CHAPTER XIII

And now the Sentimentalist became, unconsciously to herself, the central figure of a curious little drama, wherein three elderly gentlemen were the active performers, with a mystic Shadow in the background,--the shadow of a personality which, though considered as “Missing,” nevertheless remained a vital part of the play. A dreary autumn and still drearier winter had passed, and spring half-tearful, half-smiling had begun to dress the trees in tiny rosette-buds of green,--some early mating thrushes were piping their joyous love-notes among the growing greenness of copse and hedge,--and with these signs of hope came rumours of the speedy ending of the long and wicked war in a victory for England and her Allies. “Too good to be true,” was the verdict of the pessimists on these flying reports; but they had the effect of cheering depressed people and awakening renewed heart for fresh effort. Old Dr. Maynard had become wonderfully alert and vivacious of late,--his gout troubled him less, and his famous “Deterioration of Language” was positively nearing completion. Fewer wounded arrived at the V.A.D. Hospital where Sylvia gave her services, and she had much more time on her hands than she cared to have, owing to the fact that whenever he perceived her alone and at leisure the Philosopher, like the fatuous hero of “The Children of the Forest,” that ancient novel he despised, “pursued her” and seemed to consider that whenever she had nothing else to do she was bound to talk to him, or at least to allow _him_ to talk to _her_. And he noticed, with a certain odd self-congratulation, that she avoided him,--quite gently, but no less decisively. He thought he knew why, and flattered himself singularly on what he imagined to be his discovery.

“She is just a little frightened,” he said to himself. “Quite natural--quite proper! It’s much better that a woman should be timid about a proposal of marriage than that she should hurl herself at it like a bull in a china shop! I can’t say she is encouraging--she doesn’t lead me on--in fact she rather puts me off! But that’s so like a woman!--always doing the very reverse of what she wishes to do!”

So he argued, in the spirit of that profound masculine egotism which is the heritage of every “lord of creation,” whether it be the rowdy of a motor char-à-bancs, or the self-contained intellectual of University honours and degrees. Every man grown to manhood is confident that he understands women,--absolutely confident even when, among his peers, he declares them to be incomprehensible. Of his power to please and subdue them he never has a doubt. The fallacy is inherited from the days of pre-historic savagery, and savagery is not by any means yet overcome by civilisation.

One rather chilly evening, when despite the melodious assurances of a thrush singing outside the window, one felt that a nip of winter had returned to provoke the sweet temper of the spring, the Philosopher found the Sentimentalist nestled in a chair by a sparkling fire in the cosy drawing-room, peacefully working at a dainty strip of floral embroidery. A branch of wild roses was visibly blossoming under the swift manipulation of her little white fingers, and the glitter of her tiny gold thimble flashed like the gleam of the sun on the growing flowers. She made a pretty picture as she sat, the flames of the fire now and again touching into more vivid colour the warm amber of her hair and the pale blue of her dress,--she was always a pretty picture, but somehow on this particular evening the Philosopher thought she made a prettier one than usual. As he approached she looked up and smiled,--she did not rise and go away as had been rather her habit of late. This was an encouraging sign,--and yet, strange to say, the distinguished man of letters became suddenly and uncomfortably conscious of “nerves.” With an effort he mastered them, and selecting an easy chair which he had frequently tried before and found satisfactory, he drew it and himself up to the fire and stretched out his legs with a sigh of deep content.

“Heigh-ho!” and he turned the sigh into something of a yawn. “This is very comfortable! There’s a detestable east wind whizzing round the house--nothing like an east wind for prying into every corner--and it’s much pleasanter inside than out. This room is the very abode of comfort!--an ‘interior’ of perfect domestic bliss!”

The pretty smile deepened and dimpled round the kissable mouth of the Sentimentalist but she said nothing. Her needle twinkled faster among the wild roses she embroidered.

“Your father seems wonderfully better,” pursued the Philosopher, thoughtfully. “He is much more mentally keen and observant. He takes greater interest in things that are purely mundane.”

She looked up.

“I’m so glad!” she said. “Poor, dear Dad! He was really _too_ taken up with ‘The Deterioration of Language’--don’t you think so? I mean, he seemed to treat it _too_ seriously!--because, after all, it doesn’t very much matter!”

“Doesn’t it?” The Philosopher gave her an amused, half-tolerant glance. “Not perhaps in your opinion! But you are a woman--and young--and your ideas are necessarily limited. You see nothing to deplore in the breaking-down of fine forms of speech--which are really as necessary to the _status_ of a people as fine forms of conduct and manner--”

She stopped her sewing and listened, needle in hand.

