CHAPTER X

Up to the present moment it has seemed hardly necessary to mention the name of the Sentimentalist. She was so distinctly a Sentimentalist that the appellation bestowed upon her by her godfathers and godmothers at the baptismal font always seemed superfluous. Yet it was quite a pretty name,--and in a subtle way suggested her nature and surroundings. It was Sylvia. It was a name the Philosopher found objectionable as soon as he knew her well enough to display his contentious and “criss-cross” humours.

“Sylvia is a name that belongs to the age of decadent romantic fiction,” he told her, with a kind of derisive sternness. “You might as well be called Amanda!”

“True!” she laughed. “I wonder why I wasn’t!”

“Amanda,” he went on, “is the name of a feeble heroine in an old, very old and very stupid novel called ‘The Children of the Forest.’ She was a young person who was for ever weeping, or, when not weeping, fainting in the arms of a man. There was a villain in the piece who always pursued her--(why, no sane creature can imagine) and never, thanks to a kindly Providence, succeeded in winning her. Then there was the ‘noble’ lover of course!--a pattern of all the virtues, and an unmitigated nuisance--a fellow who shed tears with his Amanda and drew a useless sword on the smallest provocation--altogether a sickly rhodomontade of sickly sentiment and twaddle--”

“Why did you read it?” she asked.

“I was very young,” he replied with a brief snort of contempt for his unsophisticated past. “Terribly young! But quite old enough to find ‘Amanda’ a bore!”

She smiled.

“Well, I’m not Amanda!” she said, gaily. “Nobody thought of giving me _that_ name! But I’m sorry you don’t like the name of Sylvia!--I rather fancy it myself!”

The Philosopher made no further comment just then. This conversation had taken place in the very early days of his acquaintance with the Sentimentalist, and he was careful of his ground. Greatly as he admired his own rudeness (which he considered clever and amusing) he knew it was not advisable to display his inherent bad manners to a hostess before making himself sure of her amiable tolerance; as a more or less “distinguished” man of literary attainment he had established a convenient reputation for eccentricity which allowed him a certain latitude of behaviour,--he could say things which nobody else said, and do things nobody else did. His acrid observations on men and things were condoned because “he’s so clever, you know!” people would declare, with the foolish giggle wherewith they accept monstrosities at a country fair. And his professed objection to the name of Sylvia wore down in time, being in truth an objection that never existed at all save in the inconsistent and crotchety tendency of his own brain. Two or three times he had found occasion to sniff and snort his irritation when Jack, now happily removed for a time from the social scene, had essayed to sing “Who is Sylvia, what is she?” in a voice which was unfortunate in _timbre_ and guiltless of training,--but he had refrained from any positive comment on that young man’s vocal efforts. And a long period had elapsed or had seemed to elapse between then and now. The mild peace of the English countryside had been harried by “alarums and excursions”;--War, the wicked--War, the barbaric--had arisen in mad ferocity like a brute beast from its lair, and its destructive force and evil influence was felt everywhere, even in the little sequestered village where the Sentimentalist had her pretty home, and where she had been accustomed to see little save the beauty of an untroubled Nature. The long white building temporarily erected as a Voluntary Aid Hospital for the wounded made its suggestive presence felt on the land where it stood sheltered by a belt of beautiful old trees,--and the Sentimentalist’s time was divided between it and the care of her father in a manner that left her little leisure to attend to the Philosopher when he came (as he persistently did) to assist in the continuance of the great philological work which was intended to propound an entirely new idea of civilisation to a waiting and expectant world. Dr. Maynard, the venerable author, was growing more and more feeble, and the gout was laying a faster grip on his weary limbs, and had it not been for the interest he took in his literary research and the patient indulgence maintained by his devoted daughter for all his whims and fancies he might have “gone under” more rapidly than was anticipated. This was indeed the reason why the Philosopher was tolerated and even encouraged,--for the poor little Sentimentalist dreaded being left entirely alone with her father, and “The Deterioration of Language.” As long as the old gentleman was kept amused and occupied the gout was partially held in check, and this desirable result was all she sought. For herself and her own happiness she had little care,--her naturally bright spirit was clouded by sorrows she could not alleviate,--sorrows wrought by the war, and coming fast one upon the other like clouds rolling up in a storm. Day after day the wounded were brought to the hospital among the trees,--day after day she saw terrible sights of suffering which she, as the little “rose-lady” of Jack’s adoration had never expected to see,--and what was worst of all to _her_, day after day of utter silence and suspense racked her nerves in the longing for news that never came. In the first year of the war, old John Durham, Jack’s father,--had received letters and “field cards” with tolerable regularity--his son wrote that he was “well” and “in fine form”--and Sylvia had a card or two expressed with the usual military reticence. But after a while and all suddenly a great silence fell, and enquiries at the War Office only elicited the ominous word “Missing.” The blow was a heavy one to the father of the cheery young fellow who had so gallantly resolved to risk his life in the service of a country not his own, and he crept about more or less feebly, with bent head and drooping shoulders, only bracing himself up whenever he saw Sylvia, who made it one of her special duties to look after him as much as possible--“for Jack’s sake” as she would whisper to herself sadly when alone. Not that she ever gave up hope. No,--the word “Missing” held out fair promise to her pure and prayerful soul. She was sure--yes, quite sure, that Jack was not killed--that he would return just the same joyous-hearted Jack as ever! So she told his father--her sweet, loving, blue eyes sparkling with tears, as she spoke;--and he,--well!--somehow he found it difficult to speak, and only pressed her little hand till it was almost crushed in his own rough palm.

