It is a curious, but undisputed fact that when our most ardent wishes
are suddenly gratified, an unaccountable sense of dissatisfaction is apt
to set in. Who can explain it? Anxiety is over--the tension of nerves is
relaxed; and yet--and yet! We are all ungrateful creatures, often sad
when there is no cause for sadness, and disappointed with good fortune
when it smiles upon us,--we would always have a “something else” though
we are unable to explain what that “something else” should be. It is a
question of “temperament” we must suppose,--and probably it was a
“temperamental” condition that moved pretty Sylvia Maynard to go, after
the pleasant little tea-party was over and the men had retired to smoke
in the old Doctor’s library, up to her own little bedroom and there give
way to a passion of weeping. The tears and sobs came in a storm--a
doctor would have said “hysteria” and advised the administration of cold
water--but the emotional tempest in her mind was rather beyond physical
remedy. She was brought face to face with the unexpected,--the
Philosopher whom she had thought absorbed in self and the things of self
had proved to be of different mettle altogether; and she now began to
deplore the erroneous estimate she had made of his character. She had
judged him by his crusty whims and cranks of temper, and had been unable
to realise that these were not the real qualities of the man. But who
could have imagined,--she demanded this quite desperately of
herself--who _could_ have imagined it possible for him to play the part
he had taken in the rescue of Jack Durham, when all the time he was
asserting that young man’s probable death, and rather sneering--yes,
_sneering!_ at her as a sort of prospective war widow! And not only
that--he had practically proposed to her himself! It was a bewildering
puzzle to her brain--though clear out of the tangle stood the fact that
the Philosopher had assuredly justified himself as a friend and an
unselfish one. And every now and again the poor little Sentimentalist
was troubled by the thought--a wicked thought, she called it!--as to
whether, after all, she had done wisely in refusing to marry him! Was
Jack the better choice? At the very suggestion a hot blush burned her
cheeks.
“Oh, what an ungrateful little _wretch_ I am!” she said to herself,
dashing away her tears. “I _love_ Jack!--of course I love him!--and he
loves _me_! After all, _that_ is the great thing--his love for _me_!”
And what of the Philosopher’s love for her? Dared she consider it? It
shone forth now in a new and beautiful light,--for it was surely love
for Her that had moved him to do so much for Jack! Yes,--there could be
no doubt he had done it all for _her_ sake--in the wish to make _her_
happy. Was that not love?--the very best kind of love? _And she had let
that go!_ Was she glad or sorry? “You cannot eat your cake and have it,”
says an old proverb, but for the moment it seemed as though she wished
to do both!
It took her some little time to compose herself, and she was only
brought to a realisation of things as they now were by her father’s
voice calling her.
“Sylvia! Sylvia!”
“Yes, Dad!”
“They’ll all stay to dine--Jack and his father, with Craig. It’s quite
right, I suppose?”
“Yes!--of course!” and she ran to the top of the stairs to answer.
“Dinner will be ready at eight o’clock.”
Her father retired again within his sanctum, and she hastily proceeded
to bathe her tear-stained face and swollen eyes. Looking at herself in
the glass she was angry that she had so spoilt her appearance by what
she justly termed “an ugly cry.”
“And whatever did I cry for?” she asked herself. “I ought to be
perfectly happy! I’ve been fretting about Jack for months, and now here
he is, home again safe and well--and--and I’m going to be married to
him. Married to him!--just think of it!--I wonder when!”
The prospect was, for a moment, almost alarming. Quickly she strove to
put away the thought, and busied herself in brushing and arranging her
lovely hair, though with a curious lack of interest. She was conscious
that she ought to look her best on this special evening, and from a
sense of positive duty in this respect she chose one of her prettiest
evening gowns,--a mysterious “creation” of delicate ivory and pale
blue,--yet do what she would her eyes remained heavy and her face pale.
“Poor Jack!” she soliloquised softly. “He has been through such a lot
of suffering! I must try and make him very happy--if I can!” Her
meditation broke off with a snap here,--and she sighed--“Poor
Philosopher! I wish I could make him happy too!”
