Time has a trick of flying when most we wish it to linger, and with
Sylvia the three months’ interval between Jack’s return and her wedding
day seemed little more than a few moments. She had everything to think
of--everything to do--and hardest of all, everything to resign that she
had held dear and precious in the simple home life of her maidenhood
which had now come to an end. Jack was the tenderest and most devoted of
lovers; the knowledge, which had surprised himself, of his father’s
great wealth and his own participation in it made no difference in his
simple boyish ways, and frank unassuming demeanour, and all he seemed to
think about it was that he could give his “rose-lady” the comforts,
luxuries and prettinesses of life which she, in his mind, above all
other women, deserved. When he set his engagement ring in a star of the
purest diamonds on her little white finger and she mildly protested at
the evident costliness of the gems, he said fervently--
“What were they ever made for except to shine for _you_! They are only
bits of carbon after all--hardly worth _your_ wearing!”
And, seeing him thus “far gone,” she said no more. But often when the
brilliant flash of the jewels on her hand caught her eyes she was
conscious of a sadness inexplicable to herself,--the ring was a symbol
of the end of one life and the beginning of another--the end of the
simple, quiet “monotonous” country life she had led with her
father,--and the beginning of a new and strange existence in which
wealth would almost enforce social excitements and pleasures for which
she had no great avidity.
“I had better have been the wife of an Oxford professor!” she said to
herself, once in a little shame-faced way. “Only I’m not clever enough!”
And she took solitary farewell walks round the garden, and daily sat
with her “Dad” in his study, moved by a vague sorrow and regret which
she could not express without seeming more or less ungrateful to Jack
and his father, both of whom vied with each other in “surprise” gifts
and plans for her special pleasure. She knew she was a fortunate
girl--she ought to consider herself so, as being beloved, honoured and
safe for life; and yet--such are the curious contradictions and
hesitations of human nature--she was not sure whether it would not have
been better for her to be less fortunate,--to be one of those who
“welcome each rebuff, that turns earth’s smoothness rough.”
Not even the delightful business of choosing her “trousseau” which she
was careful to make as simple and inexpensive as possible, quite charmed
away the shadow of depression that now and then clouded her mind.
“I ought really to have married quite a poor man,” she reflected,
seriously. “I never dreamed Jack would be rich. I could always manage a
simple house and simple ways of living--now if I were the wife of an
Oxford professor--” She broke off in her meditations with a little sigh.
“Only I never should be clever enough!”
During this time the “Philosopher” was an absentee,--he had undertaken
to partially revise the proofs of “The Deterioration of Language” before
bringing them on to Dr. Maynard for final correction, and he had
installed himself in his own collegiate rooms for this purpose. The
“great Book” was well on its way to be launched, like a literary
Leviathan on the uneasy waters of public favour; the accepting
publishers being fully nerved to the task by the “no expense to be
spared” orders of the author’s prospective son-in-law, Jack Durham. And
so the days and weeks went round in a swift circle till April showed a
nymph-like face of tears and laughter through budding boughs of green
and snowy garlands of wild cherry and pear-blossom, and the sunny
morning dawned at last when the little “rose-lady” stepped forth from
her maiden home to be married. Very sweet she looked in her soft
garments of white--very serious, too, with blue eyes more full of tears
than smiles; and among the few intimate friends asked to the wedding
there was not one who had not some under-consciousness of the real
gravity of marriage for a girl who had led so quiet and simple a life as
Sylvia Maynard. Always in the country,--always the one companion of her
father--completely contented to be without “social gaieties”
so-called,--what a change from such a peaceful little home and routine
of daily duties to be the wife of a millionaire!