“Fine forms of conduct and manner,” he proceeded, with an academical air. “The inroads of slang upon the splendid English used by our forefathers are rather like the vulgar rush of noisy, half-tipsy folk into a beautiful garden full of well-kept trees and flowers. Dr. Maynard is quite right in his views.”

“Oh, yes, I am sure of that!” said Sylvia quickly and eagerly. “But do you really think it is any use for him to teach, or try to teach people these higher views of life and language when they all show so plainly that they don’t want to learn?”

He bent his brows kindly upon her, with a smile.

“Well, if you come to that,” he answered. “Nothing is of any use! Neither language nor literature! I’m sorry to state the fact, but fact it is. Civilisation itself is no use. History will convince you of that. What has become of Babylon, Nineveh, Thebes? They all had language and literature doubtless,--no use! You see? If once you begin to question the uses of any learning you run up against the blank wall of positive negation!”

She looked up.

“Ah, that is only your way of looking at it!” she said. “It is your philosophy!”

“It is every man’s philosophy if he is a philosopher at all,” he replied. “Nothing can alter facts--facts which are proven and plain. A bit of Egyptian papyrus scrawled with hieroglyphs speaks more eloquently for ‘The Deterioration of Language’ than a thousand of our printed volumes.”

She drew a quick little sigh.

“Oh, dear me!” she murmured. “It is all very sad! In your outlook on life nothing seems good or commendable! What’s the good of living at all!”

He turned towards her, his eyes twinkling with unusual pleasantness.

“Dear child, I often ask myself that question!” he said. “And as yet I have found no answer. None of us _asked_ to be born! Had _I_ been consulted I should certainly have declined the honour! But there are certain compensations afforded us for the trouble of existence,--as I told you once before, we are allowed to experience pleasurable sensations which we call by pretty names--such as idealism, patriotism, conscience, honour, friendship, and--and love. I suppose”--here he hesitated--“I suppose love is really the most agreeable sensation of all! You remember when you quoted some lines of Keats to me on one occasion, you seemed to think so!”

“I think so still,” she replied, softly.

“I’m sure you do! You are unchanged in your sentiment--and for yourself it is a pity! But you are a woman, and it cannot be helped! Women overdo sentiment altogether--they _live_ on it! A mistake--and yet--”

He stopped abruptly.

She looked at him.

“And yet?” she suggested.

“And yet? Well, I was about to say I should not like a woman _without_ sentiment. For example,--if I had any sentiment for her, I should wish her to have sentiment for _me_!”

She laughed softly.

“Why, of course! Naturally!”

He moved a little uneasily.

“Do you think it at all possible?”

“What?”

“For a woman to have sentiment for me?”

A pretty rose-flush coloured her cheeks.

“When you are your best self, yes! Certainly!” she said with a quick frankness. “But when you are your worst self, no!”

He smiled,--he was amused.

“You can say that to every human being,” he averred. “I can say it to _you_! When you are on level ground, sweetly normal, you are a most engaging little lady--but when you are on your high horse--well, well! But after all, you seldom take a very long prance on that tall quadruped!”

Her blue eyes flashed,--but she made no reply.

“You object to any mention of the high horse?” he said, and his voice had a kind tone that was almost irresistible. Turning her head towards him she could not help smiling,--he had one of his attractive moods on, and his features, always intellectual, were softened and made almost good-looking by an expression of tender solicitude seldom seen upon them.

“I object to nothing you wish to say,” she answered, gently.

“How charming of you! Ah!” and he sighed. “If that were always the case--if it were only true!”

He broke off. His heart was not given to inordinate fluttering, but he felt it distinctly fluttering just then. He waited a couple of minutes to recover himself. She had resumed her swift sewing, and her little gold thimble flashed to and fro like a tiny star. The logs in the bright fire crackled and sparkled,--one of them falling into a brilliant flame. He straightened himself in his chair, and, as it were, pulled himself together.

“Returning to the subject of your father’s important work,” he said, slowly, “I think it will soon be finished.”

“Really!” she exclaimed. “How glad I shall be!”

“Will you? Yes--I suppose you will! But--I shall be sorry!”

She paused in her sewing and looked at him kindly.

“It’s nice of you to say so,” she said. “For I’m sure you must have been tired of it often! And tired of us, too! We must seem so monotonous to a clever man like you!”

He considered this observation with a thoughtful air,--then smiled.

“No,” he averred, with an air of tolerance. “No. Strange to say, though I find most things monotonous I have not found _you_ so!” Here he laughed quite pleasantly. “Dear child, whatever your faults, sameness is not one of them! You are as variable--as--as an English summer!”

Her eyes sparkled merrily.

“Thanks ever so much!” she said. “I should hate to be always in one humour!”

