beautiful young princess, on whom a wicked old troll had cast an
evil eye. Now this wicked troll was not so hideous as the trolls
we see in our fairy-books--I must say that--but he was so wicked
that even this deficiency could not excuse him. The princess was
as young and innocent--I was going to say as simple--as she was
beautiful, and the wicked troll talked so much of his experience
in the world, and boasted so hugely of his wealth and generosity
and other shining virtues, that the imagination of the poor
little princess was quite fired, and she was flattered into
thinking that here was a treasure not to be lightly put aside.
And so, in a foolish moment she consented to be his bride, and he
took her away to his castle--I believe trolls do have castles--to
make ready for the marriage. While the preparations were going
on, and the wicked old troll was laughing with glee to think how
he had deluded a princess, a handsome young prince appeared on
the scene, and what so natural as that the princess should
immediately contrast him with the troll. And it came about, also
quite naturally, that before the prince and the princess knew
that anything was happening, they fell so violently in love with
each other that the birds, and the bees, and the flowers in the
garden, and the squirrels in the trees sang and hummed and
gossiped and chattered about it."
Here I paused. Phyllis did not look up, but I felt a shiver run
through her body as I stroked her hair and put my arm around her
shoulder to caress away her fear.
"But it happened that although the princess was so much in love
that at times she must have forgotten even the existence of the
old troll, she was still possessed of that most inconvenient and
annoying internal arrangement which we call the New England
conscience, and one night, when the prince had declared his love
with more ardor than usual, she remembered the past, how she had
promised to marry the troll, and how she must keep her word, as
all good princesses do. And the prince, who was a very upright
young man, most foolishly listened to her, and agreed to give her
up. Whereupon these poor children, having resolved that it was
for the best--"
Phyllis looked up quickly. Her face was white, and a look, half
of fear, half of reproach, came to her eyes. She sank down and
hid her face in her hands. Both my arms were around her and I
even laughed.
"Dear little princess," I whispered, "don't give way yet. The
best is still to come. For you must remember that this is a
fairy-tale and all fairy-tales have a good ending. And, to make a
long story short, this wicked old troll was not a troll at all,
but a fairy-godmother, who had taken the form for good purposes.
I would have said fairy-godfather, but I have never come across a
fairy-godfather in all my reading, and I must be truthful. Well,
the fairy-godmother came along right in the nick of time--and, of
course, you know who married and lived happily ever after?"
The convulsive movement of the poor child's body told me she
was weeping. And I, being a philosopher, and more or less
hard-hearted, as all philosophers are, let her weep on. Presently
she said in a voice hardly audible:
"I gave you my promise and I meant to keep it. I am trying so
hard to keep it."
"Of course you are, little girl, but why try? A bad promise is
far better broken than kept, and, come to think of it, I am not
at all sure that I am anxious to have you keep it. How do you
know that I am not making a desperate effort to secure my own
release?"
She raised her head quite unexpectedly and caught me with the
tears in my eyes. My eyes always were weak. "Why, you are
crying!" she said.
"Of course I'm crying. I always cry when I am particularly well
pleased. It is a family peculiarity. You should see me at the
theatre. At a farce comedy I am a depressing sight, and that is
the reason I always avoid the front seats."
Then realizing that I might be carrying my gayety too far, I went
on more soberly:
"Can't you see, Phyllis, that the old fool's romance must come to
an end? Don't you understand that had I the selfish wish to hold
you to a thoughtless promise, our adventure would terminate only
in misery to us both? Perhaps you and I have been the last to see
it, I, because I was thinking too much of myself, you, because
you were carried away by an exalted sense of duty. Thank heaven
it is clear to us both now. For it is clear, isn't it, dear?"
The foolish girl did not reply, but she kissed my hand, and it is
astonishing how that little act of affection touched and
strengthened me.
"So we are going to make a new start and begin right. To-morrow I
shall see Frederick and make a proposition to him, and if that
rascal does not give up his heroics and come down to his plain
duty as I see it--well, so much the worse for him. No, don't
raise objections"--she had started to speak--"for I am always
quarrelsome when I cannot have my own way. Go to your room and
think it over, and remember," I said more gently, for that old
tide of the past was coming in, "that you are Sylvia's daughter,
and that Sylvia would have trusted me and counselled you to obey
me in all things."
Slowly and with averted face Phyllis rose and walked toward the
door. I had commanded her, and yet I felt a sharp pang of
bitterness that she had yielded so quickly to my words. It seemed
at the moment that everything was passing out of my life; that
Phyllis, that Sylvia, that all the once sweet, continuous memory
was lost to me forever. I could not call her back, and I could
not hope that she would return. Philosopher that I was I could
not explain the sinking and the fear that took possession of me.
The philosopher did not know himself. All his thought and all his
reasoning could not solve the simple riddle the quick intuition
of a girl made clear.
She had reached the door before she paused. Then she turned. I
had risen mechanically and stood looking at her. As slowly she
came back and waited as if for me to speak. And when the dull
philosopher groped helplessly for words and could not meet the
appealing eyes, she put her hands on his shoulders, and laid her
warm, young face on his heart, and said, "Father!"
* * * * *
The night was peacefully beautiful. I had strolled out of the
garden and down to the river, and there along the bridle-path on
the winding bank I walked for miles. Absorbed in my own thoughts
I gave no heed to my little dog, Hero, trotting at my side and
looking anxiously up at me with her large brown eyes, as if
saying in her dog fashion: "Don't worry, old man; I'm here!" A
strange, inexplicable happiness had fallen to him who thought he
knew all others, and did not know even himself. I crossed the
river to return on the opposite shore, and all the way back,
through the arching trees, the shadows danced in the moonlight
and the crickets chirped merrily. Life seemed so contrary, so
bewildering, for I thought of the wedding music in those early
mornings at my boyhood home, and I wondered at the optimism of
Nature in attuning all emotions to a joyous note.
Again in my garden I saw a half-light in Phyllis's room. Coming
nearer I saw that she was standing at the window, with the same
cloud on her face that had betrayed the battle with her
conscience. At sight of her all the joyous emotion of my new
tenderness overwhelmed me and I cried out cheerily:
"Good-night, Phyllis!"
Something in my voice sent a smile to her eyes and gladness to
her heart, as, half leaning from the window, she kissed her hand
to me and called back softly: "Good-night, father dear!"
The south wind came, bringing the scent of the rose and the
honeysuckle, and stirring the drowsy branches of the elms. The
river rippled merrily in the moonlight, hurrying to bear the
tidings of happiness to the greater waters, and off in the
distance the blue hills lifted their heads above the haze. Toward
the north scudded the friendly little white cloud, and it seemed
again a soothing fancy that Sylvia--
O sweet and pleasant world!
TRANSCRIBER'S NOTES
Page 103: Changed housekeeper to house-keeper for consistency.
Page 116: Changed typo "effervesence" to "effervescence."
Page 142: Changed typo "moolight" to "moonlight."
End of Project Gutenberg's The Romance of an Old Fool, by Roswell Field