Probably the thoughts of Walter Craig, F.S.A., who was, against his own
inclination and protest, selected as “best man” by the bridegroom,
wandered in this direction if one might form any opinion by the
expression of his face. Once during the ceremony he caught a fleeting,
almost frightened glance from the little “sentimentalist” bride; and a
most insane desire possessed him to take her up in his arms as
Shakespeare’s Petruchio took his Katherine and run away with her,--but
his furrowed features and formal demeanour showed nothing of the strife
within him. He placed the “philosophic” curb on his emotions, and
feigned an almost frigid indifference when with other friends in the
vestry at the signing of the marriage register he was permitted to kiss
the bride. All the village turned out to see the wedding, and as the
happy pair came through the old church doorway the school children
scattered a shower of spring blossoms at their feet, and, led by
“Riverside Sam,” broke into a hearty cheer. A silver rain of new
sixpences flung broadcast by old Mr. Durham rewarded their enthusiasm,
whereat the Philosopher moralised somewhat after the style of the
“melancholy Jaques”--“Money’s the only wear!” And then,--in another two
or three hours, which seemed to her less than minutes, the little bride,
half sobbing, yet checking her tears as much as she could, clung fondly
to her father in a farewell embrace, whispering, “I shall came back as
soon as possible! You mustn’t feel lonely!” while she turned appealingly
to the “Philosopher” saying--“Do stay with him for a little! Take care
of him!” And with this she entered the beautiful “limousine” car, which
was one of old Mr. Durham’s wedding gifts to his daughter-in-law, and
was whirled away amid a shower of blossoms on her honeymoon with her
proud and adoring young husband. A small group of friends gathered on
the steps of the old Manor house to watch their departure,--more
interested in the reported wealth of the bridegroom and the bridegroom’s
father than in anything else--and as they dispersed, some of them made
remarks to one another such as: “Artful little girl! Quiet, but clever
enough to catch a millionaire!” or “She must have known her game all the
time!” and “A pity we did not know more of that dull old man in the
fishing cottage! He pretended to be deadly poor--” “And that’s why we
didn’t call!” observed one more honest than the rest.
And so on, and so on. Perhaps the Philosopher--great light of Oxford,
whom nobody present knew much about,--caught some of these _sotto voce_
observations,--perhaps not,--anyway his facial expression became more
and more saturnine and forbidding as he helped to “speed the parting
guests.” The “dull old man in the fishing cottage,” millionaire Durham,
did certainly gather up a few crumbs of “social” comment, and now and
again a sardonic smile made extra wrinkles in his furrowed countenance,
especially when one self-important personage, the local brewer, laid a
patronising paw upon his shoulder, saying, “We must see more of you, Mr.
Durham! Come and dine with us one day this week, will you?”
Whereat Durham replied slowly in a strong, nasal drawl:
“Thank you! I guess not! I’ve been living here over two years and have
never been asked out to dine before--it would seem kinder strange to me
to be doing it now!”
And the brewer retired discomfited, feeling the poignant flash of satire
in the old man’s eyes more keenly than the blunt refusal of his
invitation.
The April evening closed in with sweet moisture and warm scent of
flowers, and the old Manor house, full of bridal blossoms and
“remainders” of the wedding, looked, despite its floral garlanding,
strangely empty and deserted, bereft of the flitting presence of its
fair little mistress who was its chief charm. Vainly old Dr. Maynard
strove to be cheerful, but it was an evident effort, and though he said
little, his sudden loneliness made him deeply grateful for the society
of the Philosopher, who had decided to stay on at the Manor for a day or
two;--the Sentimentalist’s parting words “Take care of him!” had laid a
sort of trust upon his mind which he was not disposed to ignore. Durham
remained late, smoking and chatting till the moon lifted a silver round
above the trees, and lighted the path to his cottage by the river; he
was full of eager plans for the happy future of the just-wedded pair,
and gave himself away quite unreservedly. Nothing was too good for
them,--a beautiful house in town,--a flat in Paris--and other luxurious
“fitments” of life which somehow, in the mind of the Philosopher at
least, seemed unsuitable to the tastes and the temperament of the little
“rose-lady,”--a creature “toned to finest melodies, unheard by grosser
ears.” But he made no comment. It would have seemed ungracious to check
the flow of affection and ungrudging munificence of a father for an only
son by so much as a word. Yet he was in a sense relieved when the
millionaire took his departure and left him alone with Dr. Maynard. “The
Deterioration of Language” was a ponderous piece of work, but it had
formed a link between them of interest and scholarship; it had brought
them together in pleasant and intimate relations, and it had been the
means of letting a little light in upon his hitherto strictly locked and
darkened prison-house of human motion,--such light as had, at odd
moments, blinded him into a faint belief that he was still young. On
this particular night, after all the joyous stir of the wedding, and the
subsequent silence and desertion of the house, he felt old--older than
he cared to feel. He and the old doctor sat together in the study,
smoking their pipes by a cheerful log fire,--for the April evenings were
chilly,--and for some time they had hardly exchanged a word. A somewhat
heavy sigh from Maynard roused the Philosopher to attention.
