She raised her eyes and looked at him full and frankly.
“Yes,” she said simply, and there was a thrill of pain in her gentle
voice. “I should have put that first. If it hadn’t been for Jack!”
And now the criss-cross pattern of the Philosopher’s awkward temperament
began to urge itself into prominence. He made a feeble effort to assume
a patience which he did not possess, and only succeeded in pricking up
the ugly little lines of satire which ran through his nature as the
veins run through a leaf. He gave a short cough and a sniff in one.
“I thought as much!” he remarked. “And I wondered why you didn’t mention
it at once. However--now you _have_ mentioned it, may I, _dare_ I ask
whether you were engaged to that ‘missing’ young man?”
She kept her eyes steadily fixed upon him.
“No. I was not engaged.”
“Not engaged? Then--pardon me!--but why should his ghost stand in the
way?”
A little tremor seemed to pass over her like a cold wind.
“Not his ghost--oh, no!” she murmured. “He is not dead--I am sure he is
not dead!”
The Philosopher twisted himself round in his chair with a movement of
irritation.
“How can you be sure?” he demanded. “You go by sentiment as usual! All
wrong! Facts are the only props to lean on. When the War Office declares
a man is ‘missing’ in this deplorable war, facts plainly point out the
evidence that he is dead. You don’t want to believe it of course--your
‘sentiment’ refuses to believe it; but sentiment is a false
guide--especially for women. It leads them into a morass of mistaken
ideals and--and--er--wasted affection.”
“Yes,” she said, simply. “I am very wrong, I know--and you are--you must
be--always right.”
His eyelids twitched with a quiver of irritation.
“Is that sarcastic?” he asked.
She started.
“Sarcastic? Oh, no! Did it seem so? I’m sorry!”
“You need not be sorry,” he said equably. “It is only your usual way of
leaving facts for fiction. You are not ‘very wrong’--you are merely
sentimental; and I am not, nor am I bound to be, ‘always right’--I am
only endowed with a little common sense. And my common sense protests
against your posing as a sort of war widow.”
He had scarcely said this when he would have given a great deal not to
have said it. Her glance swept over him with an expression of regret,
pain, anger and pity all commingled in one bright flash. She moved away
from him and resumed her seat, bending her head anew over her embroidery
to hide the tears that despite her efforts had sprung to her eyes at the
rough touch he had laid on a smarting wound. Annoyed with himself--he
nevertheless went on in the track suggested by his evil demon--
“A war widow is an interesting personality,” he said, in rasping tones.
“I grant you that! Just now she is the ‘rage’--the pivot of smart
society! She gets herself up in the most attractive way--wears the most
enchanting headgear adorned with a long, flowing, airy, black veil, and
when she has a pretty face looks a pathetic picture. And she goes on
posing with the pathos and the veil, till she finds another man to
replace the one she has lost. All very natural and nice! But I don’t see
why _you_ should ‘pose’ in the fashionable attitude! You were not
engaged to the missing Jack--and if we take it for granted--as we
must--that he is dead, _you_ have no occasion to seek for some one in
his stead. You have the offer of a husband who would be kind to you and
protect you to the utmost of his power--who would love you--”
She looked up, her eyes wet and sorrowful.
“Ah, no!” she said in a thrilling voice. “Not love! You do not know what
love is or you would not hurt me!”
He was taken aback for a moment--her accents were so plaintive.
“Have I hurt you?” And he was conscious of a sense of shame. “Really?
Well--I apologise! Of course you think me a clumsy brute--I dare say I
am--I can’t help myself--”
“You _could_ help yourself!” she said, almost passionately. “Yes, you
could if you tried! You could help being cruel! You _are_ cruel in your
cold, sharp words!--your cynical estimate of all that makes life worth
living! As for Jack, if you had once realised the awfulness of war--if
you could, with all your cleverness, reading and learning, get
imagination enough to picture him or any other brave young man lying
dead on the battle-field, half trampled in mud, all the beautiful, gay,
strong spirit of him gone for ever,--oh!--you surely would have _some_
sort of feeling!--even for _me_!--for his poor father!--you would not,
_could_ not put it aside as a light matter for ill-placed jesting! You
know--yes, you know very well that I would never ‘pose’ as a war
widow,--so why do you say such an unkind thing?”
Her sweet face, quivering with suppressed pain moved him more than her
words. He rose from his comfortable chair, stretched himself and
smiled,--then came over to her where she sat.
“We are getting melodramatic,” he said, “and that will never do! As I
before said, I apologise! You are not a war widow. And you will not
‘pose’ as one. Good! That’s settled. You will put the missing Jack in a
shrine of your own fancy and surround his image with the incense of a
sentimental faith. And you will not marry me? No, certainly not! Not
yet! But--perhaps--some day! I do not lose hope--I am not disheartened!