“It would be dull--undoubtedly it would be dull!” admitted the Philosopher. “Safe certainly--but dull! Unalterable good temper,--what? It might be trying! After about a year of it, one might welcome a little flash--just a _leetle_ flash of anger!”

He paused. She said nothing. Presently he resumed.

“Yes--you are very variable! Yet--at the same time you are equable. That sounds very paradoxical, doesn’t it?”

“Perhaps it does!” she admitted.

“A paradox is that which though appearing to be contradictory is nevertheless true,” he continued, amicably. “And according to that definition I myself am a paradox.”

She laughed.

“Are you?”

“I think so! I am very generally misunderstood. Even _you_ misunderstand me.”

She laid down her work and looked at him.

“Do I? Oh, I am very sorry!”

He gave a little nervous cough.

“Thank you! I do not suppose you can help yourself--all women judge by appearances. I am not an Adonis--never was,--and I’m getting old--and I confess to an irritability of temper occasionally--”

Her tenderly sympathetic nature sprang up at once to defend him against his own indictment.

“Oh, but you are not often disagreeable!” she said, in the frankest manner. “You can be perfectly charming if you like! When you first came to stay with us and help Dad I thought you a perfectly delightful man!--so brilliant and companionable!”

“Ah, those were in the early days!” he said, with a sigh. “The golden days of first acquaintance! You were very kind to me then,--though we had our little differences! But you didn’t mind helping me to light my pipe,--do you remember?--and once we had a pleasant walk across the fields. And you talked a great deal about love--”

“That was before the war!” she interposed.

“Before the war? Of course--certainly! Everything worth having was _before_ the war,--love, hope, confidence--_before_ the war--the world was better to live in _before_ the war. I grant you all that! We can, if we feel disposed to be poetical, look back and see a happy garden of Eden in England _before_ the war--but now the gates are closed and a sword turns every way forbidding re-entrance!”

“Ah, you _do_ think that!” she said.

“Naturally I do. And naturally I must. It does not actually surprise me, for war is a devastator of minds and morals. You thought me very harsh and unsympathetic at the time war was declared--and I know you considered me unpatriotic. Well, if it is unpatriotic to dislike the idea of men being slaughtered like animals in a meat-packer’s factory all for the pleasure of rival governments I _am_ unpatriotic, and glory in the fact! I have no sentiment on these matters. The waving of a flag does not excite me--I don’t think any man should fight for any other man. Let each one manage his own business.”

She was silent.

“You don’t like my point of view?” he queried, after a pause.

“I think you have a great deal of right and sense on your side,” she said, slowly. “But if nations did not fight for their existence where would they be?”

“They would settle down,” said the Philosopher, complacently. “Believe me they would settle down! It’s all a repetition of the Cain and Abel story--one brother is jealous of the other and commits murder. Why should such a precedent be maintained?”

“Why, indeed?” she murmured.

“We were all happy enough and contented enough before the war,” pursued the Philosopher. “And we were immoral enough. If the war was intended to punish us for our immorality, it has failed in effect, for we are much more immoral now.”

She began to work again at her embroidery, keeping her eyes bent upon it. The Philosopher did not pursue the theme he had started; in some subtle way he was made aware that immorality was not a subject on which to engage the attention of the Sentimentalist. There are very few men who, in the presence of real purity and refinement expressed in a woman’s personality, do not hesitate to bring forward topics which however reasonable, are at the same time questionable in taste. With a mannish, smoking woman the Philosopher would have swung into brilliant diatribes concerning sex and its demands, but with this sweet, composed, dainty little lady of sentiment, he was not sure of his ground, especially in the immediate state of his own emotions. Emotions? Had he any? It seemed so,--anyway he was beginning to feel as if he had.

“Yes,” he said, deliberately. “You were very kind to me before the war. Before the war I scratched my hand among your rose-bushes, and you--you kissed the place and made it well! You may forget that generous action--”

“Oh, no!” she interrupted, laughingly. “I remember it! I would do it again!”

He straightened himself in his chair with an abrupt movement.

“You would? You would do it again?”

“Of course I would! Why shouldn’t I? Especially if you were frightened, and thought you were going to be blood-poisoned!”

He regarded her with a smile.

“I was _not_ frightened!” he said. “I did _not_ think I was going to be blood-poisoned! I’m not such a fool! I only wanted you to be--to be--”

Her eyes sparkled a trifle mischievously.

“To be--to be--what?” she asked.

“Kind to me!”

“Well, and was I not kind?”

“You were! And I want you to be kind to me now!”

She looked at him half-timidly, half-warningly.

“And am I not so?”

“You are--you are!” and the erudite Walter Craig, F.S.A., became all at once confused, and felt an extraordinary furnace-like heat flushing his face. “But--but--but not quite kind enough! I want you to be kinder--I want you to--to--”

She dropped her embroidery suddenly, and rising came over to him in the prettiest way imaginable and knelt beside him like a child asking a favour.