“Don’t ‘grouse’!” he said with a half smile. “That’s slang, I know, and
I never use it--but if you sigh like a schoolboy, you merit a
schoolboy’s reproach. It’s no use regretting,--it’s no use grumbling.”
“I don’t regret,--I don’t grumble,” Maynard replied. “No, Craig! It’s
not that. It’s the emptiness of things without her--the silence--the
solitude--” His voice trembled--then failed.
Craig was silent for a minute. Then he said:
“Of course! I quite see your point,--I understand. I feel it myself.
Possibly you don’t realise that, eh? I feel it myself!”
Dr. Maynard’s hand went over his eyes, shading them from the fire.
“Such a bright little girl!” he murmured. “Always about the
house--always with a smile and kind word for every one! I don’t know how
I shall get on without her!”
The vision of a fair little face--the memory of a hand pressure and
whispered word “Take care of him,” came over the mind of the
Philosopher, and he rose to the occasion.
“How you’ll get on without her?” he echoed. “Why, you’ll get on famously
for the short time you’re asked to do it. God bless me! One would think
the girl had gone for good! She’ll be back again in a fortnight--trust
her for that! And you’ll walk about triumphantly as the proud papa of a
millionairess. How will you like that?”
The old doctor looked up at him rather wistfully.
“I don’t think the part will suit me!” he said. “For one thing, Craig--I
can tell you I’ve put by enough money to leave Sylvia quite well off on
her own account--she would not have needed all this wealth--”
The Philosopher gave himself a mental rap. “I always thought so!” he
said, inwardly. “The old boy has plenty--I knew he had!”
“I never spent much on myself,” went on Maynard. “I meant to afford the
expenses of my book--though I felt it would be robbing Sylvia of some of
her heritage--but when she showed such delight at doing it for me--”
“Exactly!” commented the Philosopher. “She has thought you a sort of
literary pauper--that’s her ‘sentiment’! I always told her she was
wrong! Just as I told her old Durham was an American Crœsus. I was
right--but she wouldn’t believe me. You two fathers are artful dodgers
in _my_ opinion! You’ve both been playing poverty--regular old humbugs!
I always thought you were!” Here he smiled, genially. “But I felt that
if circumstances compelled me to marry Sylvia I should marry quite a
nice little fortune!”
Maynard gave him a quick, reproachful glance.
“Craig!” he exclaimed. “Was that your idea when--when--”
“When I proposed to her?” finished the Philosopher, equably. “Of course!
What else should I have had in the way of an idea? Love?” Here he gave a
sort of growling laugh. “Love? I’m too old--too ugly!--too battered and
bruised in the battle of life to be conscious of any remedy for my
disfigurements and disabilities,--but I’m quite capable of appreciating
the comfort of a warm fireside, a pretty woman to look after me, and
money to pay for these luxuries. I had all this in view when I suggested
myself as a wall--”
“A wall?” repeated Maynard, bewildered. “What--”
“What meaning have I?” and the Philosopher gave another odd laugh. “I
say a wall! ‘A sweet and lovely wall, that stand’st between her father’s
ground and mine’--to quote the ever-quotable Shakespeare. I might say ‘I
am that same wall’--who was willing to stand between your little girl
and the roaring lion of the world--that is, if things had come to the
worst,--if young Durham had died--if _you_ had died--and _she_ had been
left alone,--then perhaps I--I might have been useful!” He paused a
moment--Dr. Maynard was regarding him fixedly. “Now as matters have
turned out, the ‘wall’ is unnecessary--Durham is all right, and _you_
are all right--_I_ am all right!”
Here he put his pipe in his mouth and drew a long whiff. Dr. Maynard
leaned forward in his chair.
