Up to the present moment it has seemed hardly necessary to mention the
name of the Sentimentalist. She was so distinctly a Sentimentalist that
the appellation bestowed upon her by her godfathers and godmothers at
the baptismal font always seemed superfluous. Yet it was quite a pretty
name,--and in a subtle way suggested her nature and surroundings. It was
Sylvia. It was a name the Philosopher found objectionable as soon as he
knew her well enough to display his contentious and “criss-cross”
humours.
“Sylvia is a name that belongs to the age of decadent romantic fiction,”
he told her, with a kind of derisive sternness. “You might as well be
called Amanda!”
“True!” she laughed. “I wonder why I wasn’t!”
“Amanda,” he went on, “is the name of a feeble heroine in an old, very
old and very stupid novel called ‘The Children of the Forest.’ She was a
young person who was for ever weeping, or, when not weeping, fainting in
the arms of a man. There was a villain in the piece who always pursued
her--(why, no sane creature can imagine) and never, thanks to a kindly
Providence, succeeded in winning her. Then there was the ‘noble’ lover
of course!--a pattern of all the virtues, and an unmitigated nuisance--a
fellow who shed tears with his Amanda and drew a useless sword on the
smallest provocation--altogether a sickly rhodomontade of sickly
sentiment and twaddle--”
“Why did you read it?” she asked.
“I was very young,” he replied with a brief snort of contempt for his
unsophisticated past. “Terribly young! But quite old enough to find
‘Amanda’ a bore!”
She smiled.
“Well, I’m not Amanda!” she said, gaily. “Nobody thought of giving me
_that_ name! But I’m sorry you don’t like the name of Sylvia!--I rather
fancy it myself!”
The Philosopher made no further comment just then. This conversation had
taken place in the very early days of his acquaintance with the
Sentimentalist, and he was careful of his ground. Greatly as he admired
his own rudeness (which he considered clever and amusing) he knew it was
not advisable to display his inherent bad manners to a hostess before
making himself sure of her amiable tolerance; as a more or less
“distinguished” man of literary attainment he had established a
convenient reputation for eccentricity which allowed him a certain
latitude of behaviour,--he could say things which nobody else said, and
do things nobody else did. His acrid observations on men and things were
condoned because “he’s so clever, you know!” people would declare, with
the foolish giggle wherewith they accept monstrosities at a country
fair. And his professed objection to the name of Sylvia wore down in
time, being in truth an objection that never existed at all save in the
inconsistent and crotchety tendency of his own brain. Two or three times
he had found occasion to sniff and snort his irritation when Jack, now
happily removed for a time from the social scene, had essayed to sing
“Who is Sylvia, what is she?” in a voice which was unfortunate in
_timbre_ and guiltless of training,--but he had refrained from any
positive comment on that young man’s vocal efforts. And a long period
had elapsed or had seemed to elapse between then and now. The mild peace
of the English countryside had been harried by “alarums and
excursions”;--War, the wicked--War, the barbaric--had arisen in mad
ferocity like a brute beast from its lair, and its destructive force and
evil influence was felt everywhere, even in the little sequestered
village where the Sentimentalist had her pretty home, and where she had
been accustomed to see little save the beauty of an untroubled Nature.
The long white building temporarily erected as a Voluntary Aid Hospital
for the wounded made its suggestive presence felt on the land where it
stood sheltered by a belt of beautiful old trees,--and the
Sentimentalist’s time was divided between it and the care of her father
in a manner that left her little leisure to attend to the Philosopher
when he came (as he persistently did) to assist in the continuance of
the great philological work which was intended to propound an entirely
new idea of civilisation to a waiting and expectant world. Dr. Maynard,
the venerable author, was growing more and more feeble, and the gout was
laying a faster grip on his weary limbs, and had it not been for the
interest he took in his literary research and the patient indulgence
maintained by his devoted daughter for all his whims and fancies he
might have “gone under” more rapidly than was anticipated. This was
indeed the reason why the Philosopher was tolerated and even
encouraged,--for the poor little Sentimentalist dreaded being left
entirely alone with her father, and “The Deterioration of Language.” As
long as the old gentleman was kept amused and occupied the gout was
partially held in check, and this desirable result was all she sought.