She glanced again at her own reflection in the mirror with a deep sense
of disparagement and shame. It was simply dreadful, she declared to
herself, to be fond of _both_ men! She was troubled by the most
contradictory cross-currents of feeling,--Jack, she knew, was devoted to
her, and he was charming,--young, good-looking and in every way one of
the best of brave fellows; on the other hand, the Philosopher, Walter
Craig, shining light of a select and learned circle, and distinguished
for many brilliant intellectual attainments, was elderly, cranky and
uncertain of temper as well as uncouth and rude of behaviour,--yet he
also was devoted to her and had proved his devotion by a perfect
unselfishness. She worried her little inconsistent sentimental self over
what seemed to her a tangle of perplexing possibilities and
uncertainties, out of which came the clear and sharp reproach to her own
conscience of having mistaken the character of a man who was much above
the average of men, as men go--while Jack--was _he_ above the average?
Oh, she could not, she would not think any more about it!
“I shall marry Jack,” she said, resolutely. “I _must_ marry him, because
he _wants_ to marry me. He has made up his mind for it. Mr. Craig is too
old to marry,--he would be miserable with a wife! He wouldn’t get on
with her at all--certainly not with one like _me_! I’m such a little
fool!”
“Yes, Sylvia!--perhaps you are!” agreed her subconscious self. But,
after all, she was no more of a little fool than thousands of other
girls as good and sweet and well-meaning as she, who take their impulses
for deep emotions and their sentiment for real life!
She made herself very charming that evening at dinner,--bewilderingly so
to Jack, who in his lover-like pride and ecstasy could hardly take his
eyes away from her. The Philosopher, on the contrary, appeared to be
very hungry,--he studied his plate with critical attention, and
manifested a well-nigh greedy satisfaction with his food. When Dr.
Maynard ordered a bottle of extra choice champagne to be opened in
honour of Jack’s return, the Philosopher smiled knowingly.
“You keep this for special occasions, eh, Maynard?” he said. “Hope
you’ve got some for the wedding day!”
Sylvia uttered a little exclamation.
“Oh, don’t talk about that!” she said, pleadingly. “No--please don’t!
Not yet!”
“Not yet indeed!” said old Mr. Durham, drawing his fuzzy brows together
in an attempted frown. “I should think not! Why, where’s the money
coming from?”
“Money?” echoed Sylvia, wonderingly.
“Ah! Money! Money to marry on--money to keep house with! Don’t you ever
think of that, little woman?”
A warm flush crimsoned her cheeks,--she glanced appealingly at Jack.
“Oh, it’s no use your looking sweet at that harum-scarum fellow!” went
on Durham, with evident enjoyment in his own remarks. “He’s out of the
fighting now--can’t play the hero any more--and hasn’t a penny to bless
himself with! He’s got to depend on his poor old father! Eh, Jack? His
poor old father! What a rascal he is, eh?”
Jack smiled, and looked across the table at his “poor old father”
cheerily enough.
“I shall soon get to work,” he said. “The Boches haven’t crippled me,
though they tried hard at it. There’s plenty for me to do, and I’ll do
it.”
The Philosopher put on his glasses and surveyed him critically.
“I presume you are familiar with the special line of ‘plenty’ on which
to spend your energies?” he said. “Is it oil or nuggets?”
Jack laughed gaily.
“Both, perhaps!” he answered. “Dad knows best! He had me trained as an
engineer of all sorts--I’m not very good at it, but I know a thing or
two. Anyhow I shall soon earn enough to marry on.”
“Oh, you will, will you?” and his father lifted his glass of champagne
and waved it towards him. “Well, here’s to your luck, my boy!--and God
be thanked I’ve got you back again!”
The earnestness of his words, voice and manner created an emotional
pause in the conversation, and Sylvia drank her wine quickly to stop the
tears that threatened to fall.
“And about that Oxford publisher,” said Dr. Maynard, suddenly.
They all laughed, except the Philosopher, who turned a reproving eye
upon his friend.
“That Oxford publisher is a fact,” he said. “You apparently doubt his
existence, Maynard! Nor am I likely, I, of all men--to advance a mere
figment as a publisher? He is no airy vision!--he is a hard, inexorable
_fact_! He will be here to-morrow.”