Among these characters and influences one would have thought the Philosopher--the learned Walter Craig, F.R.S.A., LL.D., and as many other letters of the alphabet as various Universities can tack on to one small mortal name--would have found himself out of place. In strict accordance with his own theories he ought to have been “bored”--but he wasn’t. As a matter of fact after young Jack Durham had been reported as “Missing” he had experienced a greater interest in the whole situation. There was nothing to disturb his general equanimity. His work with the querulous and ailing old Dr. Maynard was intricate and more or less amusing; he had comfortable quarters in a pretty and well-ordered house--and he had no twinges of conscience in performing the part of a “sponge,” because he felt (and in this he was right) that in keeping his invalid host occupied with his “great work” he was performing a real service, for which he might justly claim board and lodging. And as the war was going on and things were very uncomfortable in London, he took his chance of ease and safety as long as he could get it. The only fly in his amber was old John Durham. With all his heart he detested this wiry wizened American with eyes as sharp as gimlets and a face like a nut-cracker. He grudged the affectionate solicitude with which Sentimentalist Sylvia regarded him--the anxiety she evinced concerning his health and general well-being all, forsooth!--because he was Jack’s father, and Jack himself was “Missing.” To him there was nothing pathetic in the gradual droop of the old man’s physical frame, or the lines of sorrow and suspense that delved themselves round his whole countenance,--all that he saw was that Sylvia rather allowed herself to be monopolised by him in the intervals when she was not in attendance on her father or working at the Hospital; and one day the startling notion seized him that perhaps,--Jack being “missing,”--his father might “make tracks” (an expression old Durham often used) for Sylvia himself! This idea buzzed in his brain like a persistent bumblebee on a window-pane.

“Old men marry young women every day--” he argued with himself. “Especially when they feel lonely. Then, from all I can gather, this American has got money, and _she_ may not be indifferent to that! Of course his great asset is that he’s ‘Jack’s father’!” Here the Philosopher snorted contempt. “Little goose as she is!--little sentimental goose! I wonder if Maynard has any suspicion of the intentions of this ancient courtier--”

Here another brilliant suggestion struck illumination on his brain.

“I’m not as old as Durham,--certainly _not_!” he thought. “Ah!--not by a good six or seven years! Then why--”

His meditations here began to gallop along strange and unaccustomed routes,--stray reflections of _couleur de rose_ wavered across the grey monotony of his learned mentality, and almost he was conscious of a faint sense of returning youth.

