The Romance of an Old Fool Part 2

I was to leave the next morning, thanks to the officious members of the committee, who had so blunderingly hurried matters to accommodate me that I had no longer an excuse of remaining. And it was for this reason that I went in and sat again in the little parlor, while Phyllis sang for me the songs that were my favorites, and some her mother sang in the long ago. Memories were again pleasantly stirred within me, as was not infrequent in those days, and I experienced all the happiness that comes to him who is persuaded that he has made himself a little above the ordinary attractions of the earth. In this excess of good feeling, and stimulated alike by the music and the consciousness of a philanthropic impulse, I waited until the moment of parting before declaring definitely my excellent intentions.

"My dear Mary," I began, turning to that admirable spinster, "you know how our childhood was linked by a close family feeling, and how you and Sylvia and I planned in our simple ambitions to live together in the great world outside. We may say now that this was childish romance, and that the caprice of time has made it an idle fancy. For many years we have been separated, and only by a happy chance have we been brought together. Fortune has been kind to me. I am called a rich man, and I believe I may say without boasting that I am far beyond the need of anxiety. But to a degree I am a lonely man. My sister's child is my one near relative in the world, and he is a young man with an excellent business, able to take care of himself, and naturally engrossed with his own occupations. You can understand that at my time of life, alone as I am, and still young enough to appreciate the joys of living, I have a feeling of desolation for which no riches can compensate. Had fortune given me a daughter, like our Phyllis here, I think no happiness could have been so great. It has pleased me to look back upon the past, to recall the days of our childhood, and to see in Phyllis the image of her mother. Why can I not link the present and the future with the past? Why can I not look on Phyllis as my own daughter, and give to her all the father love I have learned to feel? I do not rob you either of her love or her presence. I merely add a new joy to my life, and know that in caring for you both and in contributing to her happiness, and securing her against misfortune after we are taken away, I am carrying out the pledge, however idle at the time, I made to Sylvia."

I fancied I saw what may have been the suspicion of a tear in Mary Eastmann's eye. It vanished as quickly as it came, and when she spoke and thanked me for my generous offer, her voice was as calm and her manner as collected as if I had made a casual suggestion for attendance at a prayer meeting. She could not deny that the opportunity was too enticing to be ignored, and she admitted that my fatherly proposition was distinctly advantageous. Her New England independence rather revolted at the thought of any immediate financial a.s.sistance, which was not needed, while her New England thrift approved a future settlement based on family friendliness of many years' standing. On the whole she was inclined to be favorable to my point of view.

As for Phyllis, she had listened to me with undisguised amazement. Her big gray eyes had grown larger, and the color left her cheeks as I finished. Then the rosy red rushed back, her lip quivered and the tears sprang to her eyes. A moment later she smiled, then laughed, and was serious again. How incomprehensible are these young girls! Poor child! she had never known a father's love.

Phyllis followed me to the door. The light, streaming from the parlor, shone squarely on her exquisite face. A thrill of pleasure went through me as I realized that at last I had a daughter whom I could love and cherish. I took her hand in both of mine, and, as I released it, I parted the light, wavy hair, and kissed her forehead. It seemed to me that she trembled slightly, but in a moment she was herself, and a gleam of merriment was in her eyes, as she said:

"Of course you will write to me--papa?"

Doubtless the novelty of the situation made me just a little embarra.s.sed. To be called "papa" the first time by a pretty girl was more embarra.s.sing than I had expected. And why that half-laugh in her eye, and why that almost quizzical tone? Was I not kind and good enough to be her father, and had I not tried to show her every paternal consideration? Was I not honestly endeavoring to fulfil a sacred pledge? I was perplexed but not discouraged. "I will prove to her," I said to myself with firmness, "that I am entirely worthy of her filial affection, and that she may lean confidently upon me." And I went straightway to bed, and dreamed of her all night as every true father should dream of the daughter of his heart and his hope.