“I know--I know!” she said, softly and coaxingly. “But don’t say what you want!--like a good, kind man, don’t say it!”

His eyes opened wide in amazement. He stooped towards her and took her hand in his own.

“Don’t say it?” he echoed. “Why--why shouldn’t I say it?”

Her sweet face lightened with an expression of tenderness, regret and sympathy all commingled.

“Because it’s so much better not to!” she declared. “You are such a clever, clever man!--and I’m such a silly little woman!--but all the same let us be friends! Oh, you know what I mean!”

Yes, he knew! And his heart gave a big “dunt” in his chest, of nervous disappointment and chagrin, yet--with those frank blue eyes looking trustfully into his own, he could but respond to their confidence. He pressed the little hand he held more closely and smiled. As already hinted, his smile was particularly attractive, and just now with a touch of pathos in it was more so than ever.

“I think I do!” he replied. “But I don’t like ‘hedging.’ I’m a bit of a coward in most things,--but when the worst comes to the worst or the best to the best, I’d rather face the music than run away. I know what I want; and _you_ know what I want. I want to marry you!”

There was a tense pause. She still knelt at his feet,--still looked sweetly up into his face, but she said nothing.

“And,” he continued, steadily, “you don’t want to marry _me_! There! It’s all out! Isn’t it?”

She smiled.

“Not quite!” she said. “I do know you want to marry me--and--when I first knew you--I rather fancied--yes!--I thought I should like to marry _you_!”

“You did?--you did?” he exclaimed, a wave of extraordinary youthfulness sweeping over him.

She held up a small warning finger.

“Yes, I did!” she averred. “You seemed so clever--and so kind! But--but--when the kindness was lost in the cleverness--then--then I thought differently!”

He withdrew his hand from hers, and a shadow darkened his features.

“You see,” she went on, in gentle coaxing accents, “when you first came here to help Dad, you were charming!--yes, perfectly charming! And I took you for walks to all the pretty places about here, and we got on so well together that I used to say to myself, what an honour it would be if such a brilliant man were to care enough for me to marry me! Yes, I really did! But when, little by little, you dropped the ‘company manners’ as children say, and showed me another side altogether, I felt then that you were _too_ brilliant!--_too_ clever to be always kind to a silly little woman like myself whose ‘sentiment’ always outruns her brains. And I--I think”--her voice sank softly--“that in marriage kindliness is better than cleverness.”

He did not speak. She ventured to touch his hand in a caressing way as a child might do.

“I like you very much still!” she said. “I don’t mind your sarcasm as much as I did--and when you say rough things I try to forget them. But if I were married to you I don’t think I _could_ forget them! They would hurt! And when you _are_ sarcastic you can be very rude! Yes, indeed! And I would not be able to stand that either! Because, as you have often said, I ‘overdo the sentiment,’ and if I loved you, and you were unkind, I should be utterly miserable! So what a fortunate thing it is that I _don’t_ love you and _wouldn’t_ marry you for all the world!--and that I just ‘like’ you, and admire you as a very, very clever man! For so we can always be the best of friends!”

“Cold comfort, applied with sweet eloquence!” said the Philosopher, rousing himself from his momentary abstraction. “I understand! And you may be right! My experience of men and things has not mellowed my disposition--I have grown a crust upon myself, and honestly, I enjoy my own crustiness. But you, dear child!--if you only made more allowance for this, you would find it is all on the surface, and _only_ on the surface. Now you have been perfectly frank with me up to a certain point,--why do you not declare at once honestly the real obstacle that prevents your marrying me? Why?”

She was silent. Her head drooped, and he stroked her bright hair.

“Why?” he repeated, in a tone of bland argument. “I don’t think I should make a bad husband, I should have my ‘moods’ undoubtedly--and I should expect them to be humoured and tolerated. And you--you would most certainly mount your ‘high horse’ occasionally, and I should permit you to prance upon it like a child on rockers till you were tired. You would soon be tired, and so should I! But I would take every care of you--I am old enough to fill your father’s place should he be taken from you, and I could give you a position in cultured society--not the society of American millionaires, but the society of art and letters. And I would promise not to be ‘rude’ or ‘sarcastic’ more than I could possibly help--”

She rose from her pretty appealing attitude at his knee, and smiling, shook her head at him regretfully.

“Ah, you would never be able to help it!” she said. “It is your nature! I should have fallen in love with you if it hadn’t been!”

Goaded to retort by her tone, and more or less vexed at the airy aloofness of her figure as she stood upright now and a little apart from him, he said:

“If it hadn’t been? You mean if it hadn’t been--for Jack!”