The Romance of an Old Fool Part 6

Her reply I could not hear. Presently he said, and a little brokenly:

"I have fought it all out. It has been hard, so hard, but I must meet it as it comes."

Then I heard Phyllis's voice: "It is for the best."

"I believe that you care for me. I know how much I care for you, and how much this effort is costing me. We were too late. No other course in honor presents itself. G.o.d knows how eagerly and hopelessly I have sought a way out of this tangle of duty."

Again I heard Phyllis's voice, sunk almost to a whisper: "I have given my word; it is for the best."

"The governor has been so good to me," Frederick exclaimed resentfully, "that I feel like a criminal even at this moment when I am making for him the sacrifice of a life. He has been my father, my protector. What I am I owe to him, and I must meet him like a grateful and honest man. You would not have it otherwise?"

And for the third time Phyllis answered: "It is for the best."

Had I been of that remarkable stuff of which your true hero is made, of which Bunsey's heroes are made, and had I come up to the very reasonable expectations of the followers of literary romance, I should have burst through the syringa with pa.s.sion in my face and rage in my heart and precipitated a tragedy. Or, on the other side, I should have taken those ridiculous children by the hand, and ended their suffering with my blessing then and there. But as I am only of very common clay, with little liking for heroics, I did what any selfish and unappreciative man would have done, and stole quietly away. I even felt a sort of fierce joy in the knowledge of the security of my position, a mean exultation in the thought that Phyllis was bound to me, and that those from whom I might reasonably fear the most, acknowledged the hopelessness of their case. Most strangely there came to me no resentment with the knowledge that I had been supplanted by my nephew in the affections of the girl; the fact that she loved another surprised rather than agitated me. My argument was upset, my doctrine of affinities had been seriously damaged in my individual case, and here was I, who should have been yielding to the pangs of disappointment, or raging with wounded pride, reflecting with considerable calmness on the reverses of a philosopher.

I went into the library and lighted a cigar. I threw myself into an easy-chair, and as I looked up I saw a spider-web in a corner of the ceiling. "I must speak to Prudence about that in the morning," I said to myself with annoyance. Then for the first time it came to me that I was out of temper, for I am customarily tranquil and not easily upset. My mind wandered rapidly from one thing to another, and oddly enough I caught myself humming a little tune which had no sort of relevancy to the events of the day. I tried to dismiss the incident of the garden as the temporary folly of a romantic girl, which would wear itself out with a week's absence. Why should it trouble me? Had I been lacking in kindness or affection? Should I be disturbed because a few boat rides and the influence of moonlight had wrought on a mere child? Was I not secure in her promise, and had I not heard her say she had given her word? As for Frederick, was he not my debtor? Had he not confessed it? Then why give more thought to the matter? It was awkward, but both were young and both would outlive it. Sylvia and I were young, and we outlived it.

But still kept ringing in my ears that despairing half-whisper: "It is for the best."

Petulantly I threw away my cigar and went up to my room. I walked over to the dressing-case and turned up the gas. The shadow displeased me and I lighted the opposite jet. Then I stood squarely before the mirror and looked critically at the reflection.

Yes, John Stanhope, you are growing old. That expanding forehead, with the retreating hairs, tells the tale of time. The gray upon your cheeks is whitening and the razor must be used more vigilantly to further deception. Those creases in your face can no longer be dismissed as character lines; the s.h.a.gginess of your eyebrows has the flying years to account for it. Plainly, John, you and humbug must part company. You are not of this generation and it is not for you.

I turned down the gas, threw open the window and let the moonlight filter in through the elms and over the tops of the little pines. The soft beauty of the night soothed me, and gradually and very gently my irritation and annoyance slipped away. Why should not a young girl, radiant in youth and beauty, affect a young man of her generation? What has an old fellow, with all his money and worldly experience and burnt-out youth, to give in exchange for that intoxication which every girl may properly regard her lawful gift? Undoubtedly I should make a better husband, as husbands go, than my romantic nephew, and any woman of rare common sense would see the advantages of my position, but why burden a woman with that rare common sense which robs her of the first and sweetest of her dreams? No, John Stanhope, go back to your pipe and your books and your gardening, your life of selfish, indolent do-nothing. Take life as it comes most easily and naturally. By sparing one heart you may save two.

And that nephew of mine--what a fine, manly fellow he proved himself when put to the test! The governor had been good to him and he was going to stand by the governor. How my heart jumped, and what a warm little feeling there was about the internal c.o.c.kles as I recalled his words. Bravely said, my boy, and n.o.bly done! I fear I should not have been so generous at your age, and with Sylvia--

And with Sylvia! How the past crowded back at the thought of her!

