Chapter 4

The philosopher was in love. It comes, I have no doubt, to every well-ordered man to be in love once. Some there are who maintain, with plausibility, that the passion we call love may be of frequent recurrence, and they point to the passing fancies of boys and girls, the romances of moonlight, the repeated sighings of the fickle Corydon, and the matrimonial entanglements of the aging Lydia, as evidence for their argument. That there are varying degrees of the ecstatic emotion cannot be truthfully denied. Heaven has wisely decreed that the heart, once filled with its ideal, may be compensated for the bitter hour of sorrow by the soothing balm of a new affection, and it is even possible that the second love may be more satisfying than the first, the third or fourth more typical of exaltation than its predecessors. But love, whether early or late, in the perfect absorption of the faculties comes only once; as compared with this remarkable mental state all other conditions are unemotional, unfilling.

The true lover rises early, before the world is astir. If it is summer and in the country, his thoughts lead him to the cool groves, the shady banks of the river, the retired spots where he may uninterruptedly commune with his happiness or his misery, and reflect on the blessings that are to be, or should be, his. Was it not then as a true lover that in the early morning I walked into the country, and down the banks of the stream where Sylvia and I had strayed and talked in the sunny days of youth? And nature seemed a part of the wedding procession, and the squirrels on the fence rails, and the robins, wrens, and wood-thrushes in the trees chirped and twittered: "John Stanhope is in love! John Stanhope is in love!" And the mocking crow, lazily flapping his wings at a safe distance, croaked enviously: "Ha, ha! old Stanhope is in love. Ha, ha!" Yet the whole conspiracy of animated nature could not make old Stanhope in his present exaltation regretful of his age or ashamed of his passion.

Mary Eastmann had accepted the situation without comment. She neither congratulated nor demurred, but went on with her household duties with the same method and precision as before. Men may come and go, hearts may be won and lost, republics may totter and empires may fall, but the grand scheme of sweeping, dusting, bed-making, and cooking knows no interruption. If I did not understand I at least commended this housewifely prudence, and often when the domestic battle was at its height I would spirit away my little charmer for the discussion of topics within my comprehension. At the outset I had declared that while it had pleased Providence to begin our romance in a burying-ground, I did not propose to sacrifice all tender sentiment to meditations among the tombs, and I bore her away to the old tree down by the river, where we sat for hours together as I unfolded my plans for our future life.

A man who has sat at the feet of the philosophers from Ovid to Schopenhauer, and has gorged his intellect with the abstract principles of love, naturally adapts himself to the professorial capacity, and I soon saw that Phyllis, while one of the most lovable, one of the sweetest of girls, was almost wholly ignorant of the psychology of passion. I could not expect that a young girl of twenty-two would discourse glibly of the emotion in its intellectual phase, but I could not bear the thought that she should enter lightly into so serious a compact, and without gaining a reasonable comprehension of its mental analysis. Hence, as opportunity presented, I enriched her mind with the beauties of love from the standpoint of philosophers and thinkers, and showed her the priceless blessings that must result from a union dictated by careful provision of reasoning. To these addresses she listened with sweet patience, and if she did not always grasp their meaning, she showed much admiration for my erudition and frequently remarked that she had no idea that love was so abstruse a science. It seemed to me, in the serenity of my years and the calm assurance of my love, that I was a most persistent wooer, and I was greatly grieved when she broke out rather petulantly one afternoon:

"I don't believe you really love me."

"You don't believe I love you? And why?"

She hesitated, half abashed by her own outburst, then added a little defiantly: "Well, in the first place, you never quarrel with me."

"And why should I quarrel with you? Aren't you the most amiable, the most perfect little woman in the world?"

"Oh, of course; I know all that. But I have always read, and always believed, that when two persons are truly, deeply in love, they have most exciting quarrels. Is it not true that in all romances the man is eternally quarrelling with the girl and bidding her farewell forever?"

"Yes, and coming back in ten minutes to weep and grovel at her feet and beg her to forgive him. My dear little Phyllis, why should I bid you farewell forever, when I am morally certain that in half that time I should be cringing in the turf, weeping and begging you to say that all is forgiven and forgotten?"

"That would be lovely," she said pensively.

"Perhaps, but it would be very undignified and unnecessary. And I am not at all sure that you would admire me in that attitude even if I did imitate the heroes of romance. A weeping lover is much more agreeable in a novel than in actual life. However if you insist that we must quarrel, in order to demonstrate the sincerity of my affection, I shall suggest that we have our spats when we part for the night, in order that no precious waking hours may be lost."

"You are joking," she exclaimed with a little pout.

