CHAPTER XX

Time has a trick of flying when most we wish it to linger, and with Sylvia the three months’ interval between Jack’s return and her wedding day seemed little more than a few moments. She had everything to think of--everything to do--and hardest of all, everything to resign that she had held dear and precious in the simple home life of her maidenhood which had now come to an end. Jack was the tenderest and most devoted of lovers; the knowledge, which had surprised himself, of his father’s great wealth and his own participation in it made no difference in his simple boyish ways, and frank unassuming demeanour, and all he seemed to think about it was that he could give his “rose-lady” the comforts, luxuries and prettinesses of life which she, in his mind, above all other women, deserved. When he set his engagement ring in a star of the purest diamonds on her little white finger and she mildly protested at the evident costliness of the gems, he said fervently--

“What were they ever made for except to shine for _you_! They are only bits of carbon after all--hardly worth _your_ wearing!”

And, seeing him thus “far gone,” she said no more. But often when the brilliant flash of the jewels on her hand caught her eyes she was conscious of a sadness inexplicable to herself,--the ring was a symbol of the end of one life and the beginning of another--the end of the simple, quiet “monotonous” country life she had led with her father,--and the beginning of a new and strange existence in which wealth would almost enforce social excitements and pleasures for which she had no great avidity.

“I had better have been the wife of an Oxford professor!” she said to herself, once in a little shame-faced way. “Only I’m not clever enough!”

And she took solitary farewell walks round the garden, and daily sat with her “Dad” in his study, moved by a vague sorrow and regret which she could not express without seeming more or less ungrateful to Jack and his father, both of whom vied with each other in “surprise” gifts and plans for her special pleasure. She knew she was a fortunate girl--she ought to consider herself so, as being beloved, honoured and safe for life; and yet--such are the curious contradictions and hesitations of human nature--she was not sure whether it would not have been better for her to be less fortunate,--to be one of those who “welcome each rebuff, that turns earth’s smoothness rough.”

Not even the delightful business of choosing her “trousseau” which she was careful to make as simple and inexpensive as possible, quite charmed away the shadow of depression that now and then clouded her mind.

“I ought really to have married quite a poor man,” she reflected, seriously. “I never dreamed Jack would be rich. I could always manage a simple house and simple ways of living--now if I were the wife of an Oxford professor--” She broke off in her meditations with a little sigh. “Only I never should be clever enough!”

During this time the “Philosopher” was an absentee,--he had undertaken to partially revise the proofs of “The Deterioration of Language” before bringing them on to Dr. Maynard for final correction, and he had installed himself in his own collegiate rooms for this purpose. The “great Book” was well on its way to be launched, like a literary Leviathan on the uneasy waters of public favour; the accepting publishers being fully nerved to the task by the “no expense to be spared” orders of the author’s prospective son-in-law, Jack Durham. And so the days and weeks went round in a swift circle till April showed a nymph-like face of tears and laughter through budding boughs of green and snowy garlands of wild cherry and pear-blossom, and the sunny morning dawned at last when the little “rose-lady” stepped forth from her maiden home to be married. Very sweet she looked in her soft garments of white--very serious, too, with blue eyes more full of tears than smiles; and among the few intimate friends asked to the wedding there was not one who had not some under-consciousness of the real gravity of marriage for a girl who had led so quiet and simple a life as Sylvia Maynard. Always in the country,--always the one companion of her father--completely contented to be without “social gaieties” so-called,--what a change from such a peaceful little home and routine of daily duties to be the wife of a millionaire!