Who are you, old dreamer, who neglected the gift the good G.o.ds provided in the heydey of your youth to return to chase the phantom of the past? Behind that little white cloud, sailing far into the north, Sylvia may be peeping at you, and smiling at the delusion of her ancient wooer. Or why not think that she is pleading with you--pleading for her child and the lover, as she might have pleaded for herself and somebody else, had somebody else known his own heart before it was too late?

I watched the white cloud as it pa.s.sed on and on, growing smaller and fainter as it receded. I settled back still deeper in my chair and sighed. And then--O unworthy knight of love!--and then, I fell asleep.

In the morning, before the family was astir, I wrote a note, pleading a sudden and imperative call to town, and vanished for the day. I argued with myself that such a step was a delicate consideration for a young woman, who, having listened to a confession of love a few hours before, would be hardly at her ease at a breakfast-table conversation. Incidentally I was not altogether sure of myself, although I was much refreshed by an excellent night's sleep which comes to every philosopher with courage and strength to rise above the unpleasant things of life.

If Phyllis had yielded to an emotion of grief, there was little trace of it when we met at evening. I fancied that she was somewhat paler, and her manner at times seemed a little listless, but otherwise there was no great departure from her usual demeanor. As for myself the long sunshine of a summer day and the conviction that at last the opportunity had come to me to play the role of a minor hero gave me a peace that amounted almost to buoyancy. No need had I of the teachings of the musty old philosophers reposing on my bookshelves. John Stanhope had learned more of life in a few short hours than all his tomes could impart. His books had helped him many times in diagnosing the cases of his friends; when John fell ill they mocked and deceived him.

Opportunely enough Phyllis followed me into the library, and when at my request she sat on a little stool at my feet, and I held her hand and stroked her soft light hair, a pang went through my heart, for I felt that she might be near me for the last time.

The philosopher had yet much to learn. For several minutes we were both silent. Of the two I was doubtless the more ill at ease, though I concealed it bravely.

"Phyllis," I said at last, "did you ever get over a childish fondness for fairy-stories?"

She smiled at this--was I wrong in fancying that her smile was that of sadness?--and answered: "I hope not."

"Because," I went on, bending over and affectionately patting the hand I held, "a little fairy-tale has been running through my head all day, and I have decided that you shall be the first to hear it and pa.s.s on its merits. And because," I added gayly, "if it has your approval I may wish to publish it. Shall I begin?"

She nodded her head--I could swear now to the weariness the poor child was so staunchly fighting--and looked off toward the sunset.

"Once upon a time--you see that I am conventional--there lived a beautiful young princess, on whom a wicked old troll had cast an evil eye. Now this wicked troll was not so hideous as the trolls we see in our fairy-books--I must say that--but he was so wicked that even this deficiency could not excuse him. The princess was as young and innocent--I was going to say as simple--as she was beautiful, and the wicked troll talked so much of his experience in the world, and boasted so hugely of his wealth and generosity and other shining virtues, that the imagination of the poor little princess was quite fired, and she was flattered into thinking that here was a treasure not to be lightly put aside.

And so, in a foolish moment she consented to be his bride, and he took her away to his castle--I believe trolls do have castles--to make ready for the marriage. While the preparations were going on, and the wicked old troll was laughing with glee to think how he had deluded a princess, a handsome young prince appeared on the scene, and what so natural as that the princess should immediately contrast him with the troll. And it came about, also quite naturally, that before the prince and the princess knew that anything was happening, they fell so violently in love with each other that the birds, and the bees, and the flowers in the garden, and the squirrels in the trees sang and hummed and gossiped and chattered about it."

Here I paused. Phyllis did not look up, but I felt a shiver run through her body as I stroked her hair and put my arm around her shoulder to caress away her fear.

"But it happened that although the princess was so much in love that at times she must have forgotten even the existence of the old troll, she was still possessed of that most inconvenient and annoying internal arrangement which we call the New England conscience, and one night, when the prince had declared his love with more ardor than usual, she remembered the past, how she had promised to marry the troll, and how she must keep her word, as all good princesses do. And the prince, who was a very upright young man, most foolishly listened to her, and agreed to give her up. Whereupon these poor children, having resolved that it was for the best--"

Phyllis looked up quickly. Her face was white, and a look, half of fear, half of reproach, came to her eyes. She sank down and hid her face in her hands. Both my arms were around her and I even laughed.

"Dear little princess," I whispered, "don't give way yet. The best is still to come. For you must remember that this is a fairy-tale and all fairy-tales have a good ending. And, to make a long story short, this wicked old troll was not a troll at all, but a fairy-G.o.dmother, who had taken the form for good purposes.