In the very nature of things it was necessary that I should return frequently to Meadowvale, to confer with the village committee and make all proper arrangements for beginning so important a local enterprise. While this put an end to my projected trip to Europe I accepted the situation with calmness and forbearance, satisfied that in the pursuit of duty and in giving happiness to my fellow creatures I should have the reward of an approving conscience. To my nephew, Frederick Grinnell, I gave the task of preparing the plans, and his excellent suggestions were cordially adopted. Much of my spare time--and it is amazing how much spare time one has in a village--was spent at the Eastmann cottage with my new daughter, and in the evening I talked to her of the world outside, quite, I fancy, as Oth.e.l.lo may have spoken to Desdemona, but with a more conservative and a better impulse. I unfolded to her the wonders of great London, the pleasures of Paris, the beauties of Venice, the sacred mysteries of Rome, the n.o.ble traditions of Athens. I journeyed with her up the Nile and down the Rhine. One night we were in gay Vienna, another in Berlin, a third in the grandeur of the Alhambra. From the fjords of Norway to the tea houses of j.a.pan was the journey of a few minutes, and the indifference of my surfeited life gave way before the kindling enthusiasm of this lovely country girl, whose world had been the area of scarcely more than a township.

But the paternal relation, however honest and commendable my intentions, did not seem to thrive as I had fondly hoped. Only in her teasing moments would this vivacious creature admit the solemnity of our compact, and when she called me "papa" there was always that gleam of the eye, with that merriment of tone, which may not have been disrespectful but was certainly not filial.

This troubled me exceedingly. I thought it all over and one night I said to her:

"My dear Phyllis, it has become only too evident that you do not entertain that deferential feeling for me which a daughter should have for a father. I shall not describe your emotions as I have a.n.a.lyzed them, but I am satisfied that we shall not make a complete success of my long cherished plan. However, I am not prepared to withdraw unreservedly from my schemes for your comfort and happiness, and since you cannot look upon me as a father, or treat me like a father, I have another suggestion to offer. Let me be your elder brother, and watch over and guard you as a brother's duty should direct. There shall be no diminution of my love, no retraction of my promises. Perhaps, in the feeling that I am your brother, you will talk with me with greater frankness, and feel more closely drawn to me, and we shall be all the better and the happier for the change."

Thus speaking I took her pretty hand and carried it respectfully to my lips, at the same time patting it affectionately and a.s.suring her of my brotherly devotion. And this incomprehensible girl threw back her head and laughed; then burst into tears, laughed again, flushed to crimson and ran out of the room. I was grieved beyond measure. Had I done wrong so quickly and rudely to sever a connection so holy? Had the filial feeling been suddenly awakened in her breast? Was I depriving this poor child of a tender paternal care, for which she longed, but which maidenly coyness could not immediately accept?

As a philosopher I have made woman the subject of much research, and my library bears witness to the attention I have paid to the written opinions of the ablest writers and thinkers of all times, who have had anything to do with this fascinating theme. I have seen her in all her phases, a.n.a.lyzed her in all her emotions, and Bunsey has admitted to me that my theoretical knowledge has been of great value to him in dealing subtly with his heroines. And yet, despite my complete equipment in mental construction, I am constantly surprised by a new development, a sudden and unaccountable phenomenon of feminine nature, which undoubtedly escaped the experience and reasoning of the experts and sages. It is indeed a matter of pride in woman that while man has studied her for thousands of years, she continues to exhibit fresh delights in her infinite variety of moods and to put forth unexpectedly new and astounding shoots.

I saw Phyllis no more that evening, save in my dreams, and it was wholly creditable to the goodness of my motives and the sincerity of my affection that she abided with me in my slumbering fancies with no protracted intermissions. The next day she was as sweet and gracious as ever, but I thought her tone a little constrained, and when, as a father or brother should, I ventured to speak of the tenderness of our family relation, a half-imploring look came into her beautiful eyes.

And when I casually remarked on the softness of her hair, or the slenderness of her fingers, her glance was timidly reproachful.

All this gave me great unhappiness, and I discovered, to my further distress, that in my attempt to return to the old familiar footing I was neglecting the committee and losing interest in the affairs of the library. A certain peevishness took possession of me; I was no longer myself, and I lost the gayety and sprightliness which had been always my distinguishing virtues.

