uttering a melancholy platitude.
"Too old to love? Heaven forbid! But we may be too old to
marry--at least to marry anybody worth while. Come, Stanhope,
tell me: do you really love this young woman?"
"Love her? Here I have been telling you that I intend to marry a
charming girl, and you turn about and ask me if I love her. Of
course I love her. I have been loving her in one way and another
for years."
"What do you mean by that? I thought you only met her a few weeks
ago."
I smiled pityingly. "So I did, but for years she has been my
affinity. Incidentally I don't mind saying I began by loving her
mother."
Bunsey sat up straight. "Oh, you loved her mother. Was her mother
pretty?"
"She was as you see Phyllis. In fact I think she was, if
anything, a trifle prettier. We were playmates and schoolmates,
and in the nature of things, if I had not wandered off to the
city, I presume we should have married. Dear little Sylvia," I
went on musingly, "I can see her at this moment, looking down
from heaven and smiling on my union with her daughter. For if
ever a match was made in heaven this was. Confound it! what are
you doing now?"
While I was talking Bunsey had reached over, taken a sheet of
paper and was busily writing. He looked up carelessly.
"Your story interests me, and is such good material that I
thought I would make a few notes. Young boy loves young
girl--goes to city--forgets her--young girl marries--has charming
daughter--dies--years pass--venerable gentleman returns--sees
daughter--great emotion on part of v. g.--thinks he loves
her--proposes--accepted--mar--no, there I think I must stop for
the present."
"Oh, don't stop there, I beg," I said sarcastically; "if you are
thinking of using these materials for one of your popular
novels, be sure to throw in a few duels, several heartrending
catastrophes, and other incidents of what you call 'action,'
appropriately expressed in bad English."
Bunsey was imperturbable. "Thank you for your appreciative
estimate of my literary style," he replied coolly; "but really,
my consideration for my old friend deprives me of the pleasure of
robbing his diary."
I was still out of temper. "Bunsey, I don't mind favoring you
with a further confidence. You're an ass!"
With this parting shot I strode out of the library, when,
remembering the sacredness of my revelation, I turned back.
"Of course you will understand, Bunsey, that however flippantly
you may choose to regard what I have said to you, you will have
the decency to keep the subject-matter to yourself. I do not ask
your congratulations or your approval, but I demand your
secrecy."
"The ass brays acknowledgments," answered Bunsey meekly, helping
himself to another cigar. "You may rely on my loyal and devoted
interest. The fact that I have heard your secret twice before
to-day shall not open my lips or cause me to violate your trust."
Notwithstanding my attitude of indifference I was greatly
troubled by Bunsey's unfeeling suggestion. Could it be possible
that I had mistaken my own heart? Was I, yielding, as I had
believed, to the first strong passion of my life, only deluding
myself with a remembrance of my vanished youth? I dismissed the
thought impatiently. For, after all, was not Bunsey a hopeless
cynic, a fellow without a single emotion of the ennobling
sentiment of man toward woman, a sordid story-teller, who created
characters for money, wrecked homes, committed literary murders,
played unfeelingly on the tenderest sensibilities, and boasted
openly that the only angels were those made by a stroke of the
pen and retailed at department store book-counters? And while
thus reasoning Phyllis came to me, so winsome in her girlish
beauty, so radiant in the happiness I had infused into her life,
so joyous in the pleasures of the present, that I laughed at my
own doubts, reproached myself for my own unworthy suspicions, and
straightway forgot both Bunsey and his evil promptings.
Love at eight and forty is a very pleasant and indolent emotion,
marking the most delightful stage in the progress of the great
human passion. At twenty-five we talk it; at thirty-five we act
it; at forty-five it is pleasant to sit down and think about it.