Dear child, I am very sorry to have said anything to vex you--try to
forget it! But when you are calm again--when you are quite normal--I
want you to think quietly to yourself--think sensibly in a perfectly
matter-of-fact way--that life is not as the vulgar put it ‘all beer and
skittles’--nor is it all honey and roses, and women have more or less a
difficult time of it if they are alone in the world. They ought to be
treated kindly; but they are not. Now I offer myself as a sort of
wall,--the kind of wall through which Pyramus and Thisbe--(that is to
say, Sentiment and Folly) may just peer at intervals--a wall against
which you may lean without any fear of knocking it down. A wall is not a
pretty thing--but it is sometimes useful. In short”--here he very gently
laid his hand on her bent head--“I am here if you want me,--I don’t
hesitate to say that I shall be glad if you _do_ want me!--but,--if you
don’t--why then I must just grin and bear it!--and do my best to be
unselfish!”
A sudden surprise smote her, touched with remorse. There were “points”
in his curious temperament and character which she had not recognised,
and to which she had scarcely done justice. One of these “points” was
that being selfish he knew that he had that failing. It is a great
achievement for any man, especially a “philosopher,”--to know and to
recognise his chief fault, even while still persisting in it. She looked
up from under the touch of his hand on her head and smiled.
“What a pleasant man you might be if you liked!” she said, impulsively.
“Only--”
“Only I don’t like!” he finished, placidly. “Quite true! I don’t like
‘being pleasant.’ You see I’ve journeyed fairly well on in life and my
experience has proved to me that so-called ‘pleasant’ people are
generally consummate bores and wholly devoid of intelligence. They are
generally cowards too,--in a moral sense. That is to say that they
would rather be ‘pleasant’ than honest. Now I would rather be honest
than pleasant. You see?” He smiled. “And that’s why I’m rude,
crusty,--and selfish!”
She could not bear to hear him running himself down in this way, and
impulsively rising from her chair she laid both her little hands on his.
“No, you’re not!” she declared. “I won’t have you say so! You’re a very
charming man,--or you _can_ be--if you choose!--and I dare say I have
often misunderstood you. And perhaps--perhaps you’ll marry some nice
woman some day--and you’ll _have_ to be always charming then!--for _her_
sake!”
He laughed outright.
“I think I see myself at it!” he said. “Charming for _her_ sake!--the
‘nice woman’! Oh, ye gods! My dear child, have you ever thought what a
‘nice woman’ is, in the full meaning of that common term? A man flies
from her as from the plague! Propriety and commonplace in one! You’re
not a ‘nice woman’!--if you were--”
She echoed his laughter, still resting her hands on his.
“If I were, what then?”
“Why then”--and his voice vibrated with an emotion he really felt--“I
should never have grown so fond of you as I am nor should I have dared
to ask you to marry me as I have done!”
Poor little Sentimentalist! The grave tenderness of his tone made her
gentle heart beat quickly--she looked up and met his eyes bent down upon
her with a protective kindness that was wonderfully moving;--she could
not help being touched by the thought that this “clever” man, this light
of a literary “clique” actually found her lovable; and for the moment
all his odd brusqueries, rudenesses and cynicisms were forgotten.
Almost--yes!--almost she could have loved him! The swift doubt crossed
her brain,--was she wise to refuse him? Her thoughts seemed drifting to
and fro like leaves in a storm,--then, all suddenly she stooped and
kissed one of the hands on which her own lay.
“I cannot kiss the place and make it well!” she said in a tremulous
little way. “For I suppose ‘the place’ this time is in your heart!--or
you would say so! But do please believe that I am very grateful for your
affection!--and--and--that I am deeply sensible of the honour you have
done me!”
He drew his hands away from hers.
“That’s like a bit of Jane Austen,” he said. “Prosy Jane Austen whom all
the critics have agreed to praise because she can no longer gain any
advantage from their approval! I suppose you know,--you ought to if you
don’t,--that, nine out of ten of the so-called ‘literary’ oracles
haven’t read a line of Jane Austen and wouldn’t for their lives! She’s a
sort of refuge where they take shelter when they want to shy stones at
modern novelists,--they cower under her wing and say, ‘We turn with
relief to the delicate delineations of Jane Austen’--when they all know
there isn’t a single character of Jane Austen that ‘lives,’--or if one
_did_ live, he or she would be such a confounded prig and bore that the
rest of society would run away from the very contact. No, my dear
child!--please don’t ‘be sensible of the honour I have done you’--it’s
no particular ‘honour’ to a pretty woman to ask her to become the life
companion of an elderly and by no means good-looking man. I have likened
myself unto a wall--a wall of safety and protection--and if ever you
find such a wall necessary or useful--well!--here I stand!”