Probably the thoughts of Walter Craig, F.S.A., who was, against his own inclination and protest, selected as “best man” by the bridegroom, wandered in this direction if one might form any opinion by the expression of his face. Once during the ceremony he caught a fleeting, almost frightened glance from the little “sentimentalist” bride; and a most insane desire possessed him to take her up in his arms as Shakespeare’s Petruchio took his Katherine and run away with her,--but his furrowed features and formal demeanour showed nothing of the strife within him. He placed the “philosophic” curb on his emotions, and feigned an almost frigid indifference when with other friends in the vestry at the signing of the marriage register he was permitted to kiss the bride. All the village turned out to see the wedding, and as the happy pair came through the old church doorway the school children scattered a shower of spring blossoms at their feet, and, led by “Riverside Sam,” broke into a hearty cheer. A silver rain of new sixpences flung broadcast by old Mr. Durham rewarded their enthusiasm, whereat the Philosopher moralised somewhat after the style of the “melancholy Jaques”--“Money’s the only wear!” And then,--in another two or three hours, which seemed to her less than minutes, the little bride, half sobbing, yet checking her tears as much as she could, clung fondly to her father in a farewell embrace, whispering, “I shall came back as soon as possible! You mustn’t feel lonely!” while she turned appealingly to the “Philosopher” saying--“Do stay with him for a little! Take care of him!” And with this she entered the beautiful “limousine” car, which was one of old Mr. Durham’s wedding gifts to his daughter-in-law, and was whirled away amid a shower of blossoms on her honeymoon with her proud and adoring young husband. A small group of friends gathered on the steps of the old Manor house to watch their departure,--more interested in the reported wealth of the bridegroom and the bridegroom’s father than in anything else--and as they dispersed, some of them made remarks to one another such as: “Artful little girl! Quiet, but clever enough to catch a millionaire!” or “She must have known her game all the time!” and “A pity we did not know more of that dull old man in the fishing cottage! He pretended to be deadly poor--” “And that’s why we didn’t call!” observed one more honest than the rest.

And so on, and so on. Perhaps the Philosopher--great light of Oxford, whom nobody present knew much about,--caught some of these _sotto voce_ observations,--perhaps not,--anyway his facial expression became more and more saturnine and forbidding as he helped to “speed the parting guests.” The “dull old man in the fishing cottage,” millionaire Durham, did certainly gather up a few crumbs of “social” comment, and now and again a sardonic smile made extra wrinkles in his furrowed countenance, especially when one self-important personage, the local brewer, laid a patronising paw upon his shoulder, saying, “We must see more of you, Mr. Durham! Come and dine with us one day this week, will you?”

Whereat Durham replied slowly in a strong, nasal drawl:

“Thank you! I guess not! I’ve been living here over two years and have never been asked out to dine before--it would seem kinder strange to me to be doing it now!”

And the brewer retired discomfited, feeling the poignant flash of satire in the old man’s eyes more keenly than the blunt refusal of his invitation.

The April evening closed in with sweet moisture and warm scent of flowers, and the old Manor house, full of bridal blossoms and “remainders” of the wedding, looked, despite its floral garlanding, strangely empty and deserted, bereft of the flitting presence of its fair little mistress who was its chief charm. Vainly old Dr. Maynard strove to be cheerful, but it was an evident effort, and though he said little, his sudden loneliness made him deeply grateful for the society of the Philosopher, who had decided to stay on at the Manor for a day or two;--the Sentimentalist’s parting words “Take care of him!” had laid a sort of trust upon his mind which he was not disposed to ignore. Durham remained late, smoking and chatting till the moon lifted a silver round above the trees, and lighted the path to his cottage by the river; he was full of eager plans for the happy future of the just-wedded pair, and gave himself away quite unreservedly. Nothing was too good for them,--a beautiful house in town,--a flat in Paris--and other luxurious “fitments” of life which somehow, in the mind of the Philosopher at least, seemed unsuitable to the tastes and the temperament of the little “rose-lady,”--a creature “toned to finest melodies, unheard by grosser ears.” But he made no comment. It would have seemed ungracious to check the flow of affection and ungrudging munificence of a father for an only son by so much as a word. Yet he was in a sense relieved when the millionaire took his departure and left him alone with Dr. Maynard. “The Deterioration of Language” was a ponderous piece of work, but it had formed a link between them of interest and scholarship; it had brought them together in pleasant and intimate relations, and it had been the means of letting a little light in upon his hitherto strictly locked and darkened prison-house of human motion,--such light as had, at odd moments, blinded him into a faint belief that he was still young. On this particular night, after all the joyous stir of the wedding, and the subsequent silence and desertion of the house, he felt old--older than he cared to feel. He and the old doctor sat together in the study, smoking their pipes by a cheerful log fire,--for the April evenings were chilly,--and for some time they had hardly exchanged a word. A somewhat heavy sigh from Maynard roused the Philosopher to attention.