The very young man loves without really analyzing. Ten years
later he analyzes without really loving. In another decade he has
compounded the proportions of love and analysis, and becomes,
under favoring conditions, the most dangerous and hence the most
acceptable of suitors. The man in middle life takes his adored
one tolerantly, and keeps his reservations to himself. In the
ordinary course of events he has acquired a certain knowledge of
feminine character, he knows the rocks and the shoals of love,
and, skillful pilot that he is, he avoids them. He is sure of his
course, master of his equipment. If he errs at all--but I
anticipate.
Those were very joyous days, notwithstanding the applications
of cold water so liberally bestowed by my confidential advisers.
And eagerly and successfully I exerted myself to convince
the doubting ones in general, and Bunsey in particular, how
absurd were their suspicions, and how apparent it was that Phyllis
and I had been purposely created for each other. Mary threw
herself into our pleasures as heartily and joyously as her New
England nature would permit, which was never a very riotous
demonstration, and Phyllis, with the effervescence and enthusiasm
of girlhood, eagerly assented to every proposition that had
its pleasure-seeking side; while I, as a thoughtful lover
should, busied myself in schemes for summer dissipation, thankful
that it was in my power to prove so devoted a knight, and
inwardly rejoicing at my triumph over those who had taxed me
with such unworthy thoughts. Even Frederick--good fellow that
he was--allowed himself unusual days of vacation to partake of our
merriment, and it pleased me greatly to see that when business
cares or physical disinclination kept me off the programme, he no
longer allowed his indifference to interfere with his duty as my
nephew and personal representative. Such, I take it, is the
obligation of all young men similarly placed.
For, before many weeks had passed, I discovered that it was not
wise to allow the fleeting dissipations of the moment, however
alluring, to monopolize time which should be given to the serious
affairs of life. I found that a cramped position in a boat in the
hot sun brought on nervous headaches, and that too much time in
the garden when the dew was falling was conducive to lumbago.
Furthermore I had been invited by a neighboring university to
deliver my celebrated lecture on the protagonism of Plato, and
several new and excellent thoughts had come to me which required
careful and elaborate development. I explained these matters
conscientiously and fully to Phyllis, and while she offered no
unreasonable protest, her pretty face clouded, and she did me the
honor to say that half the enjoyment was removed by my absence.
Once she even went so far as to declare that Plato was a "horrid
man," and that she believed I thought more of him than of her--a
most ridiculous conclusion but so essentially feminine that I
forgave her at once. And, when she came to me, and put her arms
around my neck and urged me to go with her to a tennis match--a
foolish game where grown-up people knock little balls over a net
with a battledore--I pointed out to her that such spectacles,
while eminently proper for young folk, argued a failing mind in
those of maturer years. With a charming pout she said:
"Do you think you would have refused to go if my mother had asked
you?"
Now tennis is a sport that has come up since Sylvia and I were
children together, but I recalled, with a guilty blush, the time
when she and I won the village championship in doubles in an all
day siege of croquet, so what could I say in my own defence?
Therefore I went with Phyllis to the tennis-court and sat for two
long and inexpressibly dreary hours watching the senseless and
stupid proceedings. It was pleasant to reflect that I was with
Sylvia's daughter, and I tried to imagine that the keen interest
of youth still remained, but I was sadly out of place. I am
satisfied that this game of tennis has nothing of the fascinating
quality of croquet. On our arrival home Phyllis kissed me, and
thanked me for what she called my "self-denial," but after that
one experience Frederick represented me at the tennis-court, as,
indeed, the good-natured boy consented to do at many similar
festivities.
And so the summer wore gradually away, one day's enjoyment
lazily following another's, with nothing to disturb the serenity
of my life, or to interfere with the calm content into which I
had settled. Phyllis was everything that a moderate and
reasonable lover could wish--kind, gentle, affectionate within
the bounds of maidenly discretion, attentive to my wishes,
and considerate of my caprices. The more I saw of her the
more I was persuaded that I had chosen wisely and well. One
afternoon--Frederick, at my suggestion, had gallantly given up
his work in the office and taken Phyllis down the river. I sat
with Bunsey in the library, and took occasion to expound to him
the philosophy of perfect love.