She lifted her pretty blue eyes to his trustfully.
“Thank you!” she said,--then, after a pause she added--“I am sorry
if--if I have ever misunderstood you in any way!”
“Oh, I’m easily misunderstood!” he said, airily. “I rather like it! When
people understand you, you are on their level,--now I don’t want to be
on anybody’s level. I flatter myself I’ve got a little bit of rising
ground on my own--just a little bit of course, but it’s not absolutely
flat.” Here he bethought himself of his pipe as a convenient distraction
from the conversation, and went to the mantelpiece where he had left it.
“Of course it’s only a little bit,--I don’t brag of it--but it’s off the
beaten track.” He began to fill his pipe slowly, moved by his evil
genius to do it in a peculiarly irritating manner, prodding the tobacco
into the bowl with his forefinger much too tightly for it to “draw”
successfully--“and, as regards my being a wall, naturally I’m not the
only sort of wall you might have--if you chose--to lean upon; you
might”--here his evil genius pressed him harder than ever--“you might
have an American millionaire wall!--and--after all--he’s only a few
years older than I am!”
Her face flushed,--then grew pale.
“I don’t know what you mean,” she said, quietly. “At least I hope I
don’t. If you allude to Mr. Durham--”
He nodded sagaciously.
“Then,” she continued, “he is not a millionaire. And if his son has been
killed in this wicked war, I shall be glad to do all in my power to try
and console him,--just as if I were his daughter--” She broke off, too
troubled by her own emotion to say more.
“Daughter is a good relationship,” said the Philosopher calmly, pursuing
his demon track. “A daughter can inherit if the son is dead. And you say
he is not a millionaire? He doesn’t look it, I admit--but looks are
deceptive. The showy man generally lives on his wits, having nothing
else to live on,--but the shabby, out-at-elbows fellow is almost sure to
have a big balance at his banker’s. One learns these interesting things
as one goes on in life,--they add to the charm of philosophy! Not a
millionaire? Good! But millionaire or pauper he makes another very good
‘wall’ for you should you need one--and if you prefer him to me--”
She clasped her hands in a kind of worried desperation.
“Oh, why will you go on talking like this!” she exclaimed. “I want
nothing--I need no protection from anybody! I could make my own living
by myself if I were driven to it,--and I would rather be left utterly
alone in the world than to marry a man I did not love!”
The Philosopher struck a fusee and tried to light his pipe but
failed--it was too tightly packed.
“Love again!” he commented. “You think of nothing else! I’ve told you
often that what you accept as ‘love’ is mere sentiment. For example,
take _me_,--I have a great affection for you,--so great that I have
asked you to marry me,--but the very variable emotion which boys and
girls call ‘love’ doesn’t move me a jot. I don’t believe in it. Out of a
hundred couples who marry for ‘love’ ninety-nine of them regret their
folly before the honeymoon is over!”
She was silent. He went on pleasantly--
“All the old novels used to end in the union of the hero and the heroine
who were supposed to ‘live happy ever after.’ We know now that they
_don’t_ live happy ever after. That bubble of illusion is broken. The
common conclusion according to hard fact is that they live _un_happy
ever after! There are exceptions of course--but exceptions prove the
rule. A really fortunate marriage is one where the contracting parties
are good friends--without any sentiment. This sort of sensible people go
jogging along comfortably and often celebrate their ‘Golden Wedding,’
whereas the silly ‘love’ business usually ends in the divorce court. Do
you follow my line of argument?”
She was watching his futile efforts to light his pipe.
“Quite!” she said, and a tiny smile uplifted the corners of her mouth.
“It’s quite easy to follow!--much easier than to light a pipe when the
bowl is crammed too full! Let me do it for you!”
She took the briar from his unresisting hand and deftly loosened the
tobacco with the point of her embroidery scissors, shaking some of it
into the fireplace, whereat he groaned.
“What a waste!” he commented. “So like a woman! To throw away what she
doesn’t want--”
“What _he_ doesn’t want, you mean!” she said, laughing as she handed him
back his pipe. “There!” and she lit a fusee. “You’ll find that all right
now.”
Slowly and morosely he drew a whiff or two.
“Yes--it’s all right,” he admitted. “But look at what you have cast away
in the grate! Enough for a half refill!”
“And whose fault?” she queried. “Who over-filled the bowl?”
He was silent a minute or two.