“I’m not as old as Durham!” he repeated, with a kind of inward jubilation. “Then why should not _I_ take a bold step? My peace of mind would probably be destroyed, and I should have to put up with many annoyances and small absurdities--still, take her for what she is, there’s a charm about her rather rare to find nowadays among modern women. I know what I’ll do! I’ll give a gentle hint--quite gentle,--to Maynard himself. He might be glad to have his daughter’s future safely assured--it would make him easier in his mind.”

But--for the moment--none of his ideas or resolutions matured into action. The days went on,--each day bringing its dreadful toll of young brave lives crushed out on the fields of Flanders,--and in the pretty old Manor-house the famous “Deterioration of Language” also went on as relentlessly as the war. Quietly the Sentimentalist performed all her rounds of duty, growing visibly paler and thinner, but making no complaint. Only when she was alone in her bedroom at night and when she looked out of its quaint latticed window at the thick battalions of stars in the dark space, did she weep a little and wonder at the cruelty of men to one another,--at the selfishness of statesmen who make war--and at the solemn silence of that vast Ruling Power to whom all the generations of mankind have in turn appealed in various forms,--apparently in vain! Was it wicked to think that it was “in vain”--she questioned herself? To pursue such an enquiry was futile, for she constantly pictured to herself the helpless, stiffening forms of brave boys stretched out on the sodden battlefield, whose lives might have been the joy and pride of their parents; and in these sad reflections she failed to see anything but the direct injustice, nor could she admit that there was a “divine Providence” in the ordainment of such disaster. She recognised clearly enough that the mischief was the work of man and man only, but in a simple, blind way she would think that if indeed a good God ruled the world He might have stopped it in the beginning. And she prayed to be forgiven if her thought was wrong.

One quiet evening when an unusually glorious sunset had showered its glowing crimson on the river and woods and had shed a warm and tender light on the pile of books and manuscript on the table in Dr. Maynard’s library where he and the Philosopher sat at work, the author of the “Deterioration of Language” showed signs of fatigue and irritation, whereat the Philosopher suggested a break in their studies.

“Let’s talk!” he said, affably, as he assisted in pushing Dr. Maynard’s chair nearer the window from which could be seen a charming peep of the garden. “We’ve done enough hard work for to-day. You’re tired.”

“I’m always tired,” replied the old gentleman, querulously. “This infernal gout is killing me!”

“No doubt!” agreed the Philosopher, suavely. “But it’s doing it quite gently! Twinges of the toe--yes!--of course. Still things might be worse. You might have had cancer!”

“That’s no consolation!” growled old Maynard. “What I _might_ have had doesn’t matter. It’s what I’ve _got_!”

The distinguished Walter Craig, LL.D., F.S.A., nodded his head blandly.

“My dear fellow, I know that! It’s what you’ve _got_! True! But we all ‘get’ something, sooner or later, otherwise we should never grow old and never die. The latest science tells us there’s no such thing as ‘natural’ death. We ‘get’ something that is unnatural which forces our exit when we would rather stay where we find ourselves.”

“What do _you_ expect to ‘get’?” Maynard demanded.

“Much the same as yourself,” the Philosopher replied, with smiling equanimity. “Gout. It is an aristocratic illness,--it comes down to one like one’s coat-of-arms. It’s a case of the sins of the fathers. What the fathers did for me I don’t quite know--but they left me their disease in the most generous way. It has not affected me much yet--but it will.”

“It will--you may depend on that!” and Dr. Maynard’s voice had quite a ring of cheerfulness as he spoke. “It never lets go its prey! I fought it off for years--but I’ve had to give in.” Here he peered anxiously through the window across the garden. “I wonder where Sylvia is? She’s always out of the way when I want her!”

The Philosopher glanced at the clock.

“It’s not quite the time for her to return from the Hospital--” he said.