"The trouble is," I said, "that people rush blindly into
matrimony. They think they are in love, work themselves up to the
proper pitch of madness, propose and marry while they are in
delirium. Hence, so much of the wretchedness and misery that we
see in the homes of our friends. For my part I am committed to
the doctrine of affinities. It is true that I, like many others,
was guilty of the usual folly in my youth, and perhaps that gave
me the wisdom to wait for my second venture until precisely the
fight party came along. Matrimony, Bunsey, is an exact science.
If we regulate our passion, control all silly emotion, study
feminine nature as critically and methodically as we investigate
a mathematical problem, and commit ourselves only when the
affinity presents herself, we shall make no mistakes. For, after
all, what is an affinity? Nothing more than a human being sent by
Providence as perfectly adapted to the wheels and curves of your
nature."
"A very pretty theory," retorted Bunsey, grimly; "and, by the
way, when do you think of rushing into matrimony?"
"Really," I said, somewhat confused, "to be entirely honest with
you, I have not settled on any particular day. You see Phyllis
should have her fling. She is very young."
"True, but you are not."
As Bunsey said this he rose and tossed his cigar out of the
window. "Stanhope," he went on, "we are old friends, and I don't
wish to be continually seeming to interfere with your business,
but if I were a man with fifty years leering hideously at me, and
engaged to a pretty girl of two and twenty, I'd make quick work
of it before Providence came along with a younger affinity in a
Panama hat, negligée shirt, and duck trousers."
I stared at him with a sort of helpless amazement. "Exactly what
do you mean?" I asked.
"Well," he answered, shrugging his shoulders, "at the risk of
being kicked out of the house, let me say that I think such an
affinity has already presented himself."
"Indeed, and who may that be?"
"Suppose we say Frederick."
"My nephew?"
"Exactly; your nephew. He is an uncommonly good-looking fellow,
and, thanks to his uncle's childlike belief in Providence and
the doctrine of affinities, he has most unusual opportunities to
test that doctrine for himself. I dare say that he is making a
formal study of the situation at this very moment, and inviting
Providence to appear on the scene as his sponsor."
What more was said at this interview, if, indeed, it did
not terminate with this brutal statement, I cannot recall,
for Bunsey, usually so flippant and cynical, spoke with an
earnestness that stunned me. My knowledge of the philosophy of
love told me that he was wrong; my observation of the actualities
of life made me fear that he might be right. Theoretically, I
could not have been mistaken in my course; practically, I began
to see weak spots in the chain of evidence. Swiftly, I ran over
the events of the spring and summer, and as little spots no
bigger than a man's hand magnified themselves into black clouds,
Bunsey, sitting opposite, seemed to grow larger and larger, and
his smile more malicious and demon-like. Possibly, had I been a
younger and more impetuous man, I should have flown into a
passion, taken Bunsey at his word, and kicked him out of the
house; but the philosophy of the thing engrossed me, filled me
with half fear, half curiosity, and engaged all my mental
faculties. Had I been mistaken? Could I be deceived in the
daughter of Sylvia?
However strong my suspicions may have been, they were not
increased when, with the evening, Phyllis and Frederick came home
from their excursion. Never was Phyllis more unreserved, more
cordial, more joyous, more attentive to the little wants, which
I, in a mean and shameful test, imposed on her. She could not be
acting a part, this New England girl, with her alert conscience,
her Puritan impulse and training, her aversion to everything that
savored of deceit. And Frederick was as much at his ease as if I
knew nothing, as if I had not heard of his duplicity, as if the
whole house and grounds were not ringing with accusations of his
unworthiness. Such are the phenomena of the philosophy of middle
life, I insisted that he should remain for the evening, and,
after dinner, with that contrariness accountable only in a true
student of psychology, I made a trifling excuse and walked down
to the square, leaving them together.
