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_The_ ROMANCE OF
   AN OLD FOOL

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 THE ROMANCE

      OF

 AN OLD FOOL


      BY

 ROSWELL FIELD


   EVANSTON
WILLIAM S. LORD
     1902

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_Copyright, 1902, by_
    ROSWELL FIELD


UNIVERSITY PRESS · JOHN WILSON
 AND SON · CAMBRIDGE, U.S.A.

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                      _To_
                 MY GODCHILDREN

_With the somewhat unnecessary assurance that
     it is not an autobiography, this little
         tale of misconceived attachment
                is affectionately
                   inscribed_

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THE ROMANCE _of_ AN OLD FOOL


If it had not been for Bunsey, the novelist, I might have
attained the heights. As a critic Bunsey has never commanded my
highest admiration, and yet I have had my tender moments for him.
From a really exacting standpoint he was not much of a novelist,
and to his failure to win the wealth which is supposed to
accompany fame I may have owed much of the debt of his sustained
presence and his fondness for my tobacco. Bunsey had started out
in life with high ideals, a resolution to lead the purely
literary existence and to supply the market with a variety of
choice, didactic essays along the line of high thinking; but the
demand did not come up to the supply, and presently he abandoned
his original lofty intention in favor of a sort of dubious
romance. The financial returns, however, while a trifle more
regular and encouraging, were not of sufficient importance to
justify him in giving up his friendly claims on my house, my
library, my time, my favorite lounge, and my best brand of
cigars, in return for which he contributed philosophic opinions
and much strenuous advice on topics in general and literature in
particular.

From my childhood I have been in the habit of keeping a diary, a
running comment on the daily incidents of my pleasant but
uneventful life, and occasionally, when Bunsey's society seemed
too assertive and familiar, I sought to punish him by reading
long and numerous excerpts. To do him justice he took the
chastisement meekly, and even insisted that I was burying a
remarkable talent, sometimes going to the magnanimous extreme of
offering to introduce me to his publisher, and to speak a good
word for me to the editors of certain magazines with whom he
maintained a brisk correspondence, not infrequently of a
querulous nature. All these friendly offices I gently put aside,
in recalling the degradation of Bunsey's ideals, though I went on
tolerating Bunsey, who had a good heart and an insistent manner.
In this way I possibly deprived myself of a glorious career.

My ability to befriend Bunsey was due to a felicitous chain of
circumstances. When the late Mrs. Stanhope passed to her reward,
she considerately left behind a document making me the recipient
of her entire and not inconsiderable fortune. This proved a
most unexpected blow to the church, which had enjoyed the honor
and pleasure of Mrs. Stanhope's association, and which, quite
naturally, had hoped to profit by her decease. The late Mrs.
Stanhope, who I neglected to say was, in the eyes of Heaven,
the world, and the law, my wife, had not lived with me in that
utter abandonment to conjugal affection so much to be desired.
We married to please our families, and we lived apart as much
as possible to please ourselves. Though not without certain
physical charms, Mrs. Stanhope was a woman of great moral
rigidity and religious austerity, who saw life through the
diminishing end of a sectarian telescope, and who cared far
more for the distant heathen than for the local convivial pagans
who composed my _entourage_. She had brought to me a considerable
sum of money, which I had increased by judicious investments,
and I dare say that it was in recognition of my business ability,
as well as possibly in a moment of becoming wifely remorse, that
she bequeathed to me her property intact. I gave her final
testimonial services wholly in keeping with her standing as
a church-woman, and I must say for my friends, whom she had
severely ignored during her life, that they behaved very
handsomely on that mournful occasion. They turned out in
large numbers, and testified in other ways to their regard for
her unblemished character. I recall, not without emotion after
all these years, that Bunsey's memorial tribute to the church
paper--for which he never received a dollar--was a model
of appreciation as well as of Christian forgiveness and
self-forgetfulness.

The passing of Mrs. Stanhope made it possible for me to put into
operation the long-desired plan of retiring a little way into the
country, not too far from the seductions of the club and the
city, but far enough to conform to the tastes of a country
gentleman who likes to whistle to his dogs, putter over his
roses, and meditate in a comfortable library with the poets and
philosophers of his fancy. Here, with my good house-keeper,
Prudence--a name I chose in preference to her mother's selection,
Elizabeth--and my gardener and man of affairs, Malachy, I lived
for a number of years at peace with the world and perfectly
satisfied with myself. Although I was dangerously over forty, and
my hair, which had been impressively dark, was conspicuously gray
in spots, my figure was good, my dress correct, and my mirror
told me that I was still in a position to be in the matrimonial
running if I tried. I mention these trifling physical details
merely to save my modesty the humiliation and annoyance of
referring to them in future, and to prepossess the gentle reader
wherever the sex makes it highly important.