For herself and her own happiness she had little care,--her naturally
bright spirit was clouded by sorrows she could not alleviate,--sorrows
wrought by the war, and coming fast one upon the other like clouds
rolling up in a storm. Day after day the wounded were brought to the
hospital among the trees,--day after day she saw terrible sights of
suffering which she, as the little “rose-lady” of Jack’s adoration had
never expected to see,--and what was worst of all to _her_, day after
day of utter silence and suspense racked her nerves in the longing for
news that never came. In the first year of the war, old John Durham,
Jack’s father,--had received letters and “field cards” with tolerable
regularity--his son wrote that he was “well” and “in fine form”--and
Sylvia had a card or two expressed with the usual military reticence.
But after a while and all suddenly a great silence fell, and enquiries
at the War Office only elicited the ominous word “Missing.” The blow was
a heavy one to the father of the cheery young fellow who had so
gallantly resolved to risk his life in the service of a country not his
own, and he crept about more or less feebly, with bent head and drooping
shoulders, only bracing himself up whenever he saw Sylvia, who made it
one of her special duties to look after him as much as possible--“for
Jack’s sake” as she would whisper to herself sadly when alone. Not that
she ever gave up hope. No,--the word “Missing” held out fair promise to
her pure and prayerful soul. She was sure--yes, quite sure, that Jack
was not killed--that he would return just the same joyous-hearted Jack
as ever! So she told his father--her sweet, loving, blue eyes sparkling
with tears, as she spoke;--and he,--well!--somehow he found it difficult
to speak, and only pressed her little hand till it was almost crushed in
his own rough palm.
Among these characters and influences one would have thought the
Philosopher--the learned Walter Craig, F.R.S.A., LL.D., and as many
other letters of the alphabet as various Universities can tack on to one
small mortal name--would have found himself out of place. In strict
accordance with his own theories he ought to have been “bored”--but he
wasn’t. As a matter of fact after young Jack Durham had been reported as
“Missing” he had experienced a greater interest in the whole situation.
There was nothing to disturb his general equanimity. His work with the
querulous and ailing old Dr. Maynard was intricate and more or less
amusing; he had comfortable quarters in a pretty and well-ordered
house--and he had no twinges of conscience in performing the part of a
“sponge,” because he felt (and in this he was right) that in keeping his
invalid host occupied with his “great work” he was performing a real
service, for which he might justly claim board and lodging. And as the
war was going on and things were very uncomfortable in London, he took
his chance of ease and safety as long as he could get it. The only fly
in his amber was old John Durham. With all his heart he detested this
wiry wizened American with eyes as sharp as gimlets and a face like a
nut-cracker. He grudged the affectionate solicitude with which
Sentimentalist Sylvia regarded him--the anxiety she evinced concerning
his health and general well-being all, forsooth!--because he was Jack’s
father, and Jack himself was “Missing.” To him there was nothing
pathetic in the gradual droop of the old man’s physical frame, or the
lines of sorrow and suspense that delved themselves round his whole
countenance,--all that he saw was that Sylvia rather allowed herself to
be monopolised by him in the intervals when she was not in attendance on
her father or working at the Hospital; and one day the startling notion
seized him that perhaps,--Jack being “missing,”--his father might “make
tracks” (an expression old Durham often used) for Sylvia himself! This
idea buzzed in his brain like a persistent bumblebee on a window-pane.
“Old men marry young women every day--” he argued with himself.
“Especially when they feel lonely. Then, from all I can gather, this
American has got money, and _she_ may not be indifferent to that! Of
course his great asset is that he’s ‘Jack’s father’!” Here the
Philosopher snorted contempt. “Little goose as she is!--little
sentimental goose! I wonder if Maynard has any suspicion of the
intentions of this ancient courtier--”
Here another brilliant suggestion struck illumination on his brain.
“I’m not as old as Durham,--certainly _not_!” he thought. “Ah!--not by a
good six or seven years! Then why--”
His meditations here began to gallop along strange and unaccustomed
routes,--stray reflections of _couleur de rose_ wavered across the grey
monotony of his learned mentality, and almost he was conscious of a
faint sense of returning youth.