The curfew was ringing as, returning, I entered the lower gate at
the end of the garden, and passed slowly along by the arbor. It
may have been Providence, it may have been chance, it certainly
was not philosophy that directed my steps to the far side of the
syringa hedge which shut me off from the view of those who might
come down to the rustic seat at the foot of the cherry tree. At
least I had no intention of playing the spy, and when I heard
Frederick's voice, and knew instinctively that Phyllis was with
him, I quickened my pace that I might not be a sharer of their
secrets. But an irresistible impulse made me pause when I heard
the foolish fellow say:
"After to-night I shall not come again. It is better for us to
break now than to wait until it is too late."
Her reply I could not hear. Presently he said, and a little
brokenly:
"I have fought it all out. It has been hard, so hard, but I must
meet it as it comes."
Then I heard Phyllis's voice: "It is for the best."
"I believe that you care for me. I know how much I care for you,
and how much this effort is costing me. We were too late. No
other course in honor presents itself. God knows how eagerly and
hopelessly I have sought a way out of this tangle of duty."
Again I heard Phyllis's voice, sunk almost to a whisper: "I have
given my word; it is for the best."
"The governor has been so good to me," Frederick exclaimed
resentfully, "that I feel like a criminal even at this moment
when I am making for him the sacrifice of a life. He has been my
father, my protector. What I am I owe to him, and I must meet him
like a grateful and honest man. You would not have it otherwise?"
And for the third time Phyllis answered: "It is for the best."
Had I been of that remarkable stuff of which your true hero is
made, of which Bunsey's heroes are made, and had I come up to the
very reasonable expectations of the followers of literary
romance, I should have burst through the syringa with passion in
my face and rage in my heart and precipitated a tragedy. Or, on
the other side, I should have taken those ridiculous children by
the hand, and ended their suffering with my blessing then and
there. But as I am only of very common clay, with little liking
for heroics, I did what any selfish and unappreciative man would
have done, and stole quietly away. I even felt a sort of fierce
joy in the knowledge of the security of my position, a mean
exultation in the thought that Phyllis was bound to me, and that
those from whom I might reasonably fear the most, acknowledged
the hopelessness of their case. Most strangely there came to me
no resentment with the knowledge that I had been supplanted by my
nephew in the affections of the girl; the fact that she loved
another surprised rather than agitated me. My argument was upset,
my doctrine of affinities had been seriously damaged in my
individual case, and here was I, who should have been yielding to
the pangs of disappointment, or raging with wounded pride,
reflecting with considerable calmness on the reverses of a
philosopher.
I went into the library and lighted a cigar. I threw myself into
an easy-chair, and as I looked up I saw a spider-web in a corner
of the ceiling. "I must speak to Prudence about that in the
morning," I said to myself with annoyance. Then for the first
time it came to me that I was out of temper, for I am customarily
tranquil and not easily upset. My mind wandered rapidly from one
thing to another, and oddly enough I caught myself humming a
little tune which had no sort of relevancy to the events of the
day. I tried to dismiss the incident of the garden as the
temporary folly of a romantic girl, which would wear itself out
with a week's absence. Why should it trouble me? Had I been
lacking in kindness or affection? Should I be disturbed because a
few boat rides and the influence of moonlight had wrought on a
mere child? Was I not secure in her promise, and had I not heard
her say she had given her word? As for Frederick, was he not my
debtor? Had he not confessed it? Then why give more thought to
the matter? It was awkward, but both were young and both would
outlive it. Sylvia and I were young, and we outlived it.
But still kept ringing in my ears that despairing half-whisper:
"It is for the best."
Petulantly I threw away my cigar and went up to my room. I walked
over to the dressing-case and turned up the gas. The shadow
displeased me and I lighted the opposite jet. Then I stood
squarely before the mirror and looked critically at the
reflection.
Yes, John Stanhope, you are growing old. That expanding forehead,
with the retreating hairs, tells the tale of time. The gray upon
your cheeks is whitening and the razor must be used more
vigilantly to further deception. Those creases in your face can
no longer be dismissed as character lines; the shagginess of your
eyebrows has the flying years to account for it. Plainly, John,
you and humbug must part company. You are not of this generation
and it is not for you.