I do not deny that in certain moments of loneliness which come to
us, widowers and bachelors alike, I had the impulse to tempt
again the matrimonial fortune, and counting on my financial
standing, together with other attractions, I ran over the
eligible ladies of my acquaintance. But one was a little too old,
and another was a good deal too flighty. One was too fond of
society, and another did not like dogs. A fifth spoiled her
chances by an unwomanly ignorance of horticulture, and a sixth
perished miserably after returning to me one of my most cherished
books with the leaves dog-eared and the binding cracked. For I
hold with the greatest philosophers that she who maltreats a book
will never make a good wife. And so the years slipped cosily and
cheerily by, while I grew more contented with my environment and
less envious of my married friends, and whenever temporary
melancholy overtook me I moved into the club for a month, or
slipped across the water, finding in the change of scene
immediate relief from the monotony of widowerhood.

In thus fortifying myself against the wiles of woman I was much
abetted by my good Prudence, who never ceased her exhortations as
to the sinister designs of her sex, and who had a ready word of
discouragement for any possible candidate who might be in the
line of succession. "I see that Rogers woman walkin' by the house
to-day, Mr. John," she would begin, "and I see her turnin' her
nose up at the new paint on the arbor." (I selected that color
myself.) "It's queer how that woman does give herself airs,
considerin' everybody knows she's been ready for ten years to
take the fust man that asks her." Prudence knew that I had
escorted the elderly Miss Rogers to the theatre only the week
before, and had commented pleasantly on the elegance of her
figure. But the slight put upon my eye for color was too much.
Wily Prudence!

Or a day or two after I had rendered an act of neighborly
kindness to the bereaved Mrs. Stebbins she would say quite
casually:

"I don't want to utter one word agin the poor and afflicted, Mr.
John, but when the Widder Stebbins hit Cleo with a broom to-day I
own I b'iled over. I shouldn't tell you if it warn't my duty."

Cleopatra was my favorite cocker spaniel, and any faint
impression my fair neighbor may have made on my unguarded heart
was immediately dispelled. Thus subtly and vigilantly my
house-keeper kept the outer gates of the citadel, and shooed away
a possible mistress as effectually as she dispersed the predatory
hens from the garden patch.

But with the younger generation of women, good Prudence was less
cautious. Any maiden under the very early twenties she regarded
fair material for my friendly offices, and frequently she visited
me with expressions commendatory of good conduct.

"I likes to see you with the children, Mr. John, bless 'em, sir.
And they do all seem to be so fond of you. There's nothin' that
keeps the heart so young and fresh as goin' with young people,
just as nothin' ages a man so much as havin' a lot of widders and
designin' old maids about. Of course," she added, with a return
of her natural suspicion, "you are old enough to be father to the
whole bunch, which keeps people from talkin'."

Whether it was Prudence's approbation or my own inclination I
cannot say, but it soon came about that I was on paternally
familiar terms with the entire neighborhood of maidens of
reasonably tender years, and a very important factor in young
feminine councils. These artful creatures knew exactly when
their favorite roses were in bloom, exactly when the cherries
back of the house were ripe, exactly when it was time to go to
town for another theatre party, to give a picnic up the river, or
a small and informal dance in the parlors. I was expected to
remember and observe all birthdays, to be a well-spring of
benevolence at Christmas, and a free and never-failing florist at
Easter. I was the recipient of all young griefs and troubles, and
no girl ever committed herself unconditionally to the arms of her
lover until she had talked the matter over with Uncle John. All
this, to a good-looking man of--well, considerably over forty,
was flattering, but no sinecure.

One morning, in the late spring, it came over me unhappily that
in a moment of fatal forgetfulness I had promised to be present
that evening at a card-party--a promise exacted by the "Rogers
woman," _persona non grata_ to Prudence. A card-party was to me
in the category with battle and murder and sudden death, from
which we all petition to be delivered in the book of common
prayer--but how to be delivered? I could not be called suddenly
to town, for I had already run that excuse to its full limit. I
could not conveniently start for Europe on an hour's notice. The
plea of sickness I dismissed as feminine and unworthy. And while
I sat debating to what extreme I could tax my over-burdened
conscience, Malachy appeared with the information that he had
discovered unmistakable signs of cutworms in the rose-bushes, and
that the local custodians of the trees were thundering against an
impending epidemic of brown-tailed moth. Surely my path of duty
led to the garden. But that card-party? No, let the cutworm work
his will, and let the brown-tailed moth corrupt; I must take
refuge in flight, however inglorious. It was then that the good
angel, who never forsakes a well-meaning man, whispered to me
that far back in a quiet corner of New England was the little
village where I had passed my boyhood, which I had deserted for
five and twenty years, but which still remembered me as "Johnny"
Stanhope, thanks to the officious longevity of the editor of the
county paper.

The situation I explained briefly to Prudence and Malachy, and
swore them into the conspiracy. I threw a few clothes into a
small trunk, despatched a hypocritical note of regret to Miss
Rogers, caught the noon train, and was soon beyond the danger
line. Mrs. Lot, casting an apprehensive glance behind her, could
not have dreaded more fearful consequences than I, looking back
on the calamity I was evading. But as we went on and on into the
cool, quiet country, and felt the soft air stealing down from the
nearing mountains, I began to experience a lively sense of relief
and pleasure, and to wonder why I had so long delayed a visit to
my boyhood home.

