good for them,—a beautiful house in town,—a flat in Paris—and other luxurious “fitments” of life which somehow, in the mind of the Philosopher at least, seemed unsuitable to the tastes and the temperament of the little “rose-lady,”—a creature “toned to finest melodies, unheard by grosser ears.” But he made no comment. It would have seemed ungracious to check the flow of affection and ungrudging munificence of a father for an only son by so much as a word. Yet he was in a sense relieved when the millionaire took his departure and left him alone with Dr. Maynard. “The Deterioration of Language” was a ponderous piece of work, but it had formed a link between them of interest and scholarship; it had brought them together in pleasant and intimate relations, and it had been the means of letting a little light in upon his hitherto strictly locked and darkened prison-house of human motion,—such light as had, at odd moments, blinded him into a faint belief that he was still young. On this particular night, after all the joyous stir of the wedding, and the subsequent silence and desertion of the house, he felt old—older than he cared to feel. He and the old doctor sat together in the study, smoking their pipes by a cheerful log fire,—for the April evenings were chilly,—and for some time they had hardly exchanged a word. A somewhat heavy sigh from Maynard roused the Philosopher to attention.

“Don’t ‘grouse’!” he said with a half smile. “That’s slang, I know, and I never use it—but if you sigh like a schoolboy, you merit a schoolboy’s reproach. It’s no use regretting,—it’s no use grumbling.”

“I don’t regret,—I don’t grumble,” Maynard replied. “No, Craig! It’s not that. It’s the emptiness of things without her—the silence—the solitude—” His voice trembled—then failed.

Craig was silent for a minute. Then he said:

“Of course! I quite see your point,—I understand. I feel it myself. Possibly you don’t realise that, eh? I feel it myself!”

Dr. Maynard’s hand went over his eyes, shading them from the fire.

“Such a bright little girl!” he murmured. “Always about the house—always with a smile and kind word for every one! I don’t know how I shall get on without her!”

The vision of a fair little face—the memory of a hand pressure and whispered word “Take care of him,” came over the mind of the Philosopher, and he rose to the occasion.

“How you’ll get on without her?” he echoed. “Why, you’ll get on famously for the short time you’re asked to do it. God bless me! One would think the girl had gone for good! She’ll be back again in a fortnight—trust her for that! And you’ll walk about triumphantly as the proud papa of a millionairess. How will you like that?”

The old doctor looked up at him rather wistfully.

“I don’t think the part will suit me!” he said. “For one thing, Craig—I can tell you I’ve put by enough money to leave Sylvia quite well off on her own account—she would not have needed all this wealth—”

The Philosopher gave himself a mental rap. “I always thought so!” he said, inwardly. “The old boy has plenty—I knew he had!”

“I never spent much on myself,” went on Maynard. “I meant to afford the expenses of my book—though I felt it would be robbing Sylvia of some of her heritage—but when she showed such delight at doing it for me—”

“Exactly!” commented the Philosopher. “She has thought you a sort of literary pauper—that’s her ‘sentiment’! I always told her she was wrong! Just as I told her old Durham was an American Crœsus. I was right—but she wouldn’t believe me. You two fathers are artful dodgers in my opinion! You’ve both been playing poverty—regular old humbugs! I always thought you were!” Here he smiled, genially. “But I felt that if circumstances compelled me to marry Sylvia I should marry quite a nice little fortune!”

Maynard gave him a quick, reproachful glance.

“Craig!” he exclaimed. “Was that your idea when—when—”

“When I proposed to her?” finished the Philosopher, equably. “Of course! What else should I have had in the way of an idea? Love?” Here he gave a sort of growling laugh. “Love? I’m too old—too ugly!—too battered and bruised in the battle of life to be conscious of any remedy for my disfigurements and disabilities,—but I’m quite capable of appreciating the comfort of a warm fireside, a pretty woman to look after me, and money to pay for these luxuries. I had all this in view when I suggested myself as a wall—”

“A wall?” repeated Maynard, bewildered. “What—”

“What meaning have I?” and the Philosopher gave another odd laugh. “I say a wall! ‘A sweet and lovely wall, that stand’st between her father’s ground and mine’—to quote the ever-quotable Shakespeare. I might say ‘I am that same wall’—who was willing to stand between your little girl and the roaring lion of the world—that is, if things had come to the worst,—if young Durham had died—if you had died—and she had been left alone,—then perhaps I—I might have been useful!” He paused a moment—Dr. Maynard was regarding him fixedly. “Now as matters have turned out, the ‘wall’ is unnecessary—Durham is all right, and you are all right—I am all right!”

Here he put his pipe in his mouth and drew a long whiff. Dr. Maynard leaned forward in his chair.

“Craig,” he said, slowly. “You are not altogether an open book—but I think I can read you!”

The Philosopher avoided his direct gaze.

“I dare say you can!” he murmured, abstractedly. “I don’t mind if you do! I’m an uncouth phrase in ‘The Deterioration of Language’!”

The old doctor’s eyes rested on him with intently sympathetic kindness.

“I believe,” he said, “I believe you loved my little girl! Yes, Craig!—it was rather late in your day for love—but I believe you really loved her!”

The Philosopher drew his pipe from his mouth, looked down at it and smiled.

“Why use the past tense?” he queried, lazily. “Let’s revert to Shakespeare—‘Love is not Love, which alters when it alteration finds; oh, no, it is an ever fixèd mark, that looks on tempests and is never shaken.’ That’s me! I’m an ‘ever fixèd mark’! Moreover, at my age, I’m not likely to change.”

“Is it as bad as all that?” and Maynard’s voice was almost compassionate.