“Hospital? Hospital? It’s always the Hospital! I’m sure _I_ ought to be there, attended to and looked after quite as well as half of those strong young men with a bit of shell in their legs, or an arm off, or something of that kind! Such a fuss about nothing! God bless my soul! In Nelson’s time the fighting fellows cut their own limbs off and stuck their stumps into boiling tar! That was something like hospital stuff! No molly-coddling _there_!” The old gentleman chuckled with a curiously malevolent pleasure. “But now we have all the girls and women bandaging, poulticing and feeding every young man with a scratch--and the better-looking the young man happens to be, the longer the scratch takes to heal!” Here he chuckled again. “That girl of mine passes nearly all her time at the Hospital--I can’t imagine what she’ll do without it when the war’s over.”

“Ah!” And the Philosopher stroked his moustache meditatively. “Has it ever occurred to you to think what she will do without _you_ when _you_ are over?”

Old Maynard’s face grew suddenly pale, and a cowering fear gleamed in his eyes.

“What do you mean?” he queried half angrily. “I’m not over yet! And I don’t intend to be ‘over’!”

“Good! Quite good!” and the Philosopher smiled amicably. “But--you know--_l’homme propose et Dieu dispose_! It is always well to prepare for emergencies. I consider that you should make sure of your daughter’s future comfort in this world before you leave it.”

“Future comfort? God bless my soul!” snapped Maynard testily. “Do you suppose I’m a man to neglect the care of my own child? Future comfort? She’ll have everything I possess--and that’s more than anybody knows of I can tell you!”

Craig, F.S.A., LL.D., listened complacently. He was right in his surmise,--the girl would have plenty of money! Plenty of money! He almost smacked his lips as he thought of that friend of his who had secured a “Plum” in the matrimonial orchard--a “Plum” that had “dropped into his mouth with a bang!” Sylvia would not “drop” so--but she might be gathered gently off the parent tree with a careful hand. He thought a little before speaking again. Then he said:

“She’s a charming girl. She ought to marry.”

“Why?” And a twinge of pain caused the old Doctor to make a wry face as he put the question. “Why should she take up a husband to worry her for the rest of her life? She’s perfectly happy as she is.”

The Philosopher assumed a grave and considerate air.

“A woman--especially a pretty woman,” he said, “needs protection and support in this world. Without a man’s care and guardianship she is invariably misjudged, slandered and suspected of some moral drawback--”

“Is she though!” and Dr. Maynard sniffed scornful incredulity. “Nowadays she seems to me to run amok more thoroughly when she’s married than when she’s single! She gets tired of her husband in six months or he gets tired of her--and the whole thing turns out a ghastly failure.”

“You are thinking of extreme cases,” said the Philosopher, mildly. “Yet I presume your own marriage was a success?”

A sudden smile of tenderness gave extraordinary light to the old man’s furrowed countenance.

“It was!” he answered. “But that was in the old days! My wife was ‘old-fashioned.’ Home and love, husband and child were all the world to her--she never wanted anything else, bless her dear heart! Ah! The sunshine has never seemed quite so bright to me since she died.”

The Philosopher was silent for a few minutes. There was a quiet pathos and simplicity in Maynard’s words that had an effect even on the india-rubber toughness of his academic disposition.

“Your daughter is probably like her mother in nature and tastes,” he observed, presently. “And if so, this is all the more reason why she should not be deprived of a life that would be suited to her, apart altogether from the security and _status_ of marriage.”

Maynard grew a trifle restive under the searching gaze of the Philosopher’s eyes seen through rather unbecoming spectacles.

“It’s all very well to talk!” he grumbled. “Who’s to marry the girl? There’s nobody in this village to suit her. They’re all ‘butchers and bakers and candlestick-makers’ _here_--very small tradesmen all round. There’s the county Squire--he’s a widower with an idiot son who had to be put away in an asylum--and there’s a miserable little curate with a chronic cough. Of course there are a lot of wounded chaps at the Hospital,--mostly Tommies--I don’t think she’s likely to fancy one of _them_--”

“What about old John Durham?” suddenly suggested the Philosopher, the corners of his moustache going up in a little quizzical smile.