“I’m not as old as Durham!” he repeated, with a kind of inward
jubilation. “Then why should not _I_ take a bold step? My peace of mind
would probably be destroyed, and I should have to put up with many
annoyances and small absurdities--still, take her for what she is,
there’s a charm about her rather rare to find nowadays among modern
women. I know what I’ll do! I’ll give a gentle hint--quite gentle,--to
Maynard himself. He might be glad to have his daughter’s future safely
assured--it would make him easier in his mind.”
But--for the moment--none of his ideas or resolutions matured into
action. The days went on,--each day bringing its dreadful toll of young
brave lives crushed out on the fields of Flanders,--and in the pretty
old Manor-house the famous “Deterioration of Language” also went on as
relentlessly as the war. Quietly the Sentimentalist performed all her
rounds of duty, growing visibly paler and thinner, but making no
complaint. Only when she was alone in her bedroom at night and when she
looked out of its quaint latticed window at the thick battalions of
stars in the dark space, did she weep a little and wonder at the cruelty
of men to one another,--at the selfishness of statesmen who make
war--and at the solemn silence of that vast Ruling Power to whom all the
generations of mankind have in turn appealed in various
forms,--apparently in vain! Was it wicked to think that it was “in
vain”--she questioned herself? To pursue such an enquiry was futile, for
she constantly pictured to herself the helpless, stiffening forms of
brave boys stretched out on the sodden battlefield, whose lives might
have been the joy and pride of their parents; and in these sad
reflections she failed to see anything but the direct injustice, nor
could she admit that there was a “divine Providence” in the ordainment
of such disaster. She recognised clearly enough that the mischief was
the work of man and man only, but in a simple, blind way she would think
that if indeed a good God ruled the world He might have stopped it in
the beginning. And she prayed to be forgiven if her thought was wrong.
One quiet evening when an unusually glorious sunset had showered its
glowing crimson on the river and woods and had shed a warm and tender
light on the pile of books and manuscript on the table in Dr. Maynard’s
library where he and the Philosopher sat at work, the author of the
“Deterioration of Language” showed signs of fatigue and irritation,
whereat the Philosopher suggested a break in their studies.
“Let’s talk!” he said, affably, as he assisted in pushing Dr. Maynard’s
chair nearer the window from which could be seen a charming peep of the
garden. “We’ve done enough hard work for to-day. You’re tired.”
“I’m always tired,” replied the old gentleman, querulously. “This
infernal gout is killing me!”
“No doubt!” agreed the Philosopher, suavely. “But it’s doing it quite
gently! Twinges of the toe--yes!--of course. Still things might be
worse. You might have had cancer!”
“That’s no consolation!” growled old Maynard. “What I _might_ have had
doesn’t matter. It’s what I’ve _got_!”
The distinguished Walter Craig, LL.D., F.S.A., nodded his head blandly.
“My dear fellow, I know that! It’s what you’ve _got_! True! But we all
‘get’ something, sooner or later, otherwise we should never grow old and
never die. The latest science tells us there’s no such thing as
‘natural’ death. We ‘get’ something that is unnatural which forces our
exit when we would rather stay where we find ourselves.”
“What do _you_ expect to ‘get’?” Maynard demanded.
“Much the same as yourself,” the Philosopher replied, with smiling
equanimity. “Gout. It is an aristocratic illness,--it comes down to one
like one’s coat-of-arms. It’s a case of the sins of the fathers. What
the fathers did for me I don’t quite know--but they left me their
disease in the most generous way. It has not affected me much yet--but
it will.”
“It will--you may depend on that!” and Dr. Maynard’s voice had quite a
ring of cheerfulness as he spoke. “It never lets go its prey! I fought
it off for years--but I’ve had to give in.” Here he peered anxiously
through the window across the garden. “I wonder where Sylvia is? She’s
always out of the way when I want her!”
The Philosopher glanced at the clock.
“It’s not quite the time for her to return from the Hospital--” he said.
“Hospital? Hospital? It’s always the Hospital! I’m sure _I_ ought to be
there, attended to and looked after quite as well as half of those
strong young men with a bit of shell in their legs, or an arm off, or
something of that kind! Such a fuss about nothing! God bless my soul! In
Nelson’s time the fighting fellows cut their own limbs off and stuck
their stumps into boiling tar! That was something like hospital stuff!
