“Ah! There be’s many a woman wot’s ’appy to know ’er man’s gone an’ not
likely to come back--many on ’em, I sez!--reg’lar flim-flammeries an’
gad-abouts wot ain’t wuth ’arf-a-crown a week for keep an’ yet Gov’nment
lets them draw more money than their men wot’s doin’ the fightin’! Real
tom-foolery _that_ is!--I calls it settin’ a premium on bigamy!”
The individual who delivered himself of these oracular remarks was a
certain Samuel Rikewood, locally known as “Riverside Sam”--because he
was never found elsewhere than _on_ the river or _near_ the river,
though up to the present he had escaped being _in_ the river, which was
something of a marvel. For he was wont to paddle about in a crazy old
wherry, cracked in many places, and apparently out of all balance,
looking more like a disused tub than a boat, and with this uneasy craft
he wobbled to and fro, offering his services to such stray tourists and
visitors who might seek to indulge themselves in the mild and meditative
sport of fishing. In the pursuit of his chosen calling and election he
made himself useful and necessary to old John Durham, who had grown to
like him for the quaintness of his speech and bluntness of his manner,
while “Riverside Sam” had in his turn “taken to the American man” as he
expressed it, and more especially since sorrow had struck him in the
uncertainty which the War Office message of “Missing” had created in his
mind concerning the fate of his son. Sam had liked the cheery and
good-looking young fellow who had humoured his father’s whims, showing
himself always ready to fall in with his plans whatever they were,
whether for fishing or taking long, rambling walks over hill and dale,
and in his unexpressive way was honestly grieved at the loss of the
bright boyish spirit which had brightened the dullest day, and with all
his heart pitied the old man left lonely.
“It’s a bit ’ard,” he said, on one occasion, “to ’ave to go an’ die for
one’s own country, but when ye gits blowed to bits for a country which
ain’t yours it’s ’arder still. Now Mister Jack ’adn’t no orders to go--”
John Durham raised his hand with a silencing gesture.
“Yes, he had, Sam!” he answered. “He had orders from his own brave soul
and conscience. Yes,--I knew that! And, Sam!--let me tell you this!--if
you once get that kind of orders you cannot--you _dare_ not--disobey
them!”
Sam looked faintly surprised and by no means convinced. He returned
doggedly to the point.
“’Merriker ’adn’t no business to come in,” he said. “’Merriker’s got
enough to do with her own affairs. Why, I knows a chap that went out to
’Merriker an’ got naturalised, so he shouldn’t ’ave to fight!--an’ he’s
divorced his wife that’s over ’ere an’ ain’t done nothin’ to deserve it
an’ he’s livin’ the life of a free Injun with a blanket an’ a tub, an’
as many wimin as he can take on! Catch _’im_ fightin’!”
Durham smiled.
“Well! I suppose he’s happy in his own way,” he said. “And after all,
Sam, happiness is what every man is after. It’s a kind of
fly-fishing--you think you’ve got something at the end of your line, but
when you pull in you find nothing! But we go on fishing all our lives
long. It often seems rather a useless business!”
He sighed and passed his hand through his grey hair. Sam looked at him
sympathetically.
“It do, sir, it do!” he agreed. “And there’s worse troubles than either
you or I ’ave ’ad to put up with. There’s a pal o’ mine in the village
wot is stiff as a poker with rheumaticks an’ ’is wife’s gone off it in a
’sylum--yet he was as straight an’ smart as you make ’em, an’ _she_ was
the merriest lass alive once on a time! Some of us _do_ get it ’ot from
the Almighty! nor knows we the reason why! That’s wot beats me! If the
Lord would be pleased to speak a bit an’ say, ‘Look ’ere, Sam, you’re a
no-good anyway an’ once or twice you’ve been as drunk as a profiteer an’
I’m goin’ to punish ye for all ye’re worth!’ why then I’d answer ‘Quite
right too!’--an’ suffer the worst willin’ an’ joyful--but when you ain’t
done nothin’ as you knows on, an’ ye gits beat black an’ blue, it’s a
bit perplexin’. Perplexin’s the word--that it is now!”
Durham sighed again, and watched his garrulous companion draw in the
fishing-boat to shore and fasten it to the moss-green and rickety stump
which served as a sort of anchorage near his cottage. He was beginning
to find his favourite sport monotonous, and his rather wearied mind was
stimulated by a sudden thrill of excitement when “Riverside Sam” went on
slowly:
“There’s that little lady up yonder at the Manor frettin’ ’er ’art out
an’ makin’ ’er eyes red with cryin’ on the quiet, an’ we all knows wot
it’s for though ’tain’t our place to say wot we thinks. But _you_ knows
as well as I knows wot’s the trouble! Ah, he wor a fine-lookin’
lad!--there, don’t mind me, sir!--I’m sorry I spoke if it ’urts ye, onny
I can’t abide to think o’ that pretty soul ’avin’ to marry the old
clever chap with a pipe wot’s always ’angin’ round old Doctor Maynard--”
“God bless me!” ejaculated Durham with amazing vivacity. “_He_ marry
_her_! Impossible! Preposterous! Where did you hear such a thing
mentioned?”