“Craig,” he said, slowly. “You are not altogether an open book--but I
think I can read you!”
The Philosopher avoided his direct gaze.
“I dare say you can!” he murmured, abstractedly. “I don’t mind if you
do! I’m an uncouth phrase in ‘The Deterioration of Language’!”
The old doctor’s eyes rested on him with intently sympathetic kindness.
“I believe,” he said, “I believe you loved my little girl! Yes,
Craig!--it was rather late in your day for love--but I believe you
really loved her!”
The Philosopher drew his pipe from his mouth, looked down at it and
smiled.
“Why use the past tense?” he queried, lazily. “Let’s revert to
Shakespeare--‘Love is not Love, which alters when it alteration finds;
oh, no, it is an ever fixèd mark, that looks on tempests and is never
shaken.’ That’s me! I’m an ‘ever fixèd mark’! Moreover, at my age, I’m
not likely to change.”
“Is it as bad as all that?” and Maynard’s voice was almost
compassionate.
“Not at all--it’s as good as it can be!” and the Philosopher lifted
himself out of his sunken attitude in his armchair with a swift
movement. “Nothing bad about it! I have built a little shrine in the
recesses of my mind, and I’ve put a little Madonna inside. I shall say
prayers to her now and then--and when I feel disposed to hate all
mankind, I shall mutter an ‘Ave’ or a ‘Peccavi’ and pull myself
together. My Madonna will always be just a pure little English maid
among roses, with sentimental ideas about love and life in general--but
she will serve me as well as most Madonnas--even the Madonna of Cimabue
could never have been treated with more tenderness than I would have
treated her--I mean, than I _will_ treat her in my thoughts.”
He paused,--his pipe had gone out, and he struck a match and re-lit it.
“You see, Maynard! That’s my late--very late!--idea of love!”
The old doctor was silent for some minutes--then he laid a hand, with
gentlest touch, on that of his friend and literary co-adjutor.
“Such an idea is never too late!” he said. “Unselfish--beautiful--and
romantic in these unromantic days! But it’s not an idea that would
satisfy most men!”
“I’m not of the company of ‘most’ men,” put in Craig. “I claim to be
original!”
“Ah, dear me!” sighed Maynard. “Age--age!--what joys it steals away from
us!--now if you had been younger--she might have cared--”
Craig laughed.
“She might--she might!” he echoed. “My good fellow age has nothing to do
with it! Men of seventy and eighty are young and frisky and marry the
most charming women! I certainly feel myself to be a bit in the ‘sere
and yellow’--especially tonight,” here he rose from his chair and
stretched himself, yawning as he did so, “but not so much so that I
wouldn’t have risked taking care of Sylvia if the better man hadn’t
turned up in time--”
“I wonder if he _is_ the better man!” interrupted Maynard, suddenly.
“He’s a worthy young fellow enough--”
“And I’m an unworthy old fellow!” responded the Philosopher quietly.
“Stop it at that! Talk no more about it! You get off to bed--you’ve had
a trying day. And to-morrow we’ll take a run together to Oxford and look
after your publisher and your proofs. Push everything else aside for the
present--”
“Oxford?” exclaimed Maynard, wonderingly. “Am I to go to Oxford?”
“Of course you are!” and the Philosopher bent his brows commandingly.
“You’re wanted there to attend to business. And this is your opportunity
while your daughter is away--you don’t need to stay here in her
absence. Besides, business is business. You can share my rooms and
welcome. You want a change.”
“Oxford!” repeated the old scholar, dreamily. “It is many years since I
was there! I shall like to see it again!”
“Of course you will!” responded Craig. “Who doesn’t like to see
Oxford!--the abode of Age and Youth pleasantly combined! The age part of
it is dry as dust, the youth raw as green cucumbers--but they make an
amusing mixture. The bones of classic authors rattle in the air of the
old University town--and the rampant flesh and blood of the non-classic
‘rising generation’ make uncouth noises as of vampires who have sucked
out the strength of the dead. Yes!--Oxford is full of suggestiveness--you
will enjoy it!”
The old doctor smiled.