No molly-coddling _there_!” The old gentleman chuckled with a curiously
malevolent pleasure. “But now we have all the girls and women bandaging,
poulticing and feeding every young man with a scratch--and the
better-looking the young man happens to be, the longer the scratch takes
to heal!” Here he chuckled again. “That girl of mine passes nearly all
her time at the Hospital--I can’t imagine what she’ll do without it
when the war’s over.”
“Ah!” And the Philosopher stroked his moustache meditatively. “Has it
ever occurred to you to think what she will do without _you_ when _you_
are over?”
Old Maynard’s face grew suddenly pale, and a cowering fear gleamed in
his eyes.
“What do you mean?” he queried half angrily. “I’m not over yet! And I
don’t intend to be ‘over’!”
“Good! Quite good!” and the Philosopher smiled amicably. “But--you
know--_l’homme propose et Dieu dispose_! It is always well to prepare
for emergencies. I consider that you should make sure of your daughter’s
future comfort in this world before you leave it.”
“Future comfort? God bless my soul!” snapped Maynard testily. “Do you
suppose I’m a man to neglect the care of my own child? Future comfort?
She’ll have everything I possess--and that’s more than anybody knows of
I can tell you!”
Craig, F.S.A., LL.D., listened complacently. He was right in his
surmise,--the girl would have plenty of money! Plenty of money! He
almost smacked his lips as he thought of that friend of his who had
secured a “Plum” in the matrimonial orchard--a “Plum” that had “dropped
into his mouth with a bang!” Sylvia would not “drop” so--but she might
be gathered gently off the parent tree with a careful hand. He thought a
little before speaking again. Then he said:
“She’s a charming girl. She ought to marry.”
“Why?” And a twinge of pain caused the old Doctor to make a wry face as
he put the question. “Why should she take up a husband to worry her for
the rest of her life? She’s perfectly happy as she is.”
The Philosopher assumed a grave and considerate air.
“A woman--especially a pretty woman,” he said, “needs protection and
support in this world. Without a man’s care and guardianship she is
invariably misjudged, slandered and suspected of some moral drawback--”
“Is she though!” and Dr. Maynard sniffed scornful incredulity. “Nowadays
she seems to me to run amok more thoroughly when she’s married than when
she’s single! She gets tired of her husband in six months or he gets
tired of her--and the whole thing turns out a ghastly failure.”
“You are thinking of extreme cases,” said the Philosopher, mildly. “Yet
I presume your own marriage was a success?”
A sudden smile of tenderness gave extraordinary light to the old man’s
furrowed countenance.
“It was!” he answered. “But that was in the old days! My wife was
‘old-fashioned.’ Home and love, husband and child were all the world to
her--she never wanted anything else, bless her dear heart! Ah! The
sunshine has never seemed quite so bright to me since she died.”
The Philosopher was silent for a few minutes. There was a quiet pathos
and simplicity in Maynard’s words that had an effect even on the
india-rubber toughness of his academic disposition.
“Your daughter is probably like her mother in nature and tastes,” he
observed, presently. “And if so, this is all the more reason why she
should not be deprived of a life that would be suited to her, apart
altogether from the security and _status_ of marriage.”
Maynard grew a trifle restive under the searching gaze of the
Philosopher’s eyes seen through rather unbecoming spectacles.
“It’s all very well to talk!” he grumbled. “Who’s to marry the girl?
There’s nobody in this village to suit her. They’re all ‘butchers and
bakers and candlestick-makers’ _here_--very small tradesmen all round.
There’s the county Squire--he’s a widower with an idiot son who had to
be put away in an asylum--and there’s a miserable little curate with a
chronic cough. Of course there are a lot of wounded chaps at the
Hospital,--mostly Tommies--I don’t think she’s likely to fancy one of
_them_--”
“What about old John Durham?” suddenly suggested the Philosopher, the
corners of his moustache going up in a little quizzical smile.
“Old John Durham!” exclaimed Maynard. “Why he might be her grandfather!