Sam straightened himself and stood up in the boat he was pushing to
shore.
“I ain’t heard nothing _mentioned_,” he said. “I onny puts two an’ two
together an’ makes ’em four. T’other day the old chap comes down to the
river edge an’ he sez, ‘Good-mornin’, Sam!’ ‘Good-mornin’,’ sez I. ‘Are
you married?’ sez he. ‘I am,’ sez I. ‘An’ do you like it?’ sez he. ‘Wal,
if I don’t like it now I never will,’ sez I. ‘I’ve been married these
forty year.’ That seemed to puzzle an’ bother ’im a bit for ’e sucked at
’is pipe like a baby at its bottle, an’ ’e sez, ‘That’s a long time,
Sam!’ I sez ‘It is, sir!’ ‘If I was to marry now,’ sez ’e, ‘I couldn’t
manage forty year--I shouldn’t live so long.’ ‘That’s right!’ sez I. ‘So
if you’re goin’ to do it you’d better lose no time!’ That seemed to
strike ’im, an’ ’e stood thinkin’--then he sez, ‘All right, Sam!--I’ll
take your advice!’ an’ off ’e went.”
“Well, well!” said John Durham impatiently. “All this has nothing to do
with Miss Maynard--”
Sam shut up one filmy eye knowingly.
“Don’t ye be too sure o’ that!” he chuckled. “There’s onny one little
bird on the ground wheer ’e is, an’ she’s worth ’avin’ a shot at! Lor’,
sir! the old boys are as darin’ in matrimony as the young--more so, I’m
thinkin’, special when there’s a bit of money about!”
Durham took in all this rambling talk with no real conviction, yet with
a certain sense of uneasiness. Before a couple of hours had passed he
started to worry himself over a number of possibilities. He knew well
enough that his son--the blithe young fellow now marked as “Missing” had
been deeply in love with Sylvia Maynard, and though, he, as the lad’s
father, had said nothing for or against the pretty love-idyll which he
saw expanding under his eyes, in his own heart he approved of it, and
rejoiced that his son’s choice had fallen upon so sweet and dainty a
flower of pure maidenhood. And the idea that the distinguished and
erudite scholar, Walter Craig, F.S.A., LL.D., should actually entertain,
even remotely, matrimonial intentions towards this selected “pearl of
price” irritated him almost beyond endurance.
“I’ll speak to Maynard about it!” he resolved. “Obsessed as he is by his
dictionary craze, I’ll make him give me his attention. He can’t be
altogether such an old fool as to allow his only child’s life and
happiness to be spoiled by such a marriage as this would be. Poor child!
What a destiny for her! I’d ... yes!... I’d rather marry her myself!”
And, strengthened by this reflection, he took the earliest opportunity
of paying an afternoon call on Dr. Maynard on a day when he happened to
hear that the Philosopher had gone to London on one of his occasional
expeditions to visit his publishers.
He found the old gentleman rather tired, rather irritable, and in a
despondent humour generally, and therefore more or less pleased to see
him as one to whom he could talk freely.
“It’s very good of you to come,” he said, as he rose from his chair and
shook hands. “I’m all alone to-day,--that is, until Sylvia comes in.
Craig is in town.”
“Ah!” commented Durham, gruffly. “Why don’t he stay there?”
Dr. Maynard looked a trifle uneasy and embarrassed, but answered
nothing.
“Why don’t he stay there?” Durham repeated, with increased asperity.
“That book of yours on ‘The Deterioration of Language’ ought to have
been done with months ago,--only he won’t let it be done with! He’s a
human sponge,--that’s what _he_ is. You’re paying him for his work--”
“Not as much as he could demand if he liked,” interrupted the old
Doctor, quickly. “He’s really giving me the benefit of his great
scholarship for a mere song in regard to terms--I couldn’t afford to pay
him his just price,--the price he could get anywhere--”
“But you throw in food and lodging,” said Durham. “Food of the best and
lodging of the greatest comfort. You also throw in the companionship of
your pretty daughter and allow him to make love to her!”
“I don’t!... I don’t!” exclaimed Maynard, excitedly. “I know he admires
the child--”
“You bet he does!” and Durham wrinkled up his forehead in a saturnine
frown. “And also admires the house she lives in and the fortune you are
likely to leave her! You bet! He wasn’t made a sponge for nothing. His
business is to soak up things. He has soaked up enough learning; and now
he wants to soak up a few creature comforts for his old age! Maynard,
keep your eyes open!”
“I do, I do!” exclaimed the poor old scholar, in evident distress. “But
I can’t help it if Craig falls in love with the girl, can I?”
“Falls in love? He? That pragmatical, self-conscious, learned prig! He
couldn’t fall in love if he tried--I don’t suppose he ever _has_ tried,
not even when he was young, if he ever _was_ young! I could do the
business better myself!”
