Sunday was always the pleasantest day in the week for the
Sentimentalist. She loved the peace of it,--the hush that seemed to fall
on all the traffic and business of the world,--the slow, soft chiming of
the village church bells at the morning and afternoon hours of service,
and the comparative respite from her work at the hospital, which she
never attended on Sundays, except when, moved by her own sympathies, she
went to read to the wounded for an hour or so, or write letters for them
to their homes. But, for the most part she spent the day at home, after
attending church in the morning, devoting herself chiefly to her father,
with whom she chatted cheerfully on the smaller affairs of the time,
avoiding as much as possible all distressful subjects, and almost
allowing him to think with the old farmer in “Punch”--“There ain’t no
war!” She generally found time on this “holy” day to run down to the
quaint old cottage rented by John Durham for his pet “sport” of fishing,
and see for herself how “Jack’s father” was getting on, for it pained
her beyond all words to notice his “broken” air, and the evident mental
suffering he was undergoing, though he bravely repressed all outward
sign of it. Concerning the Philosopher she troubled herself little. She
had convinced herself that he was of that singularly strong and
leathery constitution which is the frequent accompaniment of all
persons who are well seasoned in selfishness, and that he required no
particular attention beyond what he was an adept in securing for
himself. So long as he was a companionable literary assistant to her
father she had nothing to say either for or against him, albeit she was
disappointed that her former notions concerning him as a distinguished
writer and would-be instructor of less advanced mankind, were hopelessly
dispelled. Sometimes she turned for reference to one or two books he had
written,--books that were admired by press “cliques” and pushed into the
reluctant notice of the public without any successful result,--and she
marvelled at the lofty utterances and didactic phrases which inculcated
so much, from the pen of a man who never attempted to practise what he
preached. And her meditations on this incongruity generally ended in a
little shake of her fair head and a whimsical smile at her own folly for
having imagined--once upon a time!--that such a man could have a heart
for the sorrows or joys of his fellow-men.
Sunday, as already stated, was her peaceful day;--her “stay-at-home”
day, when she allowed herself some rest,--when, if the weather was fine,
she would sit in the garden among the roses--the very roses where “Jack”
was accustomed to look for some special bud which he thought fitting for
the adornment of the “rose-lady,” and where the Philosopher had
scratched his hand, to the imminent danger (according to his own
diagnosis) of blood-poisoning. Just now the pretty “bosquet” was a sad
place--there were no roses out, and though the sun shone, the wind was
cold. Nevertheless she went there with a book, moved to distract her
thoughts from sickness and wounds and death, if only for a brief
interval. From the window of the drawing-room the Philosopher saw
her,--and, first of all filling his pipe and putting a box of matches in
his pocket, strolled slowly out to make her aware of his presence. He
was in an agreeable mood, and his smile was a pleasant one.
“You are reading,” he said. “Am I in the way?”
She looked up.
“Oh, no!” she replied, gently. “I am not reading seriously--it is only
what I call a ‘peep-in’ book.”
He took it from her hand.
“Verse, I see!” he remarked. “Selections from the productions of various
verse-mongers. Well!... and you ‘peep in’ at the general show! Not a
bad expression that!--a ‘peep-in’ book. Most books merit no more than a
‘peep-in.’” Here he turned over the pages. “Dear, dear! It is
astonishing that so much rhymed rubbish still goes on being printed!
Dear, dear!
“‘As the flight of a river
That flows to the sea,
So my soul rushes ever
In tumult to thee!’
Bulwer’s twaddle!--Lytton Bulwer or Bulwer Lytton! Curious person!--How
he could reconcile his conscience to rhyming ‘ever’ with ‘river’ I
cannot imagine! And of course his soul didn’t ‘rush in tumult’ to any
one. He was the worst husband in the world,--Rosina Lady Lytton led a
miserable life with him.”
Sentimentalist Sylvia smiled.
“I quite believe it!” she said. “Poets are all the same--they write
about love because they don’t feel it. If they felt it, they couldn’t
write about it.”
“Wise child!” And the Philosopher, with his most attractively kindly
glance, closed the book and returned it to her. “You really say very apt
things now and then!”
She was silent.
“It’s not a very pleasant day for sitting out in the garden with a
book,” he went on. “Especially a book of verse. A book of verse demands
rather more sunshine and a less chilly wind. Don’t you think so?”