I would have said fairy-G.o.dfather, but I have never come across a fairy-G.o.dfather in all my reading, and I must be truthful. Well, the fairy-G.o.dmother came along right in the nick of time--and, of course, you know who married and lived happily ever after?"

The convulsive movement of the poor child's body told me she was weeping. And I, being a philosopher, and more or less hard-hearted, as all philosophers are, let her weep on. Presently she said in a voice hardly audible:

"I gave you my promise and I meant to keep it. I am trying so hard to keep it."

"Of course you are, little girl, but why try? A bad promise is far better broken than kept, and, come to think of it, I am not at all sure that I am anxious to have you keep it. How do you know that I am not making a desperate effort to secure my own release?"

She raised her head quite unexpectedly and caught me with the tears in my eyes. My eyes always were weak. "Why, you are crying!" she said.

"Of course I'm crying. I always cry when I am particularly well pleased. It is a family peculiarity. You should see me at the theatre. At a farce comedy I am a depressing sight, and that is the reason I always avoid the front seats."

Then realizing that I might be carrying my gayety too far, I went on more soberly:

"Can't you see, Phyllis, that the old fool's romance must come to an end? Don't you understand that had I the selfish wish to hold you to a thoughtless promise, our adventure would terminate only in misery to us both? Perhaps you and I have been the last to see it, I, because I was thinking too much of myself, you, because you were carried away by an exalted sense of duty. Thank heaven it is clear to us both now. For it is clear, isn't it, dear?"

The foolish girl did not reply, but she kissed my hand, and it is astonishing how that little act of affection touched and strengthened me.

"So we are going to make a new start and begin right. To-morrow I shall see Frederick and make a proposition to him, and if that rascal does not give up his heroics and come down to his plain duty as I see it--well, so much the worse for him. No, don't raise objections"--she had started to speak--"for I am always quarrelsome when I cannot have my own way. Go to your room and think it over, and remember," I said more gently, for that old tide of the past was coming in, "that you are Sylvia's daughter, and that Sylvia would have trusted me and counselled you to obey me in all things."

Slowly and with averted face Phyllis rose and walked toward the door. I had commanded her, and yet I felt a sharp pang of bitterness that she had yielded so quickly to my words. It seemed at the moment that everything was pa.s.sing out of my life; that Phyllis, that Sylvia, that all the once sweet, continuous memory was lost to me forever. I could not call her back, and I could not hope that she would return. Philosopher that I was I could not explain the sinking and the fear that took possession of me.

The philosopher did not know himself. All his thought and all his reasoning could not solve the simple riddle the quick intuition of a girl made clear.

She had reached the door before she paused. Then she turned. I had risen mechanically and stood looking at her. As slowly she came back and waited as if for me to speak. And when the dull philosopher groped helplessly for words and could not meet the appealing eyes, she put her hands on his shoulders, and laid her warm, young face on his heart, and said, "Father!"

The night was peacefully beautiful. I had strolled out of the garden and down to the river, and there along the bridle-path on the winding bank I walked for miles. Absorbed in my own thoughts I gave no heed to my little dog, Hero, trotting at my side and looking anxiously up at me with her large brown eyes, as if saying in her dog fashion: "Don't worry, old man; I'm here!" A strange, inexplicable happiness had fallen to him who thought he knew all others, and did not know even himself. I crossed the river to return on the opposite sh.o.r.e, and all the way back, through the arching trees, the shadows danced in the moonlight and the crickets chirped merrily. Life seemed so contrary, so bewildering, for I thought of the wedding music in those early mornings at my boyhood home, and I wondered at the optimism of Nature in attuning all emotions to a joyous note.

Again in my garden I saw a half-light in Phyllis's room. Coming nearer I saw that she was standing at the window, with the same cloud on her face that had betrayed the battle with her conscience. At sight of her all the joyous emotion of my new tenderness overwhelmed me and I cried out cheerily:

"Good-night, Phyllis!"

Something in my voice sent a smile to her eyes and gladness to her heart, as, half leaning from the window, she kissed her hand to me and called back softly: "Good-night, father dear!"

The south wind came, bringing the scent of the rose and the honeysuckle, and stirring the drowsy branches of the elms. The river rippled merrily in the moonlight, hurrying to bear the tidings of happiness to the greater waters, and off in the distance the blue hills lifted their heads above the haze. Toward the north scudded the friendly little white cloud, and it seemed again a soothing fancy that Sylvia--

O sweet and pleasant world!