“Old John Durham!” exclaimed Maynard. “Why he might be her grandfather! Now if you had said _young_ John Durham,--Jack--there might be something in it--though he was always a silly ass--but he’s gone--‘missing,’ they say--”

“Dead without a doubt,” said the Philosopher, pleasantly. “Killed in Flanders, quite needlessly. He was not called upon to fight at all--but being an American he was bound to indulge in a bit of braggadocio and offer to do battle for the ‘old country,’ and he’s had his way. It has struck me that his father, being left solitary, might think of marrying again. Rumour says he is a wealthy man--and Sylvia is a little creature who is accustomed to comfort, not to say luxury--”

“Of course she is!” and Dr. Maynard got flushed and excited. “Why shouldn’t she be? She’s always had plenty of money--she’ll always have it! She’s not obliged to marry an old sallow face like Durham to live like a princess if she wants to! God bless my soul, Craig--what _are_ you driving at?”

The Philosopher smiled soothingly.

“My dear fellow, don’t lose your self-control over a trifling suggestion! All I have said is in the way of friendship and--and admiration for your young daughter. I think it would be very sad for her if at some time or other--far distant let us hope!--she were left alone in the world--even with plenty of money--having no one to advise her or to guard her interests. And I repeat that she ought to marry.” Here he paused--then added, “I am very fond of her myself!”

Dr. Maynard turned slowly round in his chair and surveyed him with a fixed stare of wonder.

“_You?_”

The Philosopher did not flinch.

“Yes. I!”

And then the old gentleman began to laugh,--a deep half-suppressed laugh of thorough enjoyment,--a laugh that shook his shoulders and wrinkled up his eyes in all sorts of curious deep furrows.

“May and December!” he chuckled. “Or December and May! She might as well take old Durham and have done with it!”

The Philosopher maintained equanimity. He smiled,--and as people often noticed, there was something very attractive in his smile,--a flash of youth and humour.

“I think,” he said, mildly, “you would find Sylvia likely to prefer me to old Durham. I think so!--of course I cannot be sure!”

Dr. Maynard lifted himself in his chair, gripping its sides with both hands, and surveyed his friend and literary coadjutor for a couple of minutes in silence.

“Now look here, Craig,” he said. “You don’t mean to insinuate that my little girl is in love with _you_? Why, man, she couldn’t be such a fool!”

The Philosopher winced, and Maynard went on rather heatedly.

“She’s a clever child and would make a good wife for a clever man, but you’re _too_ clever! Too obstinate--too ‘set’ in your own way--and you’re too old to change your habits. You’re a splendid scholar, but you’re deep in the ruts of learning--no wife could ever pull you out! You’ve no sentiment--and Sylvia is all sentiment from head to heels!--full of fancies and romantic notions. You’d have to be young to understand her--and I don’t believe you ever _were_ young!”

“Thank you!” murmured the Philosopher. “Let us drop the subject! I spoke in a friendly desire to ease your mind of a possible anxiety as to your daughter’s future,--with me as a husband and protector she would be safely guarded--”

“And happy?” There was a slight tremor in Maynard’s voice as he put the question. “Would she be happy?”

“If she were not it would be her own fault,” answered the Philosopher. “I should do my best to make her so. But let us say no more of it!”

He took up a book and turned it over with apparently sudden interest. Dr. Maynard looked at him, and a twinge of the gout affected him unpleasantly. He tried to picture the learned Walter Craig as his son-in-law,--but somehow failed in the effort. And yet!--Craig was a man of distinctive ability and reputation--he had his own special literary “clique” who called him “a Master,” and his position in the world of letters was unassailable--numbers of people were proud to know him. His wife--if he had a wife--would occupy a position of honour and some dignity. But Sylvia!--little Sylvia as Mrs. Walter Craig!--Even the compiler of “The Deterioriation of Language” could not forbear a passing thought as to “The Deterioration of a Woman’s Life!” He fidgeted on his chair and cast an appealing glance at the Philosopher.