Now if you had said _young_ John Durham,--Jack--there might be something
in it--though he was always a silly ass--but he’s gone--‘missing,’ they
say--”
“Dead without a doubt,” said the Philosopher, pleasantly. “Killed in
Flanders, quite needlessly. He was not called upon to fight at all--but
being an American he was bound to indulge in a bit of braggadocio and
offer to do battle for the ‘old country,’ and he’s had his way. It has
struck me that his father, being left solitary, might think of marrying
again. Rumour says he is a wealthy man--and Sylvia is a little creature
who is accustomed to comfort, not to say luxury--”
“Of course she is!” and Dr. Maynard got flushed and excited. “Why
shouldn’t she be? She’s always had plenty of money--she’ll always have
it! She’s not obliged to marry an old sallow face like Durham to live
like a princess if she wants to! God bless my soul, Craig--what _are_
you driving at?”
The Philosopher smiled soothingly.
“My dear fellow, don’t lose your self-control over a trifling
suggestion! All I have said is in the way of friendship and--and
admiration for your young daughter. I think it would be very sad for her
if at some time or other--far distant let us hope!--she were left alone
in the world--even with plenty of money--having no one to advise her or
to guard her interests. And I repeat that she ought to marry.” Here he
paused--then added, “I am very fond of her myself!”
Dr. Maynard turned slowly round in his chair and surveyed him with a
fixed stare of wonder.
“_You?_”
The Philosopher did not flinch.
“Yes. I!”
And then the old gentleman began to laugh,--a deep half-suppressed laugh
of thorough enjoyment,--a laugh that shook his shoulders and wrinkled
up his eyes in all sorts of curious deep furrows.
“May and December!” he chuckled. “Or December and May! She might as well
take old Durham and have done with it!”
The Philosopher maintained equanimity. He smiled,--and as people often
noticed, there was something very attractive in his smile,--a flash of
youth and humour.
“I think,” he said, mildly, “you would find Sylvia likely to prefer me
to old Durham. I think so!--of course I cannot be sure!”
Dr. Maynard lifted himself in his chair, gripping its sides with both
hands, and surveyed his friend and literary coadjutor for a couple of
minutes in silence.
“Now look here, Craig,” he said. “You don’t mean to insinuate that my
little girl is in love with _you_? Why, man, she couldn’t be such a
fool!”
The Philosopher winced, and Maynard went on rather heatedly.
“She’s a clever child and would make a good wife for a clever man, but
you’re _too_ clever! Too obstinate--too ‘set’ in your own way--and
you’re too old to change your habits. You’re a splendid scholar, but
you’re deep in the ruts of learning--no wife could ever pull you out!
You’ve no sentiment--and Sylvia is all sentiment from head to
heels!--full of fancies and romantic notions. You’d have to be young to
understand her--and I don’t believe you ever _were_ young!”
“Thank you!” murmured the Philosopher. “Let us drop the subject! I
spoke in a friendly desire to ease your mind of a possible anxiety as to
your daughter’s future,--with me as a husband and protector she would be
safely guarded--”
“And happy?” There was a slight tremor in Maynard’s voice as he put the
question. “Would she be happy?”
“If she were not it would be her own fault,” answered the Philosopher.
“I should do my best to make her so. But let us say no more of it!”
He took up a book and turned it over with apparently sudden interest.
Dr. Maynard looked at him, and a twinge of the gout affected him
unpleasantly. He tried to picture the learned Walter Craig as his
son-in-law,--but somehow failed in the effort. And yet!--Craig was a man
of distinctive ability and reputation--he had his own special literary
“clique” who called him “a Master,” and his position in the world of
letters was unassailable--numbers of people were proud to know him. His
wife--if he had a wife--would occupy a position of honour and some
dignity. But Sylvia!--little Sylvia as Mrs. Walter Craig!--Even the
compiler of “The Deterioriation of Language” could not forbear a passing
thought as to “The Deterioration of a Woman’s Life!” He fidgeted on his
chair and cast an appealing glance at the Philosopher.
“Craig,” he faltered, nervously, “I believe you are thinking that I may
die any time--”
“My good fellow, of course you may!” blandly replied the Philosopher.