I am sorry for the man whose childhood knew only the roar and
bustle and swiftly shifting scenes of the city. For him there is
no return in after years, no illusion to be renewed, no joy of
youth to be substantiated. His habitation has passed away or
yielded to the inroads of commerce, his landmarks have vanished,
and he is bewildered by the strange sights that time and trade
have put upon his memories. But time has no terrors for the
country-bred boy. The Almighty does not change the mountains and
the rivers and the great rocks that fortify the scenery, and man
is slow to push back into the far meadowlands and the hillsides,
and destroy the simple, primitive life of the fathers.

All of the joy that such a returning pilgrim might have I felt
when I left the train at the junction, and, scorning the pony
engine and combination car supplied in later years by the railway
company as a tribute to progress, set out to walk the two miles
to the village. Every foot of the country I had played over as a
boy. Here was the field where Deacon Skinner did his "hayin'";
just beyond the deacon raised his tobacco crop. That roof over
there, which I once detected as the top of Jim Pomeroy's barn,
reminded me of the day of the raisin', when I sprained my ankle
and thereby saved myself a thrashing for running away. Here was
Pickerel Pond, the scene of many miraculous draughts, and now I
crossed Peach brook which babbled along under the road just as
saucily and untiringly as if it had slept all these years and was
just awaking to fresh life. A hundred rods up the brook was the
Widow Parsons's farm, and I knew that if I went through the side
gate, cut across the barnyard, and kept down to the left, I
should find that same old stump on which Bill Howland sat the day
he caught the biggest dace ever pulled out of the quiet pool.

The sun was going down behind Si Thompson's planing mill as I
stopped at the little red covered bridge that marked the boundary
of the village. Silas had been dead for twenty years, but it
seemed to me that it was only yesterday that I heard his nasal
twang above the roar of the machinery: "Sa-ay, you fellers want
to git out o' that!" The little bridge had lost much of its color
and most of its impressiveness, for I remembered when to my
boyish fancy it seemed a greater triumph of engineering than the
Victoria bridge at Montreal. And the same old thrill went through
me as I started to run--just as I did when a boy--and felt the
planks loosen and creak under my feet. Here was a home-coming
worth the while.

Hank Pettigrew kept the village tavern. The memory of man, so far
as I knew, ran not back to the time when Hank did not keep the
tavern. So I was not in the least surprised, as I entered, to see
the old man, with his chair tilted back against the wall, his
knees on a level with his chin, and his eyes fixed on a chromo of
"Muster Day," which had descended to him through successive
generations. He did not move as I advanced, or manifest the
slightest emotion of surprise, merely saying, "Hullo, Johnny,"
as if he expected me to remark that mother had sent me over to
see if he had any ice cream left over from dinner. It probably
did not occur to Hank that I had been absent twenty-five years.
If it had occurred to him, he would have considered such a
trifling flight of time not worth mentioning.

With the question of lodging and supper disposed of, and with the
modest bribe of a cigar, which Hank furtively exchanged for a
more accustomed brand of valley leaf, it was not difficult to
loosen the old landlord's tongue and secure information of my
playmates. What had become of Teddy Grover, the pride of our
school on exhibition day? Could we ever forget the afternoon he
stood up before the minister and the assembled population and
roared "Marco Bozzaris" until we were sure the sultan was quaking
in his seraglio? And how he thundered "Blaze with your serried
columns, I will not bend the knee!" To our excited imaginations
what dazzling triumphs the future held out for Teddy.

"Yep; Ted's still a-beout. Three days in the week he drives stage
coach over to Spicerville, and the rest o' the time he does odd
jobs--sort o' tendin' round."

And Sallie Cotton--black-eyed, curly-haired, mischievous little
sprite, the agony of the teacher and the love and admiration of
the boys! Who climbed trees, rattled to school in the butcher
wagon, never knew a lesson, but was always leading lady in the
school colloquies, and was surely destined to rise to eminence on
the American stage if she did not break her neck tumbling out of
old Skinner's walnut tree?

"Oh, Sal; she married the Congregational minister down to
Peterfield, and was 'lected president of the Temperance Union and
secretary of the Endeavorers. Read a piece down at Fust Church
last week on 'Breakin' Away from Old Standards,' illustratin' the
alarmin' degen'racy of children nowadays."

And George Hawley, our Achilles, our Samson, our ideal of
everything manly and courageous! Strong as an ox and brave as a
lion! Our champion in every form of athletic sports! Who looked
with contempt on girls and disdained their maidenly advances! Who
thought only of deeds of muscular prowess, and who seemed to
carry the assurance of a force that would lead armies and subdue
nations! What of George?