“Craig,” he faltered, nervously, “I believe you are thinking that I may die any time--”

“My good fellow, of course you may!” blandly replied the Philosopher. “And so may I. My gout is not so ripe and well advanced as yours, but as Shakespeare’s Mercutio observed, ‘’Twill serve!’ Should it finish you off before me your daughter will be left comparatively unprotected. She has no relatives, so you once told me, but a divorced aunt. A divorced aunt is hardly a suitable companion. Now if I become her husband she at once steps to a platform of safety, and I can look after her till my own time comes; she will be then old enough and experienced enough to manage her own affairs.”

Maynard listened, with something of a distressed foreboding in his mind. There was truth, harsh truth, and cold reason in the Philosopher’s plain view of the possible circumstances--but, at the same time a cloud of depression darkened the poor old scholar’s soul. Almost he could have whimpered, like a hurt child. At last he summoned up a show of resolution.

“Have you ever spoken to Sylvia on--on--this subject?” he asked, tremulously.

“Never!” And the Philosopher assumed a truly “noble” aspect. “Can you imagine it! I should not dream of doing so without your permission.”

The old Doctor sighed.

“Thank you!” he said, meekly.

A pause ensued.

Then came the sound of a light step on the gravel path outside the window, and both men looked through the vista of shrubs and flowers to see the Sentimentalist returning from her hospital work. She moved quickly, checking the wild gambols of a rough Airedale terrier to whom her presence was the acme of all earthly bliss,--but there was a little indefinable air of lassitude and fatigue about her which had not been any part of her aspect before the “silly ass” Jack Durham was known to be “missing.” Her father looked at her wistfully as she went past the window; then suddenly laid his hand on the Philosopher’s arm.

“I want her to be happy!” he said, pathetically. “She is a sensitive little creature! I want her to be loved and understood! There are too many wretched martyrs of married life in the world!--Heaven forbid the child should be one of them! But--if she has any affection for you--(it would be very strange!)--but if she has, I won’t stand in the way! You must find it out for yourself,--you can speak to her if you like, and put all the pros and cons before her. No one can beat you at that sort of thing! Tell her she’ll be lonesome when her old Dad dies”--he paused to swallow a lump in his throat--“and that you’ll try to take his place! Tell her that you will love her and make a pet of her!--that she’ll never hear a word of unkindness--tell her you love her now--that is, _if_ you do! A woman will do anything to be loved!--it’s the nature of the creature. I should never have thought that _you_ could love anybody!--but the strangest things happen oftenest--and the notion of your falling in love with my girl is one of those strangest things! I have said--and I repeat it--I won’t stand in the way!”

The Philosopher shrank a little from the pressure of his friend’s hand on his arm. Maynard was taking too sentimental a view of the case--much too sentimental a view! Because he had not really “fallen in love” with Sylvia--such a notion was absurd! quite absurd as applied to him, the Philosopher. Nevertheless he recognised the futility of argument on so delicate a matter, especially as he had gained his point in so far that he had permission to speak to Sylvia. He hummed and hawed a little--his ugly cough threatened explosion, but he restrained it.

“Thanks very much!” he said, reservedly. “You must not over-rate my--my--sense of attraction for--or attachment to--your daughter. My emotions are well under control--and when I speak to her on what I consider this very vital subject I shall take care to ground my approach on a strong basis of reason as well as--as affection. I am not in the flush of youth--”

“No, that you’re not!” interpolated Dr. Maynard, with a shake of his head. “That’s a rosy colour we’ve both done with!”

“I am not in the flush of youth,” repeated the Philosopher, laboriously. “But I have experience, patience and sound common sense. And from all I hear and read, it seems to me that these are valuable attributes in a husband. They are seldom evidenced by a wife. Wherefore I argue that a man possessing experience, patience and common sense is the proper guardian for a charming but inexperienced woman whose errors are all on the side of sentiment. Pretty sentiment--delightful sentiment!--still Sentiment--and Sentiment is a dangerous guide--”

“Well, leave it at that!” said Dr. Maynard,--and a whimsical smile brightened his worn features. “Leave it at that! It won’t guide _you_ anywhere too fast or too far!”