CHAPTER XVI

Next morning came a brief note from the Philosopher,--he prided himself on never writing a word more than was absolutely necessary.

“Coming back to-morrow afternoon. Bringing a friend to tea.”

This, scrawled on what is called a “correspondence card” and signed with the almost illegible hieroglyph which he made of his initials, was all.

Dr. Maynard turned it over and over--then glanced at his daughter.

“This means that he will be here to-day,” he said. “Probably about four or five o’clock. I think the friend he alludes to is an Oxford publisher.”

“Yes?” queried Sylvia tentatively.

“Yes,--quite an enterprising man who is likely to take my ‘The Deterioration of Language,’ and launch it well. Of course we shall have to talk it over.”

“Of course!” and the Sentimentalist did her best to seem interested. “You will have to settle terms, and all that sort of thing.”

“Terms?” The old scholar shook his head. “My dear child, I don’t build any hopes in _that_ direction! If I can find a publisher to take the book at all I shall be fortunate--”

“But it’s such a _wonderful_ work!” she said, with all the tender indulgence she truly felt. “You’ve had so much patience and spent so much time over it!”

“Very true!” and Maynard smiled. “But publishers don’t care about that. They think of trade. ‘Will it sell?’ is their one demand. If it won’t, what’s the good of it? Think of Milton gratefully accepting Five Pounds for ‘Paradise Lost’! There’s a life’s lesson!” He looked at the Philosopher’s note again and a little smile hovered round his lips. “Yes! I should say Craig has found a likely man and is bringing him along.”

“Well, I’ll have a nice tea ready for them when they come,” said Sylvia. “That will help to put them in a good humour.”

She went off then on her various household duties, and presently bethought herself that though it was chill November there was one warm corner in the garden where a few monthly roses still found courage to bloom. One or two of these would brighten the tea-table, she decided, and putting on her hat and cloak she ran out in search of them. They were all in a little pink group together--drooping rather on their stems, yet not without soft fragrance, and she was almost reluctant to gather them. She remembered how Jack Durham had called her a “rose-lady,” and quick tears sprang to her eyes as the pretty name chimed in her memory like a fairy bell. Slowly and very tenderly she plucked three or four of what were indeed the “last roses of summer”--and as she did so was startled by a gruff voice speaking on the other side of the hedge.

“Missy! Missy Maynard!”

She looked up and saw the unkempt head and rough brown face of “Riverside Sam” peering at her through a tangle of leaves.

“Don’t be skeered, Miss! It’s only me!” he said in a kind of hoarse whisper. “I say! Look ’ere! I thought ye might like to know Mr. Durham’s back. He got ’ome early this mornin’. Yes--he’s ’ome--all well an’ ’arty!”

“I’m very glad!” said Sylvia, gently. “Thanks, Sam! It’s kind of you to come and tell me. I shouldn’t have known unless you had, as I can’t go down to the cottage to-day--we have visitors this afternoon.”

“Have ye?” And Sam grinned through the aperture he had made in the hedge somewhat in the fashion of a yokel at a country fair grinning through a horse-collar. “Visitors comin’, eh? From Oxford mebbe?”

Sylvia nodded carelessly, a little surprised at his exceptionally friendly familiarity.

“The old gentleman ain’t arf bad!” went on Sam. “For all ’is larnin’ an’ queer talk ’e’s got a bit of ’art in the right place! I’ve taken to likin’ ’im now--I usen’t to. He’s not much sport about ’im--skeered of ’is life at a water-rat, an’ all that sort o’ thing. I s’pose ’e’ll be comin’ back from Oxford to-day?”

“Yes--I think so!” Sylvia answered, still perplexed by something in his manner which she could not understand. “Do you want to see him?”

“Not pertikerly,” and Sam grinned again. “‘E don’t owe me nothing. ’E ain’t very fond of the river,--fishin’ ain’t in ’is line. An’ Lor’ bless ye, the river ain’t much to look at now--all brown an’ muddy with a few whistlin’ reeds on the banks--very different to the days when you an’ _pore_ Mr. Jack used to walk along by the path as prutty to see as two birds on the ’op! Ah! _pore_ Mr. Jack!--he was a good lad! as good as ye’ll find anywhere! An’ to think the Germans ’ave got ’im!”