“I suppose I did,” he admitted after a while. “My own cup--the cup of
bitterness,--was over-filled and unconsciously I matched my pipe with
it. Ah, you may laugh!--but that’s a fact!” He paused again,--then
resumed: “And though you’re not a war widow you still are resolved to
play the part of one--that is to say, you’ll remain unmarried--”
“Till I know the real truth,” she interposed gently. “Till I am sure
Jack is no longer in this world! You see”--she hesitated, then went
on--“Jack was--_is_--very fond of me--and I--I was not fond of him a bit
till _you_ came!”
The Philosopher drew his pipe from his mouth and stared at her, amazed.
“Till _I_ came!” he echoed. “What in the name of all the gods and
goddesses did _I_ do to make you fond of him?”
A pretty rose-colour flushed her cheeks, and she smiled; then she went
on steadily:
“I was beginning to be fond of _you_!” she said. “Yes, I was! I don’t
mind telling you now. I thought you delightfully clever--and you seemed
kind--and I was quite proud that you liked my companionship. That was at
first, you know! But afterwards when you were rude--and when you said
unkind things you need never have said--well!--then I began to think
about you in a different way. I loved your little eccentricities and
grumpishness--but that sort of thing can be carried too far
sometimes!--and bitter words never sweeten friendship. You were harsh
and cynical--Jack was always tender and gentle--and though Jack is not
clever and you are!--dreadfully clever!--I felt that love is better than
all the cleverness in the world!” She paused,--there was a dewy sparkle
as of tears in her eyes. “You see how it happened?” she went on again.
“I should hardly have loved Jack so much if I had not contrasted him
with _you_! Do you understand?”
The Philosopher gave a resigned gesture.
“I understand!” he said. “I over-filled the bowl! And of course the pipe
doesn’t ‘draw.’ Well, well! I must accept my fate,--the inevitable
result of the strange humours of women! Could anything be more fantastic
than your beginning to care for me ‘at first’ and then starting to care
for young Durham ‘at second’ because I failed to come up to your
standard of good temper and mild manners! Merciful Providence!” The
Philosopher shot out this exclamation like a dart from an air-gun. “Who
can fathom the mysterious pools of the feminine mind! Child, do you want
perfection in a man? If you do you won’t get it!--make no mistake about
that!”
“I don’t want perfection,” she answered mildly, her rosy underlip
quivering just a little. “I never thought of such a thing! But I _do_
want--kindness!”
She turned her face away quickly lest he should see the tears in her
eyes which now brimmed over and fell. He was silent a moment, then--
“Kindness? Kindness can be overdone. It then becomes mawkish
sentimentality. Like politeness, it can be a bore. The man who is always
bowing and saying ‘Pardon me!’ is the very chap who’ll give you a good
deal to pardon him for in the long run. It’s the same thing with
kindness--if you are always kind to people you’ll find them always
cruel--it’s the necessity of contrast. You can’t say I have ever been
really unkind to _you_--now can you?”
She hesitated.
“You’ve been rough--and rude!” she murmured, at last.
“Granted! Well, what then?”
She peeped timidly at him.
“Then? Why then--I was disillusioned!” she said. “That’s all!”
He paced two or three times up and down the room.
“Oh! That’s all!” he echoed. “And you think perhaps that I’m the only
sort of man that proves a ‘disillusion’? You dear little goose! I’m
sorry for you! You make ‘ideals’ which no man can ever come up to--and
then you are vexed when they fail! If you’ve made an ideal of young
Durham--”
“Oh, no, I haven’t _ever_ made an ideal of _him_!” she said,
emphatically. “He never professed to be clever--he’s just
ordinary--nothing particular about him--but he wouldn’t _hurt_ any one
by saying unkind things--”
The Philosopher stopped abruptly in his pacing up and down.
“Dear child, the folks who allow themselves to be ‘hurt’ by what they
consider an unkind thing, are silly and conceited folks at best. I don’t
think _you_ are silly or conceited--but if you feel ‘hurt’ at anything I
have said to you or at anything anybody has said, then you haven’t as
big a spirit as I thought you had! I may be rough--I may be rude--but
you, in your youth and strength should make allowances for age in a
man,--for disappointments and difficulties and disillusions far worse
than _your_ disillusionment--disillusions extending over a long life of
study and thought--study of human nature, which teaches you not to
expect the best but always the worst--”
“That’s where you are wrong!” she exclaimed. “You should expect the
best!--the best always!”
He came up to her and taking her hand, patted it soothingly.
“Charming!--charming!” he said. “You are a true sentimentalist; but a
very sweet little lady all the same! And now what you have to do is to
put your precept into practice!--expect the best!--the best
always!--even the best of _Me_!”