“Not at all—it’s as good as it can be!” and the Philosopher lifted himself out of his sunken attitude in his armchair with a swift movement. “Nothing bad about it! I have built a little shrine in the recesses of my mind, and I’ve put a little Madonna inside. I shall say prayers to her now and then—and when I feel disposed to hate all mankind, I shall mutter an ‘Ave’ or a ‘Peccavi’ and pull myself together. My Madonna will always be just a pure little English maid among roses, with sentimental ideas about love and life in general—but she will serve me as well as most Madonnas—even the Madonna of Cimabue could never have been treated with more tenderness than I would have treated her—I mean, than I will treat her in my thoughts.”

He paused,—his pipe had gone out, and he struck a match and re-lit it. “You see, Maynard! That’s my late—very late!—idea of love!”

The old doctor was silent for some minutes—then he laid a hand, with gentlest touch, on that of his friend and literary co-adjutor.

“Such an idea is never too late!” he said. “Unselfish—beautiful—and romantic in these unromantic days! But it’s not an idea that would satisfy most men!”

“I’m not of the company of ‘most’ men,” put in Craig. “I claim to be original!”

“Ah, dear me!” sighed Maynard. “Age—age!—what joys it steals away from us!—now if you had been younger—she might have cared—”

Craig laughed.

“She might—she might!” he echoed. “My good fellow age has nothing to do with it! Men of seventy and eighty are young and frisky and marry the most charming women! I certainly feel myself to be a bit in the ‘sere and yellow’—especially tonight,” here he rose from his chair and stretched himself, yawning as he did so, “but not so much so that I wouldn’t have risked taking care of Sylvia if the better man hadn’t turned up in time—”

“I wonder if he is the better man!” interrupted Maynard, suddenly. “He’s a worthy young fellow enough—”

“And I’m an unworthy old fellow!” responded the Philosopher quietly. “Stop it at that! Talk no more about it! You get off to bed—you’ve had a trying day. And to-morrow we’ll take a run together to Oxford and look after your publisher and your proofs. Push everything else aside for the present—”

“Oxford?” exclaimed Maynard, wonderingly. “Am I to go to Oxford?”

“Of course you are!” and the Philosopher bent his brows commandingly. “You’re wanted there to attend to business. And this is your opportunity while your daughter is away—you don’t need to stay here in her absence. Besides, business is business. You can share my rooms and welcome. You want a change.”

“Oxford!” repeated the old scholar, dreamily. “It is many years since I was there! I shall like to see it again!”

“Of course you will!” responded Craig. “Who doesn’t like to see Oxford!—the abode of Age and Youth pleasantly combined! The age part of it is dry as dust, the youth raw as green cucumbers—but they make an amusing mixture. The bones of classic authors rattle in the air of the old University town—and the rampant flesh and blood of the non-classic ‘rising generation’ make uncouth noises as of vampires who have sucked out the strength of the dead. Yes!—Oxford is full of suggestiveness—you will enjoy it!”

The old doctor smiled.

“I believe it’s all your good-natured idea to prevent my feeling lonely!” he said. “But I’ll go with you if you like—”

“If you don’t you’ll be carried!” returned Craig, firmly. “Make up your mind to that! And now let’s get to bed—you’re tired and I’m tired! Weddings are very exhausting affairs for all concerned—even for the bride and bridegroom.”

They left the study together and at the foot of the staircase which led to the upper rooms, Dr. Maynard paused—

“Craig,” he said, with pathetic earnestness. “Do you think she will be happy?”

The Philosopher looked at the old, frail figure compassionately. “Of course she will!” he replied. “Why shouldn’t she be? She has everything to make her so!”

“Yes—yes! That’s all very well!” and Maynard gave a half deprecating gesture. “But when the years go on, when the novelty has worn off—will she be able to live the life of social excitement wealth entails?—will she realise the wonderful love she has dreamed of? For she has always been a little dreamer of ideals—beautiful ideals all!—ideals such as the world loves to pull down into ruin!”

The Philosopher felt a little pang. Too well he knew the “ideals” of the little “Sentimentalist,” and too well he was aware that he himself had discouraged them and striven to pull them down—and yet—and yet—he had done his utmost to give her the “ideal” love he imagined she recognised in Jack Durham. He pulled himself together.

“We must leave all that to her husband,” he said. “He adores her—and depend upon it he will make her happy—that is as happy as any woman can be. You must bear in mind, Maynard”—here he became almost academical in tone—“that no woman is ever happy for long! It isn’t in her nature to be satisfied. When she has got one thing she wants another—and so on to the end of the chapter. But Sylvia has too good and sweet a character to be as variable and restless as most of her sex. Having Jack she has her heart’s desire—she doesn’t want Me!—or any other man! Good night!”

They parted then; but when he had locked himself in his bedroom the Philosopher went to its old-fashioned lattice window and threw it widely open. The night was beautiful; clear moonlight flooded the whole garden space, and he could see the winding alley of the rose-walk where on one never-to-be-forgotten day he had “lacerated” his hand in trying to gather a blush rose-bud for the “rose-lady” and she had “kissed the place and made it well.” It was a trifling incident, but to the would-be stoical and grimly cynical mind of the “Philosopher” it had meant a great deal. And now! Well!—now this was the first night of her honeymoon;—this was her marriage moonlight; and he—he stood outside the garden of Eden with no more roses to gather! Learning and scholarship, fame itself, seemed utterly worthless in comparison with the union of hearts beating with and for each other—the wisdom of the ages was dull, wearisome and all unsatisfying measured against the enchantment of tender eyes and caressing hands; and it was with something of a sharp mental pang that he recalled the sound of a sweet voice softly reciting from “Endymion” the “honey and water” lines—