She looked up and was pleasantly conscious of the agreeable smile which
at times made him appear almost handsome.
“I haven’t thought about it,” she said. “I just came out for a little
rest in the fresh air--”
“Ah, yes!--you are tired!--I can see that!” he remarked. “You do too
much altogether, too much at the Hospital to begin with, and you add to
your burdens by rushing down to see that old gentleman at his cottage
who can very well look after himself--I mean Mr. Durham, who follows the
pursuit of Izaak Walton. Why not leave him to the gods and little
fishes?”
He smiled again, and spying a garden chair, brought it to her side and
sat down upon it.
“Why not,” he repeated affably, “leave him to the gods and little
fishes? He is not an attractive person,--and he is quite likely to
occupy your time more than he should. Perhaps you imagine him to be
ailing in some way--but from his general physical _contour_ I should say
he is tough as leather--tougher, possibly. He’s the perfect type of a
tanned and dried American,--self-preserved in a thick dollar hide!”
A swift flush of colour swept over Sylvia’s fair face.
“You mistake him,” she said, gently. “Indeed you do! He has a very warm
heart, and he is always ready to do good wherever he can. People think
he is rich,--but he isn’t really.”
“Oh! You think he isn’t really?” The Philosopher pulled out his pipe and
match box. “He isn’t really! Now--how do you know he isn’t?”
The Sentimentalist hesitated.
“His son told me so,” she said, at last.
There was a pause while the Philosopher lit his pipe.
“Well! A son seldom knows his father’s affairs,” he said, “not if the
father is a wise man! And I should say old Durham was very wise,--almost
cunning! That is, if I am anything of a judge of character.”
The pretty Sylvia looked at him sideways, wondering whether he
considered himself such a “judge.” He had all the air of a clever man,
and just at the moment his rather worn features had an expression of
benevolence and kindly interest which rendered them more than usually
pleasing.
“He can be quite nice and charming if he likes,” she thought. “But how
seldom he _does_ like!”
“I should not wonder,” resumed the Philosopher, “if he were to marry.”
Sylvia laughed.
“Marry? Mr. Durham?--What an impossible idea!”
“Nothing is impossible,” said the Philosopher, “to a man if he makes up
his mind. Americans in particular are notorious for their habit of doing
so-called ‘impossible’ things. From rolling over Niagara Falls in a
barrel to reaching the moon by rocket, they assert and assume capability
for creating and overcoming difficulties. In affairs of marriage they
tie and untie the knot with a celerity which can only be compared to the
skill of the Davenport brothers. You have heard of those worthies? They
used to allow themselves to be bound hand and foot inside a
cupboard--members of their audience would tie the cords in the most
frightfully exhausting manner,--and then when they had been fastened up
as tightly as possible and the cupboard shut upon them, in one minute
they stepped out untied and at liberty. An American marriage is just
like that,--you take your man and woman, tie them up and shut them in a
cupboard--and lo!--before you know where you are they have stepped out,
separated and free! Amazingly clever!--and one can seldom see how the
trick is done!”
The Sentimentalist was amused.
“All that may be very true,” she said, “but it has nothing to do with
poor old Mr. Durham. The idea of _his_ marrying! Whatever put such a
thing into your head?”
“Common sense and reason combined,” replied the Philosopher, blandly. “I
do not want to touch upon a painful subject--but Mr. Durham is at the
present time conscious of solitude,--loneliness--”
“Ah, yes!” sighed Sylvia. “He is very lonely.”
“Exactly! Now loneliness, though welcome and desirable to a man of
intellectual ability, is not always so to persons whose intelligence
appears limited to the sport of fishing. It is possible to grow weary of
rod and line if nothing else presents itself on the mental horizon. Even
the crazed creatures who play golf or tennis all day and every day do so
in a certain radius of companionship. Mr. Durham appears to have no
acquaintances except your father and yourself.”
Sylvia thought a moment.
“No,--he is rather mistrustful of society,” she said, at last. “I have
often heard him say he would rather have no friends at all than
pretended ones. He is very blunt--and he hates anybody or anything that
seems insincere or hypocritical.”
Walter Craig, F.S.A., took to his favourite amusement of puffing round
O’s in smoke from his mouth as he enjoyed his pipe.