“Don’t ‘grouse’!” he said with a half smile. “That’s slang, I know, and I never use it--but if you sigh like a schoolboy, you merit a schoolboy’s reproach. It’s no use regretting,--it’s no use grumbling.”

“I don’t regret,--I don’t grumble,” Maynard replied. “No, Craig! It’s not that. It’s the emptiness of things without her--the silence--the solitude--” His voice trembled--then failed.

Craig was silent for a minute. Then he said:

“Of course! I quite see your point,--I understand. I feel it myself. Possibly you don’t realise that, eh? I feel it myself!”

Dr. Maynard’s hand went over his eyes, shading them from the fire.

“Such a bright little girl!” he murmured. “Always about the house--always with a smile and kind word for every one! I don’t know how I shall get on without her!”

The vision of a fair little face--the memory of a hand pressure and whispered word “Take care of him,” came over the mind of the Philosopher, and he rose to the occasion.

“How you’ll get on without her?” he echoed. “Why, you’ll get on famously for the short time you’re asked to do it. God bless me! One would think the girl had gone for good! She’ll be back again in a fortnight--trust her for that! And you’ll walk about triumphantly as the proud papa of a millionairess. How will you like that?”

The old doctor looked up at him rather wistfully.

“I don’t think the part will suit me!” he said. “For one thing, Craig--I can tell you I’ve put by enough money to leave Sylvia quite well off on her own account--she would not have needed all this wealth--”

The Philosopher gave himself a mental rap. “I always thought so!” he said, inwardly. “The old boy has plenty--I knew he had!”

“I never spent much on myself,” went on Maynard. “I meant to afford the expenses of my book--though I felt it would be robbing Sylvia of some of her heritage--but when she showed such delight at doing it for me--”

“Exactly!” commented the Philosopher. “She has thought you a sort of literary pauper--that’s her ‘sentiment’! I always told her she was wrong! Just as I told her old Durham was an American Crœsus. I was right--but she wouldn’t believe me. You two fathers are artful dodgers in _my_ opinion! You’ve both been playing poverty--regular old humbugs! I always thought you were!” Here he smiled, genially. “But I felt that if circumstances compelled me to marry Sylvia I should marry quite a nice little fortune!”

Maynard gave him a quick, reproachful glance.

“Craig!” he exclaimed. “Was that your idea when--when--”

“When I proposed to her?” finished the Philosopher, equably. “Of course! What else should I have had in the way of an idea? Love?” Here he gave a sort of growling laugh. “Love? I’m too old--too ugly!--too battered and bruised in the battle of life to be conscious of any remedy for my disfigurements and disabilities,--but I’m quite capable of appreciating the comfort of a warm fireside, a pretty woman to look after me, and money to pay for these luxuries. I had all this in view when I suggested myself as a wall--”

“A wall?” repeated Maynard, bewildered. “What--”

“What meaning have I?” and the Philosopher gave another odd laugh. “I say a wall! ‘A sweet and lovely wall, that stand’st between her father’s ground and mine’--to quote the ever-quotable Shakespeare. I might say ‘I am that same wall’--who was willing to stand between your little girl and the roaring lion of the world--that is, if things had come to the worst,--if young Durham had died--if _you_ had died--and _she_ had been left alone,--then perhaps I--I might have been useful!” He paused a moment--Dr. Maynard was regarding him fixedly. “Now as matters have turned out, the ‘wall’ is unnecessary--Durham is all right, and _you_ are all right--_I_ am all right!”

Here he put his pipe in his mouth and drew a long whiff. Dr. Maynard leaned forward in his chair.