"Not at all. Still," I added reflectively, "even this plan has its disadvantages, for if we quarrel when we part at night, it will necessitate my return to your window, which would not only annoy your aunt but might scandalize the neighbors. Furthermore it might give me a shocking cold, unless you immediately repented, for the nights are very damp. No," I sighed with great feeling, "all this seems impracticable. You must give me a better reason for my coldness."

Phyllis toyed with a clover blossom, and made no answer. I went on:

"As a slight indication of my unlover-like hauteur, let me confess that I am going to bring you a marvellously glittering bauble when I come back from the city, something that will bewilder you by day and dazzle you by night."

She shrugged her shoulders. "Of course you are; you are always giving me presents."

I laughed at this. "Well, suppose I am; I have never heard that it is a sign of waning affection to bestow gifts on the loved one."

"You refuse me nothing. I dare say you would give me the Boston State House if I wished it."

"No, you are wrong there," I replied decisively. "If I bought the State House I should be compelled to include the emblematic codfish, and you know my aversion to codfish."

She smiled at the thought, recalling the Sunday breakfast, and then with a roguish look and a half-embarrassed laugh she said: "At all events you cannot deny that you did not kiss me when you left last night."

"Didn't I?" I asked in amazement, and then, quite thrown off my guard, I added thoughtlessly: "I had forgotten."

"That," she replied quietly, "was because you were so taken up with the philosophy of love, and the mental attitude, that you overlooked the physical demonstration. Do you remember the conversation?"

Unfortunately I did. I recalled that I had spent an hour or more defining the moral status of love and proving the sufficing reason. It was not a pleasant reflection that so agreeable and instructive a conversation was not thoroughly appreciated.

"We spoke at length on love," I ventured feebly.

"That is, you did," she replied. "I'll admit that it was better than an ordinary sermon, because the subject was more personal. But don't you think we admitted the sufficing reason at the start, and isn't it natural that a girl who has been conventionally brought up is pretty well satisfied in her own mind of the moral status? Of course," she added, with a toss of her pretty head, "I am not asking you or anybody else to kiss me. I am merely curious to know if this plays any part in the philosophy of love as understood by the greatest thinkers."

Her speech had given me time to pull myself together. "No," I said with marked emphasis, "I did not kiss you, because I had noted the unworthy suspicions you have expressed to-day, and I was hurt and grieved. It was hard for me to exhibit my displeasure in this way, and I am regretful now that I have learned that it was simply playfulness on your part. Don't interrupt. I am satisfied that the pure merriment of your nature is responsible for this assault, and I shall take great pleasure in making up this evening for the deficiencies of last night."

She laughed and we were friends again. And with such jocular asperities the days passed quickly and agreeably until my nephew arrived with the plans and specifications. Frederick Grinnell was not only my nephew, but an architect of reputation and promise, considering his years and experience. Like Phyllis he had been left an orphan early in life, and it had been my pleasure and privilege to give him an education and see that he was fairly started in life. While I think I may say that Frederick was not quite so attractive as was I at his age, he was nevertheless a fine, manly young fellow, tall, well put together, of good habits, industrious and devoted to his profession. It pleased me to see that he admired Phyllis's pretty face and bright, animated manner; but one evening, when I fancied that he was too deeply stirred by her really beautiful voice, I took the opportunity to converse with him confidentially as we walked back to the tavern.

"I have been intending to tell you, Frederick," I began a little airily, "of the relations existing between Miss Kinglake and myself. So far it has been a profound secret"--I did not then know that the entire village was gossiping about it--"but I feel that I owe it to you, as my nearest relative, to admit that Miss Kinglake and I are engaged."

I paused, and noting that he did not wince or appear in the least degree discomposed, continued:

"Of course you will respect my confidence in this matter. Of course," I added magnanimously, "it will be perfectly proper for you to signify to Miss Kinglake that you are aware of our little secret as that will put us all on a better basis and lead to no misunderstandings. It would be awkward to play at cross purposes, and I should be extremely sorry, my dear boy, to think that I had withheld anything from you, for you have always enjoyed my fullest trust."

Whatever he may have thought, his manner betrayed no unusual interest. "I congratulate you," he replied very calmly.

Now that so perfect an understanding existed in the immediate family circle, I gave myself no further uneasiness. I was truly rejoiced to notice that Frederick was deferentially polite to Phyllis, and I encouraged him to show her those polite attentions which my betrothed would reasonably expect from my nephew. And at times I even insisted that he should represent me at certain gatherings of Phyllis's friends, who were too young and frivolous to claim my serious attention. When he protested, and pleaded headache, business, or other sign of disinclination, I rallied him good-humoredly on his lack of gallantry.

"Nonsense, my boy," I argued; "a young fellow of your spirit should be only too glad to go out with a pretty girl and enjoy himself. You certainly would not deprive Phyllis of an evening's pleasure because your uncle has a stiff knee which interferes with his dancing, and--confound it, you know they never let me smoke at these frolics. Come now, be a good fellow and show the proper family impulse."