"Wa-al, George was a-beout not long ago. Had your room for his
samples. Travellin' for a house down in Boston, and comes here
reg'lar. Women folks say his last line o' shirt waists war the
best they ever see."

Oh, the times that change, and change us! Alas, the fleeting
years, good Posthumus, that work such havoc with our childhood
dreams and hopes and aspirations!

It was a relief, after the shattering of these idols, to leave
the society of the communicative Mr. Pettigrew and wander into
the moonlight. Save as adding beauty to the scenery, the moon
was comparatively of no assistance, for so well was the little
village stamped on my memory, and so little had it changed in the
quarter of a century, that I could have walked blindfolded to any
suggested point. Naturally I turned my steps toward the home of
my youth, and as I drew near the old-fashioned, many-gabled
house, with its settled, substantial air, austere yet inviting,
its large yard with the huge elms, and the big lamp burning in
the library or "sittin'-room," where I first dolefully studied
the geography that told me of a world outside, it seemed to bend
toward me rather frigidly as if to say reproachfully: "You sold
me! you sold me!" True, dear old home; in my less prosperous days
I was guilty of the crime of selling the house that faithfully
sheltered my family for a hundred years. But have I not repented?
And have I not returned to buy you back, and to make such further
reparation as present conditions and true repentance demand? Is
this less the pleasure than the duty of wealth?

With what sensations of delight I walked softly about the
grounds, taking note of every familiar tree and bush and stump. I
could have sworn that not a twig, not a blade of grass, had been
despoiled or had disappeared in the years that marked my absence.
I paused reverently under the old willow tree and affectionately
rubbed my legs, for from this tree my parents had cut the
instruments of torture for purposes of castigation, and its name,
the weeping willow, was always associated in my infant mind with
the direct results of contact with my unwilling person. On a
level with the top of the willow was the little attic room where
I slept, and the more sweetly when the crickets chirped, or the
summer rain beat upon the roof, and where the song of the birds
in the morning is the happiest music God has given to the
country. Back of the woodshed I found the remains of an old
grindstone, perhaps the same heavy crank I had so often
perspiringly and reluctantly turned. Indeed my reviving memories
were rather too generously connected with the strenuousness and
not the pleasures of youth, but I thought of the well-filled lot
in the old burying-ground on the hillside, and of those lying
there who had said: "My boy, I am doing this for your good." I
doubted it at the time, but perhaps they were right. At all
events the memories were growing pleasanter, for a stretch of
thirty-five years has many healing qualities, and our childhood
griefs are such little things in the afterglow.

In the early morning I renewed my rambles, going first to the
little frame school-house, the old church with its tall spire,
the saw-mill, the deacon's cider press, the swimming pool, and a
dozen other places of boyish adventure and misadventure. Your
true sentimentalist invariably gives the preference to scenes
over persons, and is so often rewarded by the fidelity with which
they respond to his eager expectations. It was not until I had
exhausted every incident of the place that I sought out the
companions of my school-days. What strange irony of fate is that
which sends some of us out into the restless world to grow away
from our old ideals and make others, and restrains some in the
monotonous rut of village life, to drone peacefully their little
span! But happy he, who, knowing nothing, misses nothing. If
there were any village Hampdens, or mute, inglorious Miltons
among my playmates, they gave no present indications. I found the
girls considerably older than I expected, the boys less
interesting than I hoped; but they all welcomed me with that
grave, unemotional hospitality of the village, and we talked, far
into the shadows, of our schooltime, the day that is never dead
while memory endures.

And so it came about that at the close of day I found myself
standing at the garden gate of the Eastmann cottage. Peleg
Eastmann had been our village postmaster, a grave, shy man, who
had received the federal office because the thrifty neighbors
agreed, irrespective of political feeling, that it was much less
expensive to give him the office than to support him and his two
daughters, the prettiest girls in our school. For they further
agreed that Peleg was a "shif'less sort o' critter" and never
could make a living, though he was a model postmaster and an
excellent citizen and neighbor. Hence, when it came Peleg's turn
to make the journey to the burying-ground in the village hearse,
the whole community of Meadowvale was scandalized by the
discovery that he had left his girls a comfortable little
fortune, enough to keep them in modest wealth. Meadowvale never
recovered from this shock. It felt that it had been victimized,
and that its tenderest sensibility had been violated, and when
his disconsolate daughters put up the granite shaft to their
father's memory, relating that he had been faithful and just, the
indignant political leader of the village remarked that it was
"profanation of Scriptur'."

Thirty years ago I had stood at this little gate with one of the
Eastmann girls, escorting her home from Stella Perkins's party. I
had attempted to kiss her good-night, and she had boxed my ears,
thus contributing a disagreeable finale to an otherwise pleasant
evening. Time is a great healer and I cherished no resentment at
this late day toward the repudiator of my caresses. In fact I
smiled in recollection of the incident as I walked up the
gravelled path and knocked at the door. I wondered if the same
vivacious, rosy-cheeked girl would come to meet me, and if I
should feel in duty bound to make honorable amends. The door was
opened by a tall, spare woman, who carried a lamp. The light
reflected directly on her features, showed a face that in any
other part of the world would be called hard; in New England it
is merely resolute. It was the face of a woman fifty years of
age, with massive chin, slightly sunken cheeks, a prominent nose,
heavy eyebrows, and a high forehead rather scantily streaked by
gray hair. There was no trace of the girlish bloom I had known,
of the beauty that once had been hers, but the imperious manner
of the woman was unmistakable.