“Craig,” he said, slowly. “You are not altogether an open book--but I think I can read you!”

The Philosopher avoided his direct gaze.

“I dare say you can!” he murmured, abstractedly. “I don’t mind if you do! I’m an uncouth phrase in ‘The Deterioration of Language’!”

The old doctor’s eyes rested on him with intently sympathetic kindness.

“I believe,” he said, “I believe you loved my little girl! Yes, Craig!--it was rather late in your day for love--but I believe you really loved her!”

The Philosopher drew his pipe from his mouth, looked down at it and smiled.

“Why use the past tense?” he queried, lazily. “Let’s revert to Shakespeare--‘Love is not Love, which alters when it alteration finds; oh, no, it is an ever fixèd mark, that looks on tempests and is never shaken.’ That’s me! I’m an ‘ever fixèd mark’! Moreover, at my age, I’m not likely to change.”

“Is it as bad as all that?” and Maynard’s voice was almost compassionate.

“Not at all--it’s as good as it can be!” and the Philosopher lifted himself out of his sunken attitude in his armchair with a swift movement. “Nothing bad about it! I have built a little shrine in the recesses of my mind, and I’ve put a little Madonna inside. I shall say prayers to her now and then--and when I feel disposed to hate all mankind, I shall mutter an ‘Ave’ or a ‘Peccavi’ and pull myself together. My Madonna will always be just a pure little English maid among roses, with sentimental ideas about love and life in general--but she will serve me as well as most Madonnas--even the Madonna of Cimabue could never have been treated with more tenderness than I would have treated her--I mean, than I _will_ treat her in my thoughts.”

He paused,--his pipe had gone out, and he struck a match and re-lit it. “You see, Maynard! That’s my late--very late!--idea of love!”

The old doctor was silent for some minutes--then he laid a hand, with gentlest touch, on that of his friend and literary co-adjutor.

“Such an idea is never too late!” he said. “Unselfish--beautiful--and romantic in these unromantic days! But it’s not an idea that would satisfy most men!”

“I’m not of the company of ‘most’ men,” put in Craig. “I claim to be original!”

“Ah, dear me!” sighed Maynard. “Age--age!--what joys it steals away from us!--now if you had been younger--she might have cared--”

Craig laughed.

“She might--she might!” he echoed. “My good fellow age has nothing to do with it! Men of seventy and eighty are young and frisky and marry the most charming women! I certainly feel myself to be a bit in the ‘sere and yellow’--especially tonight,” here he rose from his chair and stretched himself, yawning as he did so, “but not so much so that I wouldn’t have risked taking care of Sylvia if the better man hadn’t turned up in time--”

“I wonder if he _is_ the better man!” interrupted Maynard, suddenly. “He’s a worthy young fellow enough--”

“And I’m an unworthy old fellow!” responded the Philosopher quietly. “Stop it at that! Talk no more about it! You get off to bed--you’ve had a trying day. And to-morrow we’ll take a run together to Oxford and look after your publisher and your proofs. Push everything else aside for the present--”

“Oxford?” exclaimed Maynard, wonderingly. “Am I to go to Oxford?”

“Of course you are!” and the Philosopher bent his brows commandingly. “You’re wanted there to attend to business. And this is your opportunity while your daughter is away--you don’t need to stay here in her absence. Besides, business is business. You can share my rooms and welcome. You want a change.”

“Oxford!” repeated the old scholar, dreamily. “It is many years since I was there! I shall like to see it again!”

“Of course you will!” responded Craig. “Who doesn’t like to see Oxford!--the abode of Age and Youth pleasantly combined! The age part of it is dry as dust, the youth raw as green cucumbers--but they make an amusing mixture. The bones of classic authors rattle in the air of the old University town--and the rampant flesh and blood of the non-classic ‘rising generation’ make uncouth noises as of vampires who have sucked out the strength of the dead. Yes!--Oxford is full of suggestiveness--you will enjoy it!”

The old doctor smiled.