Furthermore I missed the companionship and solace of my books in this emergency, for I had no reference library to which I could go in Meadowvale for aid in establishing the true condition of this strange girl. I recalled dimly that somewhere on my shelves was a volume which contained a fairly a.n.a.logous case, but while I knew that I possessed such a book I could not remember the circ.u.mstances or the incidents cited, and this added to my unrest. Only a student can understand the absolute wretchedness which overtakes a man when he finds himself miserably dependent on a distant library. For several days I gave myself up entirely to my mental depression, greatly wondering at the perplexing change in my life, and marvelling that in all my explorations in philosophy I had not provided for just such a crisis, whatever it might be. One afternoon as I sat in my room at the tavern, looking idly out of the window and across the little river which rippled by, something seemed to strike me violently in the forehead. It may have been a telepathic suggestion, it may have been a return to consciousness; at all events it was an idea. I leaped from my chair, put on my hat, and proceeded rather feverishly to the Eastmann cottage. Phyllis was away for the day; Mary was knitting in the sitting-room. I watched her in silence for a moment, and then I said abruptly:

"Mary, I think I should like to marry Phyllis."

Mary Eastmann was not the type of woman to lose herself or betray astonishment. She pushed her spectacles sharply above her eyes, looked at me sternly, and said in a rasping voice.

"John Stanhope, don't be an old fool."

"Whatever I may be, Mary," I answered, much nettled by her tone, "I do not think anybody can properly regard me as a fool. As for the other qualification," I went on complacently, "I am not so old."

"You and Sylvia were the same age, and she would have been forty-eight."

"A man is as old as he feels," I ventured, finding refuge in a proverb.

"That is evasive, and has nothing to do with the question.

Beside, what reason have you to believe that Phyllis has the slightest desire to marry you?"

"Frankly, not the slightest reason in the world," I replied with the utmost candor. "That is why I have been so bold as to speak to you on the subject."

"Perhaps you thought I might use my influence to help you along?"

"Quite the contrary, my dear Mary, I a.s.sure you. I may not know very much about women"--I was quite humble when separated from my library--"but I do know that nothing is so fatal to a lover's prospects as the encouragement of the loved one's relations. You see that I am perfectly frank."

"Then you wish my opposition?"

"Come, let us be reasonable. I have told you I wish to marry Phyllis. I know my good points, and I am not unacquainted with my weak ones. Unhappily I can figure out my age to a day. Alas, I am forty-eight, and Phyllis is not yet twenty-three. The difference is positively ghastly from a sentimental standpoint, but if I love her, and she is not hopelessly indifferent to me, I think that even that difficulty can be bridged. You know my position, my character, my general reputation. Neither of us knows what Phyllis really thinks or what she will say or do in the matter. I do not ask either for your opposition or your good offices. I have come to you as an old friend and the girl's nearest relative to tell you exactly how I feel and what I wish to gain.

And I ask only that I may have the same chance to win her affection that you might grant to a younger man."

Mary's voice was gentler when she spoke again. "John," she said, "Phyllis is all I have in the world. It is my one idea to have her happily married to a worthy man whom she honestly loves.

Providence, in inscrutable wisdom, may have decreed that you are that man, but," she continued with a sudden return of Yankee caution, "I have my doubts, considering your age. However, you have acted honorably in coming to me, and while I think Phyllis would be a better daughter than wife to you, I cannot speak for her. Remember that she is very young and very inexperienced. Her acquaintance with men has been slight. You are a man of the world and with enough of the surface polish--I don't say it stops with that--to dazzle any girl accustomed to such surroundings as we have here. Undoubtedly an offer from you would flatter her; it might induce her to accept you, thinking that she loved you. Be careful. Be sure of your ground before it is too late."