As they went off together I looked at them admiringly and rather fancied that I saw in them a suggestion of what Sylvia and I had been when we made the rounds of the birthday parties. For it is fair to confess that the image of Sylvia did not infrequently rise before me, and I constantly saw in Phyllis the replica of her adorable mother. In my happiest moments I spoke of this suggestion to Phyllis, and continued to regale her with fragments of my early life associated with her family. At first I thought that the girl was somewhat piqued, fearing that Frederick was thrust upon her, although she admitted that he was good-looking, polite, and danced extremely well, but I succeeded in convincing her that true love should not be gauged by the low standards of hot-night dancing, and that all philosophers agree that the purest affection springs from quiet contemplation, such as I should enjoy while she was making merry with her friends. To this she once ventured to remark that in that case perhaps my affection would thrive to greater advantage if I contented myself with thinking about her and not seeing her at all, a suggestion which wounded me in my tenderest sensibilities, for I was very much in love. I was also not a little disturbed when, supplemental to my reminiscences, Mary went back to the past and humorously drew pictures of me as her own early lover. There is considerable difference between the impalpable, airy spirit of the fancy and a wrinkled and austere feminine actuality of fifty.

In the midst of these innocent and improving pleasures a small cloud appeared in the summer sky. I received a letter addressed in a peculiar but not ornate hand, and I opened it with misgivings and read it with consternation.

MR. STANHOPE SIR: Prudence and I thinks youd better come home. The plummer was hear twice yisterday and the cutworms is awfle. Hero got glass in her foot and the brown tale moths is bad again wich is al for the presnt.

Respecfuly

MALACHY.

Duty is one of the exactions of life which I have never shirked when there seemed no possible way of evading it, but in this instance the call of duty was compromised by matters of equal urgency, for nothing can be more important than the successful administration of the affairs of love. It was a happy thought that suggested to me a way out of the difficulty, which was neither more nor less than that we should all go to the city together. I sprang the proposition at a family conference. Phyllis was delighted. "There is always so much to be seen in the city," she cried, "and I shall meet Mr. Bunsey. It has been one of the dreams of my life to know a real literary man."

This appeared to call for an explanation. Heaven knows I am not jealous of Bunsey, and would not deprive him of a single distinction that is honestly his. But a regard for the truth, coupled with much doubt as to Bunsey's ability to live up to such lively expectations, compelled me to resort to a little gentle correction.

"My dear Phyllis," I said, "you must disabuse your mind of that fallacy. Bunsey is a popular novelist, not a literary man."

"But isn't a novelist a literary man?" she asked in amazement.

"Not necessarily," I replied pityingly. "In fact I may say not usually. Of course we are speaking of popular novelists. The popularity of the novelist is in proportion to his lack of literary style. The distinctive popular charm of Bunsey is that he is not literary--at least, if he is, his critics have not succeeded in discovering it; he successfully conceals his crime. If he is popular, it is because he is not literary; if he were literary he could not be popular."

"That does not seem right," said my little Puritan.

"It is not a question of ethics at all, but a matter of taste. However, don't be prejudiced against Bunsey because he is a product of the time and fairly representative of the civilization. You shall meet him and shall learn from him how a man may succeed in so-called literature without any hampering literary qualifications."

Mary did not receive my proposition in a thankful and conciliatory spirit. She shook her head doubtfully, and when we were alone together, she gave voice to her fears.

"Phyllis is country-bred," she said, "and knows nothing of the toils and snares that beset young girls in the city."

"Toils and snares," I echoed. "One might gather from your objections that we contemplate taking Phyllis to the city merely to expose her to temptation and corrupt the serenity of her mind. You seem to forget the elevating influences of my modest home."

"No, John; I dare say that your home is not objectionable, taken by itself. But I am not blind to the seductions of the great city. You too forget," she added, with a touch of complacency, "that I am not inexperienced or without knowledge of the profligacy of the town."

"Granting all this," I said, highly diverted by her earnestness, "and what are some of these seductions you have in mind?"

"Theatres," she replied promptly, "theatres and late hours, midnight suppers--and cocktails."

I laughed uproariously. "My dear Mary, if these deadly sins and perils alarm you, we'll cut them out. I care little for theatres, and less for midnight suppers. And as for cocktails, I shall make it my peculiar charge to see that Phyllis never hears the abominable word. Allowing for the removal of these temptations, I still think that a trip to the city would do our country flower a world of good, though I have nothing but praise for the manner in which you have brought her up."

"John," she answered very gravely, "I have endeavored to do my duty as I saw it. I have tried to bring Phyllis up in the nurture and admonition of the Lord."