Sylvia moved restlessly.

“I must be going, Sam,” she said. “Is there anything you want? Anything I can do for you?”

“No, Miss Maynard, no! Thank you all the same! No one wishes ye better luck than I do! That’s why I came up ’ere this mornin’--just to tell ye that old Mr. Durham is back safe so as ye mightn’t worry!”

And with that he drew his head back from the aperture in the hedge and went off, while the Sentimentalist stood inert for a moment, with the roses she had gathered in her hand, wondering whether she would have time before luncheon to run down to Mr. Durham’s cottage and see how he was, and what news he brought from London. News? What news _could_ he bring? Except just a description of how the ‘armistice’ was hailed by the great city’s multitudes. That would be interesting--but it could wait. She decided it would be best to remain at home, and let Mr. Durham take his own time for a visit to her father during the day.

“And if he comes when Mr. Craig and the publisher are here talking business with Dad, I’ll manage to take him off and entertain him in another room,” she said to herself. “For of course if the great ‘Book’ is to be discussed, nothing must be allowed to interfere!”

She smiled, and hummed a little tune under her breath as she went back from the garden into the house and set her roses in a crystal vase, which so enhanced their beauty that they seemed to cheer up and look almost as fair as they were accustomed to do in summer. And the hours swept on glidingly till a flare of deep scarlet and gold in the west spread itself out in all the glory of a November sunset. The glow of a big log fire shed bright reflections all over the charming drawing-room of the Manor house, sparkling on the daintily set out tea-table with its polished silver and delicate china, and the Sentimentalist surveyed her preparations with pardonable pride.

“I _do_ love pretty things!” she said, inwardly. “And luxurious things too! The Philosopher would say there is no necessity for either beauty or comfort,--but I know no one who loves the good ‘tastes’ of life more than he does! He always chooses the easiest chair to sit in,--ah, that reminds me!” And she forthwith began to place the chairs in the most comfortable and friendly positions near the tea-table. “Now they can talk without straining themselves!” and she smiled. “Dad and Mr. Craig and the publisher! I’ll be out of it--for of course as soon as I’ve poured out tea I’ll leave them together. Women are never wanted in ‘business’ by the men--and yet I think they often manage better than the men when they get a chance!”

Just then a bell rang, sending a deep musical echo through the house.

“There they are!” she said. “I’ll run upstairs just to see if my hair looks tidy!”

This was always her little excuse for taking a peep at herself in the mirror before presenting an appearance to visitors. As a matter of fact her hair was seldom actually “tidy,” being of too wilful, curly and “fluffy” a disposition. It rambled all over her head in fair bright tendrils of warm brown-gold, and curled knowingly and becomingly on the nape of her neck like feathery flecks of sunshine. The polished smoothness of the modern “transformation” peruke was nowhere in evidence. Still, it was just as well to have a glance in the looking-glass as not,--and she was not altogether dissatisfied with the reflection of herself as she saw it. She put a light hairpin or two in a rebellious tress that strayed too freely over her forehead, and then hastened downstairs, wondering why the parlourmaid had not announced the arrival of visitors. Entering the drawing-room now lit only by the sparkle of the fire and the red glow of the sunset, she saw a man standing with his back towards her,--one man,--not the Philosopher--not her “Dad”--just one man. Was it the publisher? She stopped short, with a curious hesitation,--her heart beat quickly--then she heard a muffled voice speaking--

“Don’t be frightened!--now don’t! It’s only me!”

“JACK!!” she cried, and rushed forward, almost falling as the “one man” turned round and caught her in his arms.

“JACK!!” she exclaimed, sobbingly again. “Oh, Jack! Is it really, really you?”

There was no audible answer. But the silence was more eloquent than speech,--the silence of that intense joy which only too seldom lifts poor humanity above its daily care and weariness and moves it to thank God for the dear possession of love.