I turned down the gas, threw open the window and let the
moonlight filter in through the elms and over the tops of the
little pines. The soft beauty of the night soothed me, and
gradually and very gently my irritation and annoyance slipped
away. Why should not a young girl, radiant in youth and beauty,
affect a young man of her generation? What has an old fellow,
with all his money and worldly experience and burnt-out youth, to
give in exchange for that intoxication which every girl may
properly regard her lawful gift? Undoubtedly I should make a
better husband, as husbands go, than my romantic nephew, and any
woman of rare common sense would see the advantages of my
position, but why burden a woman with that rare common sense
which robs her of the first and sweetest of her dreams? No, John
Stanhope, go back to your pipe and your books and your gardening,
your life of selfish, indolent do-nothing. Take life as it comes
most easily and naturally. By sparing one heart you may save two.
And that nephew of mine--what a fine, manly fellow he proved
himself when put to the test! The governor had been good to him
and he was going to stand by the governor. How my heart jumped,
and what a warm little feeling there was about the internal
cockles as I recalled his words. Bravely said, my boy, and nobly
done! I fear I should not have been so generous at your age, and
with Sylvia--
And with Sylvia! How the past crowded back at the thought of her!
Who are you, old dreamer, who neglected the gift the good gods
provided in the heydey of your youth to return to chase the
phantom of the past? Behind that little white cloud, sailing far
into the north, Sylvia may be peeping at you, and smiling at the
delusion of her ancient wooer. Or why not think that she is
pleading with you--pleading for her child and the lover, as she
might have pleaded for herself and somebody else, had somebody
else known his own heart before it was too late?
I watched the white cloud as it passed on and on, growing smaller
and fainter as it receded. I settled back still deeper in my
chair and sighed. And then--O unworthy knight of love!--and then,
I fell asleep.
In the morning, before the family was astir, I wrote a note,
pleading a sudden and imperative call to town, and vanished for
the day. I argued with myself that such a step was a delicate
consideration for a young woman, who, having listened to a
confession of love a few hours before, would be hardly at her
ease at a breakfast-table conversation. Incidentally I was not
altogether sure of myself, although I was much refreshed by an
excellent night's sleep which comes to every philosopher with
courage and strength to rise above the unpleasant things of life.
If Phyllis had yielded to an emotion of grief, there was little
trace of it when we met at evening. I fancied that she was
somewhat paler, and her manner at times seemed a little listless,
but otherwise there was no great departure from her usual
demeanor. As for myself the long sunshine of a summer day and the
conviction that at last the opportunity had come to me to play
the rôle of a minor hero gave me a peace that amounted almost to
buoyancy. No need had I of the teachings of the musty old
philosophers reposing on my bookshelves. John Stanhope had
learned more of life in a few short hours than all his tomes
could impart. His books had helped him many times in diagnosing
the cases of his friends; when John fell ill they mocked and
deceived him.
Opportunely enough Phyllis followed me into the library, and when
at my request she sat on a little stool at my feet, and I held
her hand and stroked her soft light hair, a pang went through my
heart, for I felt that she might be near me for the last time.
The philosopher had yet much to learn. For several minutes we
were both silent. Of the two I was doubtless the more ill at
ease, though I concealed it bravely.
"Phyllis," I said at last, "did you ever get over a childish
fondness for fairy-stories?"
She smiled at this--was I wrong in fancying that her smile was
that of sadness?--and answered: "I hope not."
"Because," I went on, bending over and affectionately patting the
hand I held, "a little fairy-tale has been running through my
head all day, and I have decided that you shall be the first to
hear it and pass on its merits. And because," I added gayly, "if
it has your approval I may wish to publish it. Shall I begin?"
She nodded her head--I could swear now to the weariness the poor
child was so staunchly fighting--and looked off toward the
sunset.