As I walked back to the village I mused on what Mary had said, but I felt no apprehension. Most lovers are alike in this--in youth, in middle age, in senility. Perhaps the advantage of middle life is that a man is more the master of himself, more in possession of the faculties necessary to carry him through a crisis. Without the impetuous desire of youth, or the deadened sensibilities of old age, he has a certain serene confidence that is a mixture of love and philosophy. It disturbed me somewhat to find with what equanimity I faced a situation which promised nothing. It really annoyed me to note that I was picking out mentally the place to which I should conduct Phyllis in order to have the harmonious environment adapted to a sentimental proposition. I remembered that down by the river, just beyond the willows, there was an old tree where Sylvia and I--ah, so many years ago!--had sat and talked of our lives before us. To that sacred spot I would lead Sylvia's daughter, and, pa.s.sing gently from the past to the present, I would tell her of my love and of my fondest hopes. How dignified and appropriate such a spot for a frank, calm, and self-contained avowal!

Thus philosophically and amiably plotting I walked contentedly along, and, looking up, I saw Phyllis coming toward me, swinging her hat in her hand, and suggesting in her girlish beauty and graceful outline the poet's shepherdess. She did not see me, and, yielding to a sudden impulse, I stepped quickly aside in the shadow of a neighbor's house, as she pa.s.sed on with her eyes on the ground. I followed at a little distance, and discovered, much to my dismay, that she chose the road that led to the burying-ground. Now a cemetery is not at all the spot that a man, whatever his philosophy, would select for a tender declaration, but I was buoyed by the remembrance of Mary's words. "The finger of Providence may be in it," I muttered. "The Lord's will be done."

Slowly up the winding path she walked, and I as slowly followed.

When I reached her, she was standing at her mother's grave, just as she had stood the morning we first met. I tried to accept this as an omen, but failed miserably, and omens, after all, depend on the point of view. She raised her eyes, and, seeing me, blushed, another omen which means comparatively little to a man who is aware of the thousand emotions that are responsible for the blush of woman. I was again annoyed by the discovery that my pulses were not beating wildly, and that my heart was not throbbing tumultuously, and when I addressed a commonplace remark to her I was thoroughly ashamed and humiliated. It seemed like taking a mean advantage of innocence and inexperience.

We sat together on the little bench, and for the first time in our acquaintance she appeared embarra.s.sed, as if she knew what was pa.s.sing in my mind. I have always believed that women, in addition to their acknowledged intuition, have a special sense that enables them to antic.i.p.ate a declaration of pa.s.sion, and I had no doubt that Phyllis was fully prepared for my confession in spite of her embarra.s.sment. This induced me to proceed to the point without unnecessary preliminaries.

"Phyllis," I said, not without a certain agreeable ardor, "I have been talking with Aunt Mary."

"Indeed?"

"And about you."

"Really?"

"When I say that I have been talking with Aunt Mary, and about you," I continued in a grieved tone, for I do not like jerky responses, "I wish you to understand that it was in connection with no ordinary topic. Phyllis,"--I spoke with the utmost tenderness--"can you not guess the nature of our discussion?"

Phyllis was equal to the emergency; her embarra.s.sment had disappeared. "I am glad," she said, "that your conversation so far as it related to me was out of the ordinary. I suppose I may ask what the topic was--that is, if you don't mind telling."

This was approaching the serious. "Phyllis, I was telling Aunt Mary that I loved you and wished to make you my wife."

A flash, half merry, half angry, came to her eye. "That was thoughtful of you. Is it customary for gentlemen in the city, when they think they love a girl, to honor all her relations with their confidence before they speak to the girl herself?"

I took her hand. She made the slightest motion to withdraw it, and permitted it to remain in my grasp. "Phyllis," I said with all earnestness, "do not misunderstand me. I sought you at the house. You were absent. Your Aunt Mary and I have been friends from childhood, and it was only natural that out of my heart I spoke the words that were in my mind. I told her that I loved you, just as at that moment I might have shouted it from the housetop. My heart was full of you and I had to speak. Can't you understand?"

The girl was still obdurate, and she spoke with some petulance.

"If that is the case, perhaps it is just as well that it was Aunt Mary and not one of the neighbors."

"Dear little Phyllis, you are not angry with me because I love you? You cannot remain angry with me because I confessed my love before I met you to-day? If you had only seen with what applications of cold water your aunt rewarded my confidence, you would pity and not reproach me."

For a minute the girl was silent. Then she asked softly: "How long have you known that you loved me?"

"Must I answer that question candidly and unreservedly?"

"Unreservedly and candidly."