CHAPTER XIX

The next day,--oh, that next day! A day never to be forgotten by the pretty little Sentimentalist, though it left the Philosopher unmoved, or, as the slangy newspapers say, “cold.” He “knew it all the time,” he declared, and maintained an ineffable composure when Sylvia was called into her father’s study to receive the news. The worthy old doctor was slightly nervous.

“My dear,” he began, and his voice trembled,--then again--“My dear!”

“Yes, Dad! What is it?” And Sylvia, wondering a little at his tone and manner, put her arm about him, and repeated: “What is it?”

“My dear!” said her father again, possessing himself of the little hand that lay caressingly on his shoulder. “You are a lucky little girl! What do you think? Jack--your Jack--is a very rich young man! _Very_ rich! Do you understand?”

Her blue eyes opened wide.

“Very rich? Dad, what do you mean?”

“Mr. Durham told me all last night,” went on Dr. Maynard, now feeling more secure of his ground, “after you had gone to bed. Sylvia, Mr. Durham is a millionaire!”

“A millionaire!” echoed Sylvia, with a little gasp. “Oh, Dad! And Jack--”

“Jack is to have everything his father can give him,” continued Maynard. “Yes, everything! His father is making him the head of his business in the States; and his marriage settlement--well!--my dear child!--it is amazing!--most generous and magnificent! He told me he had determined to do nothing for his son till he had ‘proved his mettle’--but now!--now, since the boy went to fight of his own free will and choice, and nearly sacrificed his life in the war, he has no hesitation in making him the sharer of all his wealth. And you--you”--his voice trembled, and he put out his arms and drew her closely to him--“you will be a rich woman, my child!--safe from all care and harm,--thank God for that!--you will have all the comfort and charm of life such as you should have--and when I am gone--”

“Oh, but you’re not going, Dad!” she exclaimed, half laughing and crying together. “If I am rich, really rich, the first thing to be done is to publish your great book!--yes, Dad!--the very first thing! That Oxford publisher will take it all right now!”

Her affectionate delight in this idea was irresistible, and as she clung tenderly round her father’s neck and kissed him again and yet again she might have been a mere child in the simplicity of her joy at the thought of being able to launch the ponderous “Deterioration of Language” on an indifferent world.

“I must go and tell Mr. Craig,” she said, then--“I must let him know that there will be no difficulty, and no expense spared.” Here she clapped her hands. “No expense spared! Just think of it!”

Dr. Maynard smiled.

“My dear, my dear!” he remonstrated. “You must ask Jack--”

“Jack will do anything I tell him!” she declared. “And he’ll be proud--ever so proud, to help publish your great, _great_ book! Of course he’ll be proud! Who wouldn’t be!”

“My dear child!” and her father shook his head at her deprecatingly. “You don’t seem to grasp the position! Here you are, engaged to marry the heir to millions of dollars and you think of nothing but my tiresome old book! Very sweet of you, but not very reasonable, is it? Jack may prefer to buy a few diamonds for you, rather than pay for the printing and publishing of work which is certain not to be favoured by the general public--”

She interrupted him with a kiss.

“Diamonds!” she exclaimed. “Diamonds for _me_! Absurd! Just think of it! I don’t want them, Dad! They wouldn’t suit me--I’d rather have--roses!”

She ran off gaily and sought the Philosopher, whom she found smoking in the loggia which led out of the drawing-room into the garden. As he saw her coming he held up a warning hand.

“Now, don’t!” he said. “Don’t rush at me with your news because I know it already! I told you--or rather I hinted--that old Durham was a millionaire. His nut-cracker face expressed it. A hard old, close-fisted, never-give-in, American grasper and grabber!” Here he smiled benevolently. “And now he’s loosened the strings of his money-bags in favour of his only son, as he should do, during that son’s life-time--an eminently practical arrangement--saves all the death duties. And _you_”--here he bent his fuzzy brows and looked searchingly at her--“you will be one of the richest little ladies in the world!--dear, dear me! I wonder how you’ll stand it!”

She came close to his side and stood looking at him wistfully. Somehow, despite his rather shabby old coat and not very well arranged hair his personality had a singular attractiveness,--a something quite out of the common. Out of the common!--yes--that was it! Intellectuality had graven certain distinctive marks on his features not found among “ordinary” men, and she bethought herself that she had seen these very lines of thought, study and attainment smooth out into an almost boyish softness when his eyes had rested on herself, or when she had looked up at him in quiet attention as she was looking now.

