“Yes, it’s really me!” said Jack at last, lifting his head from among
the soft fair curls that nestled against his breast. “Yes, you precious
little ‘rose-lady’! Really me! And it’s all the Philosopher.”
Sylvia started out of his caressing arms with a shock of surprise.
“The Philosopher?” she echoed.
“Just him!” And Jack, grown thinner, but not less good-looking, shed a
whole sun-ray of tenderness upon her from his clear, brave, blue eyes.
“You wouldn’t have thought it--but he’s a regular brick! A brick? He’s
an entire edifice!”
The Sentimentalist clasped her little white hands together and gazed at
him in rapture--she could hardly believe he was there before her
actually living and well!
“Oh, Jack, do tell me!” she exclaimed. “What do you mean? What has the
Philosopher done?”
Jack put his arm round her waist and drew her to the sofa where he sat
down by her side.
“He has done everything, dear!” he said. “He’s the trump card of the
whole game! He discovered me!”
“Discovered you?” Sylvia gazed at him in bewilderment.
“Yes--he found out the prison the Boches had put me into. It wasn’t an
easy matter either! But these learned professors always hang together,
and he has a friend high up in the diplomatic service of Germany, who
is, like himself, a sort of book-worm--and _he_ started the search for
me and found me. And then--” Here Jack broke off, evidently overcome by
emotion. His “rose-lady” caught at his hand and kissed it.
“Yes, Jack!--and then?”
“Well--he found me pretty well done for! But just because the
Philosopher, as we call him, had been a boyhood’s friend of his, he got
me out of the awful hole I was in, and as I was ill and half starved--”
“Oh, Jack!” and the Sentimentalist gave a little cry of pain.
“Yes!--but it’s all over now,” and Jack kissed her tenderly. “As I say,
this first-class old German got me out and took me to his own house,
where I was nursed as if I had been his son. And that’s not all. He
managed to send me to England--and that’s where the Philosopher comes
in!”
Sylvia listened almost breathlessly.
“The Philosopher met me at the boat and took me himself to a private
hospital in London--a real A-1. You couldn’t imagine his doing all he
_did_ do!”
“Oh!” cried Sylvia. “Then he knew you were alive all the time!”
“He knew I was alive but he didn’t know how soon I should be dead!” Jack
replied. “I was very, very ill, dear! I had been wounded as well as
starved--and there was plenty of reason for thinking I should never
pull round. So the good old chap kept his own counsel. He did not tell
my father or any one that I was alive and in England. Nobody knew. If
the War Office knew, it didn’t tell! And the Philosopher made up his
mind to keep his own counsel.”
“Oh, he might have let us know!” cried Sylvia almost indignantly. “He
might have relieved all our sorrow and suspense!”
Jack caught and clasped her hands in his own.
“Now, now, Sylvia!” he said. “Don’t you mistake the old boy! I used to
hate him!--but I know he’s one of the finest fellows living! Yes, truly!
He used to come and see me, and talk to me--when I was able to
listen--and he told me all about my father and about you--and he would
say--‘If I explain things they’ll want to come and nurse you--and you’ll
be nursed to death! If I hold my tongue they’ll be none the worse--and
you’ll be spared all the emotional excitement and worry, and you’ll get
well. And while you’re getting well I’ll be a sort of Cupid’s
messenger.’”
Here Jack laughed, but there were tears in his eyes.
“Yes--a Cupid’s messenger,” he went on. “That meant that he would bring
me all the news of _you_ whenever he could! He was a queer old ‘Cupid’s
Messenger!’ but there couldn’t be a kinder sort of ‘Cupid’ anywhere! I
was pretty slow in recovering--but it’s been ‘slow and sure’ with
me--and with all the care and good things the learned Craig has been
showering on me, why! I’m as fit as ever I was! And I certainly owe it
to your old ‘Philosopher’--the man I begged you not to marry while I was
away--do you remember?”
Sylvia looked up. Her lovely blue eyes were wet and sparkling but there
was a glint of mischief in her smile.
“Shall I marry him now you are home again?” she asked.
For answer he caught her in his arms and held her close and fondly.
“You’ll marry me and no one but me!” he said, tenderly. “That’s
settled!”
There was a brief silence. The firelight flickered and leaped into
flame, sending a warm glow through the room--the hues of the sunset seen
through the window had paled into delicate amber like the petals of a
daffodil. The restful pause was broken by quite an ugly sound,--a cough
distinctly harsh and irritating. A gruff voice followed the cough.
“Dear me!” said the voice, querulously. “Humanity can never be
original!--it always imitates! The old, old story!”
And the Philosopher, rather “hunchy” of shoulder and somewhat shambling
about the feet looked into the room with a quizzical air of enquiry.