Maynard sank back in his chair, amazed.
“_You!_” he murmured, faintly. “_You!_ God bless my soul!”
Durham’s small, steely, grey eyes sparkled with a monkeyish glitter.
“Well, what now?” he demanded. “Why do you cry out ‘God bless my soul’
as if I had sent a bullet through you? I say I could do the falling in
love business better than Craig--”
Dr. Maynard lifted a hand and pointed a shaking finger at him.
“That’s just what Craig told me!” he faltered. “And he said you were
doing it!”
“He did, did he?” and Durham’s rather sallow countenance reddened. “Damn
his impudence!”
Old Maynard looked at him protestingly.
“Don’t--don’t be violent!” he said, anxiously. “It’s bad for you! We are
both old men--”
“And don’t we know it?” snapped out Durham raspily. “But we needn’t
dwell on the fact! There’s a third old man who is older than either of
us--”
“Not in years, if you mean Craig,” put in Maynard. “He is
considered--and he considers himself--in the prime of life.”
Durham laughed--a little cross, crackling laugh.
“‘A violet in the youth of primy nature,’ I suppose!” he said. “Now,
look here, Maynard! Putting all nonsense aside, do you really mean to
make a miserable martyr of your daughter--your only child--by marrying
her to Professor Craig?”
A little smile, half pathetic, half humorous lifted the wrinkles round
the old Doctor’s eyes.
“You’d rather marry her yourself, wouldn’t you?” he said gently.
“Just--for Jack’s sake!”
Impulsively Durham’s hand fell on that of Maynard--and they gripped
together in a clasp more eloquent than words. Then Durham spoke in a
voice which he tried to keep steady, but which now and then trembled in
spite of himself.
“For Jack’s sake,” he said, “I would do a great deal! I thought it all
out last night. I was always a bit hard on the boy--drove him with a
bearing rein--but he never complained. I’m sorry now! I know he just
worshipped your girl--and if I could save her from that old Dry-as-Dust,
I’d marry her and keep her sacred like an angel in a shrine till--till
Jack comes home! A sort of marriage by proxy, you know! And then--when
he returns, I could easily make myself scarce--get out of the way
quietly--no publicity--no fuss--just a little dose--and a long
go-to-bye-bye--”
“My dear old fellow!” exclaimed Maynard, deeply moved. “Don’t talk that
way! You’ve been worrying yourself, and you’re unnerved! I tell you
what!--I think we are two old fools together,--in this matter we are
forgetting the girl herself--Sylvia. We are disposing of her as if she
had no will of her own! But I give you my word she’s not disposed of so
easily! Let things take their course! She’s no more likely to marry
Craig than you! Not a bit of it! God bless my soul! I don’t think I’m
altogether finished yet--and I, too, have a will of my own!--”
“_Have_ you?” interposed Durham, with a touch of cynicism, yet smiling a
little. “And--if you have, do you exert it?”
“Well, well! Perhaps not, perhaps not! Perhaps I’m rather bound hand and
foot by the gout--but I’m quite capable of making an effort should
necessity arise. Just now, believe me, there’s _no_ necessity. If Craig
were to propose to my girl she’d refuse him point-blank. I shouldn’t
mind his trying his luck....”
“You wouldn’t mind?” echoed Durham, indignantly. “You’d let him make
love to her?”
A twinkling smile lit up Maynard’s old eyes.
“He _couldn’t_ make love!” he answered. “He wouldn’t know how! And I’d
let him try, because he’d make such a fool of himself! And Sylvia is the
very girl to show him his folly and take the conceit out of him! _That_
would do him good! Clever as he is there’s no doubt he’s conceited. It
wouldn’t hurt him to put his pride down a peg or two!”
“Maynard,” said Durham, solemnly, “you might as soon detach the bones
from a live herring as get the conceit out of that Professor of yours!
Why, man, his self-satisfaction is his life!--his blood, his veins, his
marrow!--and if he proposed to your girl and she refused him, it would
make no more effect on him than the pressure of a finger-nail on a
fossil! He would merely say that she is a fool, and he the wise man and
hero of a lucky escape!”
Dr. Maynard laughed. The conversation with his American friend had
roused and amused him--his interest was awakened by the movement of the
little romance playing round the attractive personality of his pretty
daughter, and he felt brighter, better and younger (because less
absorbed in himself) than he had for many a long day.
“Very likely you are right!” he said. “We’ll leave it all at
that--and--to Sylvia! She’ll settle the matter better than either you or
I! And I--I--think she was fond of your son Jack!”
“_Is_ fond,” corrected Durham. “Not _was_--_is_!”
“_Is!_” agreed Maynard, gently. “And if she is fond of Jack she’s not
likely to change her mind--in his absence.”
Durham looked at him steadily.
“That’s true!” he said. “She’s a loyal little soul--she’s not likely to
change. Not likely! Unless--”
“Unless--we will not speculate on unless!” said Maynard cheerfully. “We
will hope for the best--and leave things as they are for the present--to
God!--and to Sylvia!”