"Mary," I began jocularly, "I have come to apologize."

She thrust the lamp forward, peered into my face, and said, with
not the faintest trace of a smile or the slightest evidence of
embarrassment:

"Why, that's all right, Johnny Stanhope. I accept your apology.
Come right in."

I went in. We sat in the sitting-room and talked of our
school-days and our fortunes. I told her how I had gone down to
the city, how I had prospered, of my adventures in the world, of
my marriage--dealing very gently with my relations with the late
Mrs. Stanhope--of my bereavement and present idyllic existence.
And she told me of herself, how she had lived on and on in the
little cottage, caring only for the support and education of her
niece, Phyllis Kinglake, an orphan for nearly twenty years. "You
remember Sylvia?" she said, with the first touch of emotion.

Did I remember Sylvia? My little fair-haired playmate with the
large eyes and the blue veins showing through the delicate beauty
of her face? Little Sylvia, who first won my boyish affection,
and with whom I made a solemn contract of marriage when we were
only seven years old? Did I not remember how I would pass her
house on my way to school, and stand at the gate and whistle
until she came shyly out, with her face as red as her little hood
and tippet, and give me her books to carry, and protest with the
ever present coquetry of girlhood that she thought I had gone
long ago? Could I ever forget how I saved my coppers, one by one,
until I had accumulated a sum large enough to buy a whole
cocoanut, which I presented to her in the proudest moment of my
life, and how the other girls tossed their heads with the
affectation of a sneer, and with pretended indifference to this
astonishing stroke of fortune? And that fatal evening when I
provoked my little beauty's wrath, and in all the receding
opportunities of "Post-Office" and "Copenhagen" she had turned
her face and rosy lips away from me, until the world was black
with a hopeless despair? And the singing-school where she was our
shining ornament, and that blissful night when I stood up with
her in the village church, while we sang our duet descriptive of
the special virtues of some particular flower nominated in the
cantata? And how, growing older and shyer, we still preserved our
youthful fancy even to the day I struck out into the world, both
believing in the endurance of the tie that would draw me back?
What caprice of fate is it that dispels the illusions of youth
and restores them tenfold in the reflection of after years and
over the gulf of the grave? Did I remember Sylvia?

Then Mary went on to tell me of Sylvia's happy marriage to George
Kinglake, how, when little Phyllis had come, and the world was
at its brightest, the parents had been stricken down in the same
week by a virulent disease, and how, with her dying breath, the
mother had asked her sister to look after her little one and
protect her from sorrow and harm. Very simply this stern-featured
woman told the story of her efforts to do her duty to her
sister's child, and it seemed to me that her face grew softer and
her voice gentler as she went over the years they had grown older
together, while the beauty of this woman's life was glorified by
the willing sacrifices of imposed motherhood. I could not see
Phyllis, for she was spending the night with friends in another
part of the village. Next time, she hoped, I might be more
successful.

Walking slowly to the tavern my mind still went back to my little
playmate and the golden days of youth, and if my heart grew a
little tenderer, and my eyes were moistened by the recall, what
need to be ashamed of the emotion? And if in the night I dreamed
that I was a boy again, and that a fair-haired child played with
me in the changing glow of dreamland in the best and purest
scenes of the human comedy, was it a delusion to be dispelled, a
memory to be put aside? Did I remember Sylvia?




The thought that my train was to leave at ten o'clock did not
depress me as I awoke, with the sunlight streaming through the
window, for, after all, I was obliged to admit that the monotony
of Meadowvale and the sluggishness of my village friends were
beginning to have an appreciable effect. Then the memory of
little Sylvia came to me again, and nothing seemed pleasanter, as
a benediction to the old days, than a visit to the burying-ground
where she was sleeping. The previous day I had paid the
obligations of remembrance and respect to the graves of
my kindred, and it gave me at first an uncomfortable feeling
to realize that the thought of them was less potent than
the recollection of this young girl. But was it strange or
inexcusable? Had they not lived out their lives of honored
usefulness, and grown old and weary of the battle? And had
not she passed away just as the greater joys of living were
unfolding, and the assurance of happiness was the stronger?
Poor Sylvia!