The Sentimentalist rushed at him with the light swoop of a bird flying
from heaven to earth.
“Oh, how _could_ you!” she exclaimed, half laughing and half crying
together. “How _could_ you--”
“Well, well! Now what’s the matter?” And the Philosopher fenced off
with one arm her eager little hands ready to embrace his coat sleeve.
“Be calm! Be normal! How could I--what?”
“How could you be so _wicked_!” she went on. “Yes!--so wicked!--and
so--so--_good_!”
“I couldn’t,” and the Philosopher smiled quite a superior smile. “I
couldn’t be wicked and good at the same moment! Sentiment again, you
see! Dear child, you _will_ overdo the thing! You must really try to be
less emotional! And how do you find your young man looking?”
For answer to this he found his hand caught and kissed, despite his
efforts to avoid the impulsive caress.
“There, there!” he said, gently. “That will do, you foolish little girl!
Durham, you’ll have your work cut out for you when you take her in hand!
Now what about tea?”
“It’s ready!” and Sylvia pulled him along towards the daintily spread
table. “All but the making--and I’ll see to that directly--”
“Well, begin at once,” said the Philosopher. “You needn’t wait for Dad.
Both Dads are on their way across the garden--but they wanted you to
meet the Oxford publisher first!”
He gave a short gruff laugh, and feigned to be more bored than pleased
when Jack Durham grasped his hand, saying in a low tone: “I can never
thank you enough, sir!”
And, at that moment “the two Dads” came in, making a complete “joy”
party of happy hearts and radiant faces, while Sylvia, her fair cheeks
flushing like roses with her inward delight, made the tea and dispensed
it, Jack performing the duty of handing it round to the three elderly
gentlemen who, like pleased spectators at a charming comedy, watched the
proceedings with the absorbed interest of conspirators rejoicing in the
successful result of a ripened plot.
“I should never have thought it possible,” said old Mr. Durham, breaking
through the light desultory chatter presently with measured, drawling
accents, “that you could have lent yourself”--here he fixed his eyes on
the Philosopher who had just taken his cup of tea from the fair
Sentimentalist’s hand.
“Lent myself?” and Craig smiled. “Why don’t you say gave myself? I gave
myself to my own scheme--if that’s what you mean--and it seems to have
turned out pretty well!”
“Yes, that’s right, Dad!” interposed Jack. “He gave himself--literally
_gave_ himself body and soul to the business of getting me well and
about again!--and here I am!”
His father looked at him with eyes in which age had not burnt out
tenderness.
“Here you are--thank God!” he said. “But what I find hard to
understand--”
“_I_ know!” interposed Dr. Maynard. “But we won’t say anything about
it--”
“Oh, yes, we will!” and the Philosopher munched a piece of toast and
washed it down with tea. “We will ask ourselves how it is that we who
profess to know a great deal, know next to nothing about character!
Character!--_your_ character--_my_ character!--everybody’s character!
The duality of ourselves, as it were! What you don’t understand, my good
Mr. Durham, is why I should have taken trouble over your son--who is
nothing to me”--here he waved his tea-cup melodramatically--“literally
nothing! Merely a worthy young man--an American--and I have very little
use for Americans,--who was taken prisoner by the Germans. Now I have
more friends among Germans than I have among Americans. Never mind that!
It occurred to me that a German friend might be useful to the American
young man under the circumstances; and--and--well!--there’s the whole
story!”
“Not the whole story by any means!” broke out Jack, impetuously. “Not
the care, the kindness, the attention, the patient watchfulness--”
The Philosopher held up his hand.
“Now, Jack!--you see I call you ‘Jack’ quite familiarly--I never thought
I should! That’s quite enough! Don’t harp on the subject! Remember I
hate sentiment!”
Here he gulped down his tea with an ugly gurgle and passed his cup to
Sylvia for more.
“I hate sentiment!” he repeated, then paused as old Dr. Maynard pointed
a finger at him and said:
“Yes, you do!--when your own sentiment is not in question! Then it’s
quite another matter! You’ll go any length for it! Yes, Craig!--you know
you will! God bless me! Don’t I know it! I’ll give you away--sentiment
and all!--yes, I will! I’ve been in your scheme all along--I’ve known
your plot! Sentiment? I should think so! Why you’d do anything for
Sylvia!”
There was a moment’s silence--an awkward pause. But the Philosopher was
not embarrassed. On the contrary he lifted his head and looked round
with quite a defiant air.
“Quite so!” he said. “You put it rather bluntly, Maynard!--but you’re
right! I certainly would do anything for Sylvia! And--crusty and selfish
old bear as I am--I’ve done my best!”