“I believe it’s all your good-natured idea to prevent my feeling lonely!” he said. “But I’ll go with you if you like--”

“If you don’t you’ll be carried!” returned Craig, firmly. “Make up your mind to that! And now let’s get to bed--you’re tired and I’m tired! Weddings are very exhausting affairs for all concerned--even for the bride and bridegroom.”

They left the study together and at the foot of the staircase which led to the upper rooms, Dr. Maynard paused--

“Craig,” he said, with pathetic earnestness. “Do you think she will be happy?”

The Philosopher looked at the old, frail figure compassionately. “Of course she will!” he replied. “Why shouldn’t she be? She has everything to make her so!”

“Yes--yes! That’s all very well!” and Maynard gave a half deprecating gesture. “But when the years go on, when the novelty has worn off--will she be able to live the life of social excitement wealth entails?--will she realise the wonderful love she has dreamed of? For she has always been a little dreamer of ideals--beautiful ideals all!--ideals such as the world loves to pull down into ruin!”

The Philosopher felt a little pang. Too well he knew the “ideals” of the little “Sentimentalist,” and too well he was aware that he himself had discouraged them and striven to pull them down--and yet--and yet--he had done his utmost to give her the “ideal” love he imagined she recognised in Jack Durham. He pulled himself together.

“We must leave all that to her husband,” he said. “He adores her--and depend upon it he will make her happy--that is as happy as any woman can be. You must bear in mind, Maynard”--here he became almost academical in tone--“that _no_ woman is ever happy for long! It isn’t in her nature to be satisfied. When she has got one thing she wants another--and so on to the end of the chapter. But Sylvia has too good and sweet a character to be as variable and restless as most of her sex. Having Jack she has her heart’s desire--she doesn’t want _Me_!--or any other man! Good night!”

They parted then; but when he had locked himself in his bedroom the Philosopher went to its old-fashioned lattice window and threw it widely open. The night was beautiful; clear moonlight flooded the whole garden space, and he could see the winding alley of the rose-walk where on one never-to-be-forgotten day he had “lacerated” his hand in trying to gather a blush rose-bud for the “rose-lady” and she had “kissed the place and made it well.” It was a trifling incident, but to the would-be stoical and grimly cynical mind of the “Philosopher” it had meant a great deal. And now! Well!--now this was the first night of her honeymoon;--this was her marriage moonlight; and he--he stood outside the garden of Eden with no more roses to gather! Learning and scholarship, fame itself, seemed utterly worthless in comparison with the union of hearts beating with and for each other--the wisdom of the ages was dull, wearisome and all unsatisfying measured against the enchantment of tender eyes and caressing hands; and it was with something of a sharp mental pang that he recalled the sound of a sweet voice softly reciting from “Endymion” the “honey and water” lines--

“The silver flow Of Hero’s tears, the swoon of Imogen, Fair Pastorella in the bandit’s den, Are things to brood on with more urgency Than the death-day of empires!”

“True enough!” he murmured, addressing the quiet air. “When one is young--true enough! But when one is old--”

The run of his thoughts checked itself abruptly. He looked out on the peaceful night with a sense of reverence and humility not usual to his nature. As in a magic mirror he saw his past life lying behind him,--a bare road tramped in the dusty pursuit of fame--fame the foolish, fame the variable, fame the most unsatisfying of earthly rewards, bringing in its train the vulgar inquisitiveness of mobs, the censoriousness of the envious and the detraction of rivals, inasmuch as even the greatest of men, like Shakespeare, are remembered chiefly to be calumniated,--and anon, he gazed forward into the future which for him meant nothing but increasing loneliness and gradual sinking away from life and its brighter pleasures; then he lifted up his eyes to the lovely heavens and saw one bright star shining in the trail of the moon.

“Is it the tender star of love The star of love and dreams? Oh, no! From that blue tent above A hero’s armour gleams!”

A brief sigh escaped.

“I’m no hero!” he said. “But old as I am, I’m glad I’m man enough to be capable of a great love!--and--a great sacrifice!”

THE END

End of Project Gutenberg's Love,--And the Philosopher, by Marie Corelli