“And so may I. My gout is not so ripe and well advanced as yours, but
as Shakespeare’s Mercutio observed, ‘’Twill serve!’ Should it finish
you off before me your daughter will be left comparatively unprotected.
She has no relatives, so you once told me, but a divorced aunt. A
divorced aunt is hardly a suitable companion. Now if I become her
husband she at once steps to a platform of safety, and I can look after
her till my own time comes; she will be then old enough and experienced
enough to manage her own affairs.”
Maynard listened, with something of a distressed foreboding in his mind.
There was truth, harsh truth, and cold reason in the Philosopher’s plain
view of the possible circumstances--but, at the same time a cloud of
depression darkened the poor old scholar’s soul. Almost he could have
whimpered, like a hurt child. At last he summoned up a show of
resolution.
“Have you ever spoken to Sylvia on--on--this subject?” he asked,
tremulously.
“Never!” And the Philosopher assumed a truly “noble” aspect. “Can you
imagine it! I should not dream of doing so without your permission.”
The old Doctor sighed.
“Thank you!” he said, meekly.
A pause ensued.
Then came the sound of a light step on the gravel path outside the
window, and both men looked through the vista of shrubs and flowers to
see the Sentimentalist returning from her hospital work. She moved
quickly, checking the wild gambols of a rough Airedale terrier to whom
her presence was the acme of all earthly bliss,--but there was a little
indefinable air of lassitude and fatigue about her which had not been
any part of her aspect before the “silly ass” Jack Durham was known to
be “missing.” Her father looked at her wistfully as she went past the
window; then suddenly laid his hand on the Philosopher’s arm.
“I want her to be happy!” he said, pathetically. “She is a sensitive
little creature! I want her to be loved and understood! There are too
many wretched martyrs of married life in the world!--Heaven forbid the
child should be one of them! But--if she has any affection for you--(it
would be very strange!)--but if she has, I won’t stand in the way! You
must find it out for yourself,--you can speak to her if you like, and
put all the pros and cons before her. No one can beat you at that sort
of thing! Tell her she’ll be lonesome when her old Dad dies”--he paused
to swallow a lump in his throat--“and that you’ll try to take his place!
Tell her that you will love her and make a pet of her!--that she’ll
never hear a word of unkindness--tell her you love her now--that is,
_if_ you do! A woman will do anything to be loved!--it’s the nature of
the creature. I should never have thought that _you_ could love
anybody!--but the strangest things happen oftenest--and the notion of
your falling in love with my girl is one of those strangest things! I
have said--and I repeat it--I won’t stand in the way!”
The Philosopher shrank a little from the pressure of his friend’s hand
on his arm. Maynard was taking too sentimental a view of the case--much
too sentimental a view! Because he had not really “fallen in love” with
Sylvia--such a notion was absurd! quite absurd as applied to him, the
Philosopher. Nevertheless he recognised the futility of argument on so
delicate a matter, especially as he had gained his point in so far that
he had permission to speak to Sylvia. He hummed and hawed a little--his
ugly cough threatened explosion, but he restrained it.
“Thanks very much!” he said, reservedly. “You must not over-rate
my--my--sense of attraction for--or attachment to--your daughter. My
emotions are well under control--and when I speak to her on what I
consider this very vital subject I shall take care to ground my approach
on a strong basis of reason as well as--as affection. I am not in the
flush of youth--”
“No, that you’re not!” interpolated Dr. Maynard, with a shake of his
head. “That’s a rosy colour we’ve both done with!”
“I am not in the flush of youth,” repeated the Philosopher, laboriously.
“But I have experience, patience and sound common sense. And from all I
hear and read, it seems to me that these are valuable attributes in a
husband. They are seldom evidenced by a wife. Wherefore I argue that a
man possessing experience, patience and common sense is the proper
guardian for a charming but inexperienced woman whose errors are all on
the side of sentiment. Pretty sentiment--delightful sentiment!--still
Sentiment--and Sentiment is a dangerous guide--”
“Well, leave it at that!” said Dr. Maynard,--and a whimsical smile
brightened his worn features. “Leave it at that! It won’t guide _you_
anywhere too fast or too far!”