“Well, then, very naturally he is left to himself,” he said, “because
there are no human beings in the world who are sincere,--nobody can
afford to be honest. To satisfy social convention you must be a
hypocrite. Otherwise you get yourself disliked.”
She gave a little shrug of her shoulders.
“Does it matter?”
“To get yourself disliked? Well, that depends upon circumstances. Some
people get on all the better for being disliked--others do not. For
instance, I am a plain-dealing man,--I speak the brutal
truth,--therefore I am disliked.”
She laughed a little.
“Oh, how can you say so? Have you not often told me that you are amusing
and clever, and that you are sought after because you can tell good
stories and are witty?”
He puffed out a very large and successful O.
“Have I told you as much as that? All about myself? Dear me!” He seemed
blandly surprised. “I have really gone very far in my confidences! But I
don’t retract. I _am_ amusing,--when I like. No one can be more so. I am
never dull. Occasionally I am sleepy--that is, when I am bored. I find
myself in that condition when Mr. Durham is here. I am never at my best
in his company.”
“I’m sorry!” said the Sentimentalist, gently. “He is really such a kind
old man!”
The philosopher nodded tolerantly.
“Naturally! To you he would appear a kind old man. To me kind old men no
longer appeal. I have nothing to give them. I shake my head at them and
say ‘Go away.’”
She smiled.
“You really are very funny!” she said. “Nothing seems _quite_ to please
you!”
“Why, no!--of course not!” he rejoined. “To be ‘quite’ pleased at
anything, or with anybody, implies a bovine spirit--a kind of animal
chewing-of-the-cud--which eliminates the brain and is concentrated on
the stomach. I was never of that disposition. As for the kind old man,
Durham, I am certainly not ‘quite’ pleased with him because I consider
him too ‘quite’ pleased with _you_!”
She started and the book of verse she held fell from her hand.
“With me?” she exclaimed.
He stooped to pick up the book, and returned it to her.
“With you,” he repeated. “I will not say that his ‘soul rushes ever in
tumult to thee,’ because I imagine his soul has long ago done with
tumult--but I think he is very fond of you.”
She suddenly perceived his drift, and her expression grew cold, with a
touch of hauteur.
“I hope he is!” she said, quietly. “I wish him to be fond of me!”
The Philosopher felt himself to be on rather dangerous ground.
“Do you, really?” he murmured placidly. “Well! I’m sure your wish is
realised!” He paused--then, with an elephantine effort at playfulness he
added, “After all, who would not be fond of you! Even I am fond of you!”
She laughed merrily.
“Even!” she echoed. “Even you!”
“It’s a great concession for me to make--” he said, slowly--and his
whimsical smile lighted up his whole face in an attractive manner. “But
I make it freely! I find you a very lovable, charming little
lady--wilful certainly, yet not unpleasantly so. Sometimes you and I
have disagreed--have nearly quarrelled, in fact--but this has given zest
to my feelings, and deepened your own charm. Dear me! My pipe has gone
out!” He fumbled for his matches, found them, and re-lit his malodorous
briar. “Yes--er!--what was I saying?--Deepened your own
charm,--yes!--quite true. Therefore you must not be surprised if I
rather object to your wasting so much of your sweetness on the desert
air,--the desert air being a figure of speech for the dry and dusty
personality of Mr. Durham,--and find him distinctly in the way.”
A mischievous twinkle sparkled in Sylvia’s eyes. She pointed a small
finger at him.
“You are jealous!” she said.
“Jealous?” He ruminated. “You think so? I have never, to my knowledge,
experienced the sensation,--but you may be right! It would be curious
and--er--interesting! You may perhaps recall that once--once upon a
time--in this very garden--you asked me if I would like you to marry
Jack Durham,--and I believe I answered, ‘Not just yet.’ You were very
kind to me in those days--much kinder than you are now. I suppose you
had not perceived my bad points. Anyhow, when I said ‘Not just yet’--as
applied to young Durham, I would say the same again, only more
emphatically, with regard to old Durham--”
She rose from her chair amazed.
“Mr. Craig!” Her voice thrilled with vexation and hurt. “How can you
imagine--”
“That old Durham might wish to marry you and leave you the vast fortune
he is rumoured to possess?” finished the Philosopher, placidly. “Nothing
more natural and simple, his son being dead--”
She put up her hands to her ears.