“You wonder how I’ll stand it!” she said. “Being rich? Yes,--I wonder how I will! Not very wisely, I’m afraid! I’ve never been rich,--and just now I can only realise one advantage of it--I can pay all the expenses of publishing Dad’s book!”

The Philosopher drew his pipe slowly from his mouth and looked at it.

“Oh, that’s what you want to do, is it?” he remarked, somewhat gruffly. “Well! I’m not surprised! Very sentimental, and very like _you_! To put your first big pocket-money into the ready maw of a publisher is just what I expected of you!”

She came a little closer, and touched his hand timidly.

“You are trying to be sarcastic,” she said. “But you know you’re not, _really_! You know it’s right for me to help Dad,--and you know it’s a pleasure--”

“Dad’s not a pauper,” he interrupted. “To hear you talk one would think he was! Why, my dear child, he’s been paying _me_ for my services in the revision and completion of his work--”

“I know he has!” and she lifted her eyes trustfully to his face. “But he couldn’t very well afford it. You see, you’ve been very kind and patient, and no doubt you have made it easy for him--but now--now--”

“Now--now--what?” and the Philosopher wrinkled his face up in an alarming frown. “_Now_ you propose to foot the bill? Nothing of the kind! I won’t have it! Do you understand? Sentiment can go too far--it always does with _you_!--but in this particular case I won’t have it! I decline to be affronted,--even by _you_!”

“Affronted? Oh, I wouldn’t vex you for the world!” And quick tears sprang to her eyes. “Indeed I wouldn’t! I want to tell you how sorry I am--very, very sorry!”

“Sorry for what?”

And the words were more like a snap than a phrase.

Her little hand pressed closer on his arm.

“For many things!” she murmured, penitently. “I’m sure--I see now that I have often quite misunderstood you--”

“Naturally!” he interrupted. “I’m not easy to understand! I should despise myself if I were! ‘To be great is to be misunderstood.’ You’ll find that in Emerson’s Essays.”

She gazed at him wonderingly.

“That’s clever talk,” she said. “Or I suppose it is. I’m talking just simply--I want to say what I feel--”

“Never do that!” and he smiled. “People who say what they feel never have any friends!”

She gave a little movement of impatience.

“Oh, you won’t be serious!” she exclaimed. “I really do wish to make you see what I mean! You’ve been so very, very good and kind to Jack--you’ve done so many generous things--and I thought you were quite different,--I thought you were selfish--”

“So I am!” he declared. “Thoroughly, hopelessly selfish! Now listen to me, you funny child!--listen, and you’ll see how selfish I am!” Here he took the little hand that lay on his arm and looked at it. “Not wearing an engagement ring yet? No? Ah, but you’ll have it on to-day some time, mark my words! And I thank heaven _I’m_ not the man to give it to you!”

Her soft blue eyes questioned him silently.

“Don’t look at me like that!” he said, gruffly. “It makes no effect upon me! It’s very pretty--but I’m not to be ‘drawn’! I say I thank heaven I’m not the man who will put an engagement ring on that little finger of yours! I might have been!--it was a near thing at one time, wasn’t it?--that was when I thought it was all up with Jack and that you might be left all alone in the world. In that case I should have _had_ to marry you!”

“_Had_ to marry me?” she echoed,--and she withdrew her hand from his. “Surely there was no compulsion?”

“Oh, wasn’t there!” and he nodded portentously. “To my mind there was! Duty, duty! I considered myself bound to look after you. Why? Because you are a little sentimentalist, likely to be duped and ‘done’ by every one that ‘speaks you fair.’ You are bound to be protected and defended from a mischievous world. I was prepared to do it--I would have made the sacrifice--I would have submitted to the rack!”

“Oh!” And she lifted her head a trifle proudly. “Then, out of kindness--or pity--you would have married me against your own inclination?”

He sought for his tobacco pouch and began refilling his pipe. A little smile was on his lips.

“Against my own inclination? I should think so!--very much against it! God bless my soul! Think of my having to give up my splendid solitude, my days and nights of peace and happiness, just to be at the beck and call of a little woman who doesn’t know her own mind clearly for two days together! I doubt if you are even now quite sure as to which man would make you the best husband--I or Jack!”

She flushed a sudden crimson--tears sprang to her eyes--and she turned away her head. Quietly and almost tenderly he took her hand in his own and patted it.