“Positively, Craig, you are a wonderful fellow!” said Dr. Maynard, with
a smile. “You seem to manage everything your own way!”
The Philosopher gave a little shrug of his shoulders.
“Not quite!” he said. “But probably if I had everything my own way it
would be very bad for me. As concerns the Oxford publisher I have
nothing to do with him except persuading him to come here and ‘consider’
the publication of your great work. For a publisher to ‘consider’
anything is a great concession. A publisher is a majestic being. He
holds, as it were, the fate of the future in his hands. For if the
Publisher will not publish the author what becomes of the Author’s work?
Horrible to contemplate! It may perish! The dear little child of six
years who has just committed the crime of writing verses which its
parents pay a press-man to ‘boom,’ may be denied a full hearing! Think
of it! Though truly as long as the author _pays_ for being published, it
will be all right. But you, my dear Maynard, will not pay--”
“Cannot!” interposed the old Doctor.
“True! Cannot. Then,--whether it will be all right or all wrong, nobody
can predict.”
“It will be all right,” interposed Jack, suddenly and with fervour, “if
_you’ve_ taken it in hand!”
The Philosopher almost blushed. Certainly a pale red suffused the higher
portion of his cheek-bones. Then he waved his hand deprecatingly.
“You over-rate my poor powers!” he said. “But--‘sufficient for the day
is the evil thereof.’ The Publisher may not be made of adamant--many
publishers are!--possibly when he sees Miss Maynard--”
“Oh!” exclaimed Sylvia, “_I_ could never persuade a publisher, I’m
sure!”
“How can you be sure?” queried the Philosopher, blandly. “Your
persuasion--quite unconscious, no doubt! has persuaded a far more
difficult type of being!”
“Yes?” and she made the query wonderingly.
“Yes!--and very much yes!” and he smiled,--then, as she rose from the
dinner table and prepared to leave the men to their smoke--“You are
going? We shall be swift to follow--at all events _one_ of us will!”
His smile broke into a kindly laugh as Jack sprang up and held open the
dining-room door for his “rose-lady” to pass out. His adoring eyes fixed
upon her as she went made her nervous, and she was glad to get away by
herself into the seclusion of her own little morning-room where, as she
now remembered with a whimsical touch of regret, the Philosopher had
found her, as he declared, on her “high horse.” It was a long time
since she had mounted that “tall quadruped,”--the spirit of doing so had
rather deserted her.
“I don’t think I shall ever ride the high horse again!” she said, with a
little sigh. “I couldn’t do it with Jack--he’s too kind. He never rubs
one up the wrong way. Yet, of course,--sometimes--”
Yes! Sometimes it does one good to be rubbed up the wrong way! It starts
the electricity in pussy-cat’s fur, and wakes the half-asleep
individuality in a human being. She thought about this for some few
minutes--she also tried to recall the Philosopher’s various rudenesses,
cynicisms, and ugly, unbecoming ways--but, considered in the recent
light in which he had shown his character, they were not so very
bad,--they all “seemed now in the waste of years, such a very little
thing!”
“I’m sorry!” she said, half aloud to the silence around her. “Sorry I
misunderstood his temperament! But he _was_,--he _could_ be quite odious
and snappy!--and I’m sure he would have been twenty times worse as a
husband!”
Here her meditations came to an end--for a pleading voice said:
“My ‘rose-lady’! All alone? May I come in?”
And Jack entered, holding out his hand, in the palm of which lay a
little heart-shaped gold brooch.
“I’ve brought this back to you, dear!” he said, his voice tremulous as
he spoke. “I managed to keep it all through everything,--you remember
giving it to me? It’s been my safe-conduct!--yes!--I used to feel I
couldn’t lose my grip on life as long as I had it with me. Now let me
put it back on this dear little neck”--and kneeling in front of her he
pinned it carefully among the lace of her gown. “There! It has seen a
lot of fighting!--but I’ve brought it home to its sweet and beautiful
native peace. And now--”
She was silent, but tears filled her eyes--and, as he knelt before her,
his face upturned to hers, she gently put her arms round his neck and
kissed him. With that she sealed her fate and settled her future.