“No,” she exclaimed, with quick intensity. “He is not dead! I am sure of
it! Please do not say that word again!”
“I will not if you find it objectionable--” he said, gently. “But here
again you allow your sentiment to run away with you. You imagine--or let
us say you hope for, news that you are not likely to hear. I am--yes, I
admit I am rather surprised that you concern yourself so much with that
‘missing’ young man.”
She said nothing.
“Anyway,” he resumed with a patiently resigned air, “you must own that
Papa Durham is very attentive, and there is no doubt he is extremely
fond of you. I also am very attentive--surely you notice that?--and I am
very fond of you too!--so really you have nothing to complain of. Now,
have you?”
A little wistful smile quivered on her lips.
“No!” she answered. “I should be sorry to complain.”
“That’s right! You know”--here he knocked the ashes out of his pipe and
prepared to fill it afresh--“you know--or you might try to understand
that I really want to be nice to you--”
Her eyes sparkled mischievously.
“Do you? Really and truly?”
“Of course I do! Naturally I have my own ways of being nice; and they
are not like the ways of ordinary people. I have seen life, and I know
that it is rather difficult to live it,--with satisfaction to one’s
self. For a solitary man it is hard,--but for a solitary woman it is
harder.”
“Yes?” There was the slightest inflection of doubt in her voice as she
put the query.
“Yes? Certainly, yes! Very much yes! A woman alone in the world occupies
a perplexing and awkward position,--people don’t know what to make of
her;--she is an anomaly,--neither fish, flesh, fowl, nor good red
herring. Her solitude implies that she has either left some man or been
left by him--there’s no alternative--not in the opinion of society.”
“Poor society!” she said. “Its opinion is always very stupid and
erroneous--not worth considering. I have heard you say so often.”
“True!” He stroked his moustache thoughtfully with one hand, holding his
pipe in the other and gazing at it as though it were a long way off.
“But a literary man--a scholar--may say and may think things which do
not meet with general acceptance. He can defy convention,--a woman
cannot. Now, suppose you are left alone in the world, have you ever
thought what you are going to do with yourself?”
She looked startled--the colour rushed to her face, then ebbed away,
leaving her very pale.
“You mean--if Dad should die,” she said, in a low, sad tone. “No--I have
never thought--I do not want to think--”
“So like a woman!” declared the Philosopher, almost triumphantly.
“Doesn’t want to think! Of course not! But you _should_ think! You
should always be ready for any event--any disagreeable emergency--”
“Are _you_?” she asked.
He was for a moment taken a little aback.
“I--I think so,” he answered, slowly. “I generally prepare my way to a
goal of some sort and foresee possible obstacles--”
Suddenly, much to his surprise, she laughed--one of her prettiest little
laughs, clear and sweet as a silver bell.
“I quite understand!” she said, while enchanting little dimples of mirth
danced about her cheeks and chin. “You are preparing your way now, and
you foresee possible obstacles! Yes!--you know you do! You are just
wonderful!--and I want to be nice to you just as you want to be nice to
me! But”--here she laid a little soft white hand on the amazed
Philosopher’s coat-sleeve--“we won’t go on with it just at present, will
we? There’s not any time! Dad will be expecting me to give him his
medicine--and then--then I have other things to do!” Her bright face was
radiant with its happy smile. “But I’m sure you mean to be kind and
pleasant,--and--and--oh, do take ever so long preparing your way!--you
must, you know!--in case--in case you should overlook some obstacle that
might upset you very much!”
Here she rose from her garden-chair, holding the condemned “book of
verse” close to her breast. “It might be ‘the flight of a river’--or a
‘soul tumult’!--who can tell--!”
He stopped her light “badinage” with a look, and in a sudden masterful
manner, laid his hands on hers.
“You are playing!” he said. “And you can play as long as you like. I
don’t mind! But I happen--for once in my life--to be in earnest!
However--as you don’t wish it--we will not go on with the subject--shall
we call it the ‘prep’? just now. It can wait. _I_ can wait! We will
return to it another day!”
He released her hands and stood aside to let her pass. She looked up at
him in something of wonder, not unmixed with a novel sense of
admiration. Being “in earnest” had given him quite a new
expression,--some of the grim furrows in his face had for the moment
disappeared--there was an unwonted light in his eyes, and he smiled--a
positively winning smile, thus seeming less of a scholar, but more of a
man!