The expression carried me back to my childhood, and I bit my lips. "Of course you have," I said. "Wasn't I brought up in this same village, in the same way? Did not my good mother and my blessed, grandmother inflict nurture and admonition upon me, that I might grow up as you see me, a true child of the pilgrim fathers? The nurture, I remember, was a particularly hard seat in our particularly gloomy old meetinghouse, and the admonition took up the greater part of the Sabbath day, with a disenchanting prospect of further admonition at home if I failed to keep awake. I do not mean to say that I am not thankful for the experience. In truth I am doubly thankful--thankful that I had it, and thankful that it is over."

To this Mary vouchsafed no further remonstrance than a distrustful shake of the head. Excellent woman! Is it not to such as you, earnest, faithful, self-sacrificing, God-fearing, that the best in young manhood, the purest in young womanhood, owe the strength of the qualities that are the vital force of the nation?

In the end the united opposition was too much for Mary's arguments, and to town we went. The pleasure of the journey, on my part, was somewhat clouded as to the welcome we should receive from Prudence, and truly it acquired my greatest powers of dissimulation to feign an easy indifference and air of authority before that worthy creature, as with the most studied politeness and formal hospitality she received us at the gate. Prudence and I had sparred so many years that we were like two expert athletes, and while neither apparently noticed the other, each was perfectly conscious of the adversary's slightest movement. Hence I detected at once her strong aversion to Mary, whom she immediately selected as a probable mistress, and I saw her several times vainly try to repress a grimace of disdain and wrath. It was my first impulse to follow Prudence into the kitchen, after the ladies had gone to their rooms, and make a clean breast of the untoward tidings, but I lacked the moral courage and contented myself with an inward show of strength. Why should I pander to this woman's caprices? Was I not master in my own house? Should I not do as I pleased? I would punish her with the severity of my silence, and perhaps in a week or two, when she was more tractable, I would condescend to tell her exactly how matters stood. In this I would be firm.

But the next morning, before my guests were out of bed, I decided that I was not acting wisely. Was not Prudence an old, faithful, and trustworthy servant? Had she not been loyal to my interests, and was not her whole life wrapped up in my comfort? Surely I wronged her to withhold from her the confidence she had so fairly earned, and the flush of shame came to my face as I reflected that I was indulging my first deceit. I took a turn in the garden, in the heavenly cool of the early morning, to compose my nerves for a very probable ordeal, and then I walked boldly into the kitchen where Prudence sat, with a wooden bowl in her lap, paring apples.

It was one of the unwritten laws of the cuisine that Prudence was never to be disturbed when engaged in this delicate operation. She maintained that it destroyed the symmetry of the peel, and I dare say she was right. Consequently she looked at me reproachfully as I entered, and bent again more assiduously to her work. I was much flustered by the ill omen, but I knew that if I hesitated I was lost; so I advanced valorously, though with accelerated pulse, and said with all the calmness I could command:

"Prudence, I think it only right to tell you that I am going to be married."

One apple rolled from the bowl down along the floor and under the kitchen stove. I cannot conceive of any shock, however great, that would cause Prudence to lose more than one apple. Partly to conciliate, and partly to conceal my own trepidation, I made a gallant effort to rescue the wanderer, and as I poked the hiding-place with my stick, I heard her say: "Lord, I know'd it'd come!"

"The fact that it has come, Prudence," I answered with a sickly attempt at gayety, "does not seem to be a reason why you should call with such vehemence on your Maker. There does not appear to be any need of Providential interposition. Things are not so bad as all that."

I always used my most elegant English when conversing with Prudence. If she did not understand it, it flattered her to think that I paid this tribute to her intelligence.

"Mr. John," she said, and there was a suspicious break in her voice, "for twenty years I have tried to do my duty by you, and now that I must go--"

"Go?" I interrupted; "who said you must go? Who spoke about anybody's going? You certainly do not expect to turn that bowl of apples over to me and leave me to get breakfast?"

"No, Mr. John, I shall go on and do my duty, as I see it, until you have made all your plans and are comfortable."

"Now, look here, Prudence, I am very comfortable as things are, thank you. And you will pardon me if I say I cannot understand why you should go at all. I shall continue to eat, I hope, after I am married, and I think it altogether probable that I shall require a house-keeper and a cook. I believe they do have such things in well-regulated families."

"At my age, and with my experience, and considerin' how we have lived, Mr. John, I couldn't get along with a mistress, 'specially," she added with a touch of malice, "with a woman considerable older than me."

"Older than you? What are you talking about? Miss Kinglake is young enough to be your daughter."

Another apple rolled on the floor. "Miss Kinglake!" she exclaimed in astonishment, "that lamb? Good Lord, I thought you were goin' to marry the other one!"