The spectacle of a correctly dressed, middle-aged man passing
down the street, bearing a somewhat cumbersome burden of
lilies-of-the-valley and forget-me-nots, must have had its
peculiar significance to the inhabitants of the village, and many
curious glances were my reward. I passed along, however, without
explanations in distinct violation of rural etiquette. The old
caretaker of the burying-ground met me at the entrance and gave
me the directions--second path to the right, half way up the
hill, just to the left of the big elm. The old man had known me
as a boy and would have detained me in conversation, but I
pleaded that my time was short, and reluctantly he let me go my
way. Slowly up the hill I walked, occasionally pausing to place a
forget-me-not on the grave of one I had known in childhood. Even
old Barrows did not escape my passing tribute--a cynical,
cross-grained old fellow, the aversion of the boys, who tormented
him and whom he tormented with reciprocal vigor. No need of a
forget-me-not for Barrows, for he never forgot anything, so I
gave his somewhat neglected grave the token of a long stem of
little lilies, in evidence that the past was forgiven, and moved
on to avoid possible protestation.

I paused under the wide-branching elm to recover my breath. The
assent had been arduous for a gentleman inclined to portliness
and with wind impaired by tobacco. I turned to the left, and at
that moment, just before me, a woman's figure slowly rose from
the ground. A creeping sensation possessed me. My heart bounded
and my pulses thrilled. Was this Sylvia risen from the dead?
Surely it was Sylvia's graceful girlish form! This was Sylvia's
oval face, with Sylvia's large gray eyes. In such a way Sylvia's
pretty light hair waved about her temples, and the pink and
white of her delicate complexion revealed the blue veins.
Twenty-five years had rolled back in an instant, and I was
standing in the presence of the past. Alas, the swift passing of
the illusion, for the conversation of the evening came to me.

"You are Phyllis?" I said.

"I am Phyllis," she answered softly--her mother's voice--"and you
are Mr. Stanhope. My aunt told me."

I did not answer, for I was staring stupidly at her, reluctant to
abandon the pleasing fancy that my thinking of her had brought
her back from the dead again. She did not speak, but glanced
inquiringly at the flowers I held in my hand.

"I knew your mother, Phyllis," I managed to say. "She was a very
dear playmate of my childhood. I have brought these flowers to
put upon her grave. Shall we go together?"

The girl's eyes filled, and she pointed to the rising mound at
her feet. Silently we bent over and reverently laid the lilies
and forget-me-nots under the simple headstone.

"May I talk to you of your mother?" I asked.

We sat down on a rude bench in the path, and I told her of my
childhood, of the days when Sylvia and I were sweethearts, of our
little quarrels and frolics, of her mother's beauty and
gentleness. The girl laughed at the recital of our misadventures,
and the tears came into her eyes when I touched on my boyish
affection for my playmate. Then she told me of her own life, so
peaceful and happy in the little village, and in the neighboring
town, where she had been educated with all the care and diligence
of the New England impulse. I looked at my watch.

"It is quarter past eleven," I said ruefully, "and my train left
at ten."

"There's another train at three," she replied. "You will go home
and dine with us? We dine at twelve in the country, you know."

If I was somewhat ashamed to face Mary Eastmann, she received us
with the same stolidity she had manifested when we first met, and
at once insisted that I should remain for dinner. "Go into the
parlor," she said abruptly.

Phyllis plucked the sleeve of my coat. "Don't go in there," she
whispered; "that's Aunt Mary's room exclusively, and I'm afraid
you'll not find it very cheerful. Come out on the porch."

"I know the room," I whispered back, as we went out together. "At
least I know the type. Lots of horse-hair belongings. Square
piano against the wall. Wax flowers under a glass case on the
mantel. Steel engravings of Washington crossing the Delaware.
Family album, huge Bible, and 'Famous Women of Two Centuries' on
the centre table. Seashells, blue wedgwood and German china
things mingled in delightful confusion on the what-not. If not
wax flowers, it's wax fruit."

Phyllis laughed--how much her laugh was like her mother's--and
nodded her head. "Not a bad description," she assented; "you must
have the gift of second sight."

"Not second sight. Suppose we call it the gift of second
childhood."

We sat on the porch and looked down on the lawn that sloped to
the orchard, and watched the robins run across the grass. And I
pointed out to Phyllis the very tree under which Sylvia and I had
stood the day we had our first memorable quarrel, confessing that
while at the time there was no doubt in my mind that Sylvia was
clearly at fault, I was now prepared to concede, after plenty of
reflection, that possibly she might have had a reasonable defence.
The recital of this pathetic incident led to other reminiscences
connected with the old house and its grounds, and I was hardly in
the second chapter when Mary came out and ordered us in to dinner.
Mary never invited, never requested; she merely ordered. We sat at
the table, and at a severe look from Mary I stopped fumbling with
my napkin, while Phyllis--sweet saint!--folded her hands and asked
the divine blessing. Pagan philosopher that I was, I was singularly
moved by the simple faith of these two women, and I think that when
I am led back into the fold of my family creed, a girl as young and
fair and holy as Phyllis will be the angel to guide me.