“There, there!” he said. “I know you better than you know yourself! You are tormenting your mind with all sorts of foolish ideas,--sentimental ideas,--I’ve always told you that you _will_ overdo the sentiment! You are thinking that perhaps you have treated me a little unfairly,--that when I ventured to suggest myself as a kind of protective wall,--that is to say a husband--between you and a rough world--your refusal disappointed me--or hurt me. You are quite mistaken! I was”--here he drew a long breath--“yes!--I was _thankful_! The relief was simply immense! If you had accepted my proposition--well!--I should have been utterly miserable! Yes!--I should have done my duty of course--I should have resigned myself to the slavery of married life with my usual philosophy--I should not have complained--and--and--I should have tried to be kind to you--but my life would have been a slow martyrdom! A fact! Ah, you may look at me as long as you like with those baby blue eyes of yours!--you will never discover anything in me but what you always saw and recognised from the first--sheer, downright selfishness! That’s it! What do you suppose I took so much trouble over Jack Durham for? Simply that he might get home and marry _you_--and so relieve my mind of a great burden. Many a time I was afraid he would die--and in that case I should have got in for it!--all up with me!--an elderly Benedick--”

She took her hand away from his.

“You really mean it?” she asked.

“Mean,--what?”

“That it would have been a great misery for you to have married me?”

She spoke so wistfully and her sweet upturned face expressed such innocent wonder that with all his best effort he had much ado to keep his self-possession. As she had released his hand, he took to fumbling in his tobacco pouch.

“I will not say ‘a great misery,’” he replied. “That is _too_ strong! But it would have been--yes!--a great inconvenience!”

She was silent a minute,--then she said:

“Well, I’m very glad you have been so frank with me! I was rather unhappy--because--because--you’ve been so good, and I have misunderstood you. You have really saved Jack’s life--”

“For my own selfish purposes,” he put in.

“You may say that if you like!” and she gave a little gesture of incredulity. “But even if he had not lived, you need not have married me, surely! That is such a strange idea of yours! I should have refused you all the time!”

“Would you?” His eyes met hers for one second, then he turned away and lit his pipe. “I dare say you would! Anyhow as things have turned out, all is for the best! Jack is alive and well--Jack is a millionaire--and you are going to marry him, and publish your father’s book. Nothing could be more satisfactory. And you will be a happy, fortunate, brilliant little lady,--much loved and well taken care of--and I--”

“Yes? What of you?”

He smiled into her questioning eyes.

“I? I shall live in my usual way--a placid, comfortable, easy way--a selfish way--the life of a student and philosopher. I suppose I shall see you sometimes--”

“Oh, very often!” she said, quickly.

“Well!--very often then!” he agreed. “And I shall be glad to see you happy--”

“And will you be happy yourself?” she asked.

“Most assuredly! Why should I not be so? No wife, no household cares, no domestic squabbles,--just myself to consider and only myself. There now!--you look quite incredulous!--and why are you incredulous? Simply because you have too much sentiment. You imagine that happiness consists in being loved,--perhaps it does--for a time--”

“Only for a time?” she queried, with uplifted eyebrows.

“Of course--everything is only for a time--life itself is only for a time. Love--or what is called love, is more transitory than life. Look at the war widows! They were supposed to ‘love’ their husbands--but they are quite ready and eager to take on new men. No, my dear child!--there’s no such thing as what _you_ imagine to be ‘love.’ And you need not for one moment make me an object of compassion in your mind--because I know that fact and accept it. Possibly when I was younger, a woman might have liked me, or I might have liked a woman for a month or so--”

She laughed.

“As you like _me_!--or thought you did!” she said. “And you would have married me on that basis--if I would have had you!”

He smiled--that peculiarly attractive smile of his which made the plain, hard, intellectual lines of his face soften and become handsome.

“True! If you would have had me!” he echoed. “And I should have done my duty in taking care of you,--lest the winds of heaven should visit your face too roughly.” His voice was for the moment almost musical in its tone of kindness. Then he took her hand. “There, little girl! Don’t worry yourself or give another thought to this grumpy old fellow! You may make yourself quite sure that I am entirely happy--happy to have known you, for you are a winsome little creature!--and happier still to have been useful in bringing back the man you love and who loves you, to his home and good fortune. And”--here he paused for a moment meditatively--“if I am perfectly candid with you--brutally candid!--I am happiest of all in the positive knowledge that you are marrying Jack, and not me! That’s a great mercy! I thank heaven for my freedom!”

She gave him one flashing upward glance, half of doubt, half of anger, and pulled her hand away from his,--then, turning with a swift little rush of her light feet and soft garments she ran out of the room.

He looked after her,--and his whimsical, indulgent smile brightened his features like a glimpse of the sun. Then he heaved a long sigh.

“That’s over!” he said, soliloquising to the air. “She’ll be all right now! No more sentimentality on _my_ behalf! And I think--yes, I really do think I have told enough lies for one day!”