“I believe it’s all your good-natured idea to prevent my feeling
lonely!” he said. “But I’ll go with you if you like--”
“If you don’t you’ll be carried!” returned Craig, firmly. “Make up your
mind to that! And now let’s get to bed--you’re tired and I’m tired!
Weddings are very exhausting affairs for all concerned--even for the
bride and bridegroom.”
They left the study together and at the foot of the staircase which led
to the upper rooms, Dr. Maynard paused--
“Craig,” he said, with pathetic earnestness. “Do you think she will be
happy?”
The Philosopher looked at the old, frail figure compassionately. “Of
course she will!” he replied. “Why shouldn’t she be? She has everything
to make her so!”
“Yes--yes! That’s all very well!” and Maynard gave a half deprecating
gesture. “But when the years go on, when the novelty has worn off--will
she be able to live the life of social excitement wealth entails?--will
she realise the wonderful love she has dreamed of? For she has always
been a little dreamer of ideals--beautiful ideals all!--ideals such as
the world loves to pull down into ruin!”
The Philosopher felt a little pang. Too well he knew the “ideals” of the
little “Sentimentalist,” and too well he was aware that he himself had
discouraged them and striven to pull them down--and yet--and yet--he had
done his utmost to give her the “ideal” love he imagined she recognised
in Jack Durham. He pulled himself together.
“We must leave all that to her husband,” he said. “He adores her--and
depend upon it he will make her happy--that is as happy as any woman can
be. You must bear in mind, Maynard”--here he became almost academical in
tone--“that _no_ woman is ever happy for long! It isn’t in her nature to
be satisfied. When she has got one thing she wants another--and so on to
the end of the chapter. But Sylvia has too good and sweet a character to
be as variable and restless as most of her sex. Having Jack she has her
heart’s desire--she doesn’t want _Me_!--or any other man! Good night!”
They parted then; but when he had locked himself in his bedroom the
Philosopher went to its old-fashioned lattice window and threw it widely
open. The night was beautiful; clear moonlight flooded the whole garden
space, and he could see the winding alley of the rose-walk where on one
never-to-be-forgotten day he had “lacerated” his hand in trying to
gather a blush rose-bud for the “rose-lady” and she had “kissed the
place and made it well.” It was a trifling incident, but to the would-be
stoical and grimly cynical mind of the “Philosopher” it had meant a
great deal. And now! Well!--now this was the first night of her
honeymoon;--this was her marriage moonlight; and he--he stood outside
the garden of Eden with no more roses to gather! Learning and
scholarship, fame itself, seemed utterly worthless in comparison with
the union of hearts beating with and for each other--the wisdom of the
ages was dull, wearisome and all unsatisfying measured against the
enchantment of tender eyes and caressing hands; and it was with
something of a sharp mental pang that he recalled the sound of a sweet
voice softly reciting from “Endymion” the “honey and water” lines--
“The silver flow
Of Hero’s tears, the swoon of Imogen,
Fair Pastorella in the bandit’s den,
Are things to brood on with more urgency
Than the death-day of empires!”
“True enough!” he murmured, addressing the quiet air. “When one is
young--true enough! But when one is old--”
The run of his thoughts checked itself abruptly. He looked out on the
peaceful night with a sense of reverence and humility not usual to his
nature. As in a magic mirror he saw his past life lying behind him,--a
bare road tramped in the dusty pursuit of fame--fame the foolish, fame
the variable, fame the most unsatisfying of earthly rewards, bringing in
its train the vulgar inquisitiveness of mobs, the censoriousness of the
envious and the detraction of rivals, inasmuch as even the greatest of
men, like Shakespeare, are remembered chiefly to be calumniated,--and
anon, he gazed forward into the future which for him meant nothing but
increasing loneliness and gradual sinking away from life and its
brighter pleasures; then he lifted up his eyes to the lovely heavens and
saw one bright star shining in the trail of the moon.
“Is it the tender star of love
The star of love and dreams?
Oh, no! From that blue tent above
A hero’s armour gleams!”
A brief sigh escaped.
“I’m no hero!” he said. “But old as I am, I’m glad I’m man enough to be
capable of a great love!--and--a great sacrifice!”
THE END
End of Project Gutenberg's Love,--And the Philosopher, by Marie Corelli