The dinner was toothsome, the environment fascinating, the
afternoon perfect, and so it came about quite naturally that I
missed the three-o'clock train. "There is nothing so disagreeable
in life," I explained apologetically to my friends, "as a hard
and fast schedule, which keeps one jumping like an electric
clock, doing sixty things every hour and never varying the
performance. Fortunately trains run every day except Sunday, and
the general order of the universe is not going to be upset
because I am not checking myself off like a section-hand."

Perhaps Mary did not wholly coincide with my argument, but she
was called away to her sewing-circle, while Phyllis and I lounged
lazily on the porch, I continuing my reminiscences. Garrulity
is not merely the prerogative of age; the privilege of the
monologue is always that of the old boy who comes back to his
childhood's home and finds in a pretty girl a charming and
attentive listener. He is a poor orator, indeed, who cannot
improve such opportunities. At a convenient lull in the flow of
discourse we went off to ride, exploring the country roads I knew
so well, and here began new matter and new reminiscences, patiently
endured by Phyllis, who was a most delightful girl. And when we
returned late in the afternoon it was directly in the line of
circumstances that I should remain for tea; and after tea Phyllis
played and sang for me in the little parlor, for Phyllis was a
musician of no small merit. When in reply to my inquiry she sang
a simple Scotch ballad her mother had sung so touchingly many
years before, a great lump rose in my throat, and I sat far over
in the shadow that she and Mary might not see how blurred were my
eyes, and how unmanageable my emotion. At what age does it come
to a man and a philosopher that he is no longer ashamed of
honest, sympathetic tears?

I shall never know whether it was the journey in the train,
the air and cooking of Meadowvale, or the visits to the
burying-ground, that upset me, but for the first time in a dozen
years I found myself dissatisfied with my home. I remarked to
Malachy that the roses seemed to be in a most discouraging
condition, and that the garden in general was altogether
disappointing. I noticed that my dogs barked a great deal, that
the neighbors had become most tiresome, and that Bunsey was an
unmitigated nuisance. Even the cuisine, which had been my pride
and boast, grew at times unbearable, and I had not been home a
fortnight before I astonished Prudence by positively assuring her
that the dinner she had set before me was not worth any sane
man's serious attention. Whereupon that excellent woman announced
with superb pride that she "guessed it was about time for that
Rogers woman to give another card-party."

"Prudence," I said severely, for I encourage no flippancy on the
part of domestics, "that remark, while probably hasty and
ill-considered, borders on impertinence. I shall overlook it this
time on account of your faithful services in the past. But don't
let it happen again. In any event," I amended considerately,
"don't let it drop in my presence."

Thinking it over I came to the conclusion that Prudence was right
in the general effect of the suggestion. What I needed was a
change of scene. Long abstention from travel and variety of
incident had made me restless and discontented. I had not been in
Europe for two years. Undoubtedly I was pining for a lazy tour of
the Continent. The thought decided me. I should book my passage
on the steamer that sailed the Saturday of the following week.

Strangely enough, at this interesting moment, I received a letter
from the chairman of the committee on public improvements in the
village of Meadowvale, announcing that it had been resolved to
procure new rooms for the village library, and would Mr. John
Stanhope do his native village the honor of subscribing a small
amount toward this desirable end. As it is always much easier for
an indolent man to telegraph than to write letters, I replied by
wire that Mr. Stanhope felt himself much honored by the request.
Not entirely satisfied with this confession, I sent a second
telegram an hour later doubling my subscription. Still my
conscience troubled me.

"I have not done my duty," I said to myself. "Here I am, a man of
means, I may say of large wealth, with no special obligations
resting upon me, and yet I have done nothing to benefit or enrich
my old home. It is strange that it has not occurred to me before
what a privilege, what an honor, it is to be a philanthropist
even in a small way, and with what alacrity those whom Heaven has
blessed with a fortune should respond to the calls of deserving
need. I blush for my past thoughtlessness, and I shall hasten to
atone for my astonishing neglect. My duty lies before me, and I
shall not shrink from it, whatever the personal inconvenience."

Thereupon I telegraphed for the third time to the chairman that
it would give Mr. Stanhope the greatest pleasure to put up a
suitable library for the village of Meadowvale, and, in order to
guard against any possible misunderstanding, he would depart the
following day to confer with the committee as to site and
probable extent of the structure. This concession to my
conscience comforted me greatly, and I prepared for my journey
with a lightness that was almost buoyancy. The chairman and two
of the committee met me at the junction. They were most
deprecatory and apologetic, and mentioned with evident sorrow
the absence of several of the members which might cause a
postponement of the conference until the following day. I bore up
under this intelligence with astonishing cheerfulness.

"My good friends," I said, "don't let this disturb you for a
minute. I am not so pressed for time that I cannot wait on your
reasonable convenience. Your tavern is well kept and the food is
wholesome. I think I may say that my old friends in Meadowvale
will interest me until we can come to an amicable understanding.
Suppose, to be sure of a full meeting, that we fix the time of
conference at day after to-morrow--a little late in the
afternoon."

After this suggestion had been received with suitable expressions
of gratitude, we journeyed together to the village, where I was
duly turned over to old Pettigrew. And then, as the day was by no
means done, I strolled down the street and, most naturally and
quite unthinkingly, found myself a few minutes later looking over
the Eastmann gate at Phyllis on the porch. To say that this
charming girl was surprised by my sudden appearance was no less
true than to admit that she did not seem in the least displeased.
I positively had no intention of going in, but before I knew it I
was sitting beside her, relating in the most casual way the
reason of my coming.

"How good it was of you," said the ingenuous creature, "and how
delighted and grateful Meadowvale will be. It must be glorious to
be rich enough to do things for other people."

Now it is not a disagreeable sensation to feel that one is rich
and good and glorious in the large gray eyes of a very pretty
woman, and I was conscious of the mild intoxication from the
compliment. "It is, indeed," I answered magnanimously. "I have
always maintained that money is given to us in trust for those
around us, and that in making others happy we find our greatest
happiness. I regret that I have not wholly lived up to this
undeniably correct principle."

"It will require at least a thousand dollars," she said naïvely.

"Oh, at least."

She was silent a moment. Then she said: "I was wondering what I
would do if I had a thousand dollars to give away."

"What do you think you would do?"

"Speaking for my own preferences I think I should like to
establish a country club."

"The very thing. If there is one crying want more than another in
Meadowvale it is a country club, with golf links, tennis courts,
and shower baths."

"Now you are laughing at me."

"Not at all. Fancy old Hank and you playing a foursome with Aunt
Mary and me for the cider and apples. Why, it would add years of
robustness to our waning lives."

"No," said the girl decisively. "It isn't feasible."

"Then," I went on musingly, "we might have an Art Institute, or
the Phyllis Kinglake School of Expression, or the Meadowvale
Woman's Club, or the Colonial Dames, or, best of all, the
Daughters of the American Revolution."

"That shows how little you appreciate the local situation," she
responded quickly, "for your best of all is worse and worse.
Imagine an order of Daughters in a place where every woman's
ancestors did nothing but fight in the Revolution. As well call a
town meeting at once. Ah,"--with a sigh--"I see that I shall
never spend the thousand dollars in Meadowvale."

"Don't be too sure of that, my dear Phyllis," I exclaimed in an
outburst, for I was in a particularly happy and generous mood;
"and remember that when you do decide how the money is to be
philanthropically invested we shall see that it is forthcoming."

With such agreeable banter the minutes slipped away, and when
Mary appeared with the customary invitation to tea, it would have
been a jolt to the harmonious order of things to decline. I
cannot say that I have ever cordially approved the austerity of
the New England tea-table, with its cold bread and biscuits, its
applesauce, its frugal allowance of sardines, its basket of cake,
and its not very stimulating pot of tea. But such are the
compensations of pleasant society that even these chilly viands
may be forgotten, and I said my "Amen" to Phyllis's sweet and
modest grace with all the heartiness of a thankful man. As no
gentleman may, with propriety, run away immediately after he has
accepted hospitality, I lingered in the evening, and we had more
music, which so calmed and rested me that I wondered at my past
nervousness and marvelled that I had even contemplated a journey
across the water.

How it came about that the next morning Phyllis and I were
strolling over the village, down by the river and into the
pleasant woods, I have forgotten, but I dare say that we were
discussing further developments of philanthropy, and endeavoring
to come to a conclusion as to the proper disposition of that
troublesome thousand dollars. The girl was so young and
joyous, so pretty, so arch, so fascinating with that little
coquettishness that is not the usual type of the Puritan maiden,
I could not find it in my heart to remember Mary's words and "try
to instil in her a closer appreciation of the more serious
purposes of life." Indeed life is so serious that it is one of
the blessed decrees of Mother Nature that we have that brief
allotment of time when it is too serious to think about, and
youth passes so quickly that it is criminal to rob it of its
golden hour. In such a presence I felt my own spirits rising, my
step becoming springy, my whole nature less sluggish, and, had I
looked in the mirror, I should have confidently expected to see a
youthful bloom in my cheeks and a return of hair to primary
conditions.

It is due to this interesting young woman to say that she coyly
urged me not to forget my other friends, since I was to leave so
soon, and it pleased me to fancy that she was not altogether
offended when I spoke somewhat hastily and rather flippantly of
those of my former companions who had lapsed into tediousness. I
reminded her also that as the happiest memory of my childhood was
associated with her mother, so it was sweet to me to be with her
and live again, in a pleasant dream, the brightness of the past.
Then, for her mother's sake, she shyly let me take her hand while
I went over again, not without emotion, the story of my early
love. Dear little Sylvia!

The meeting of the committee was followed by a general
congregation of citizens, and I was invited to the platform,
where I outlined my plans. I hinted that the library was merely
the beginning of a number of beneficences which I desired to
contribute to Meadowvale's prosperity, and as I looked down upon
my listeners and caught sight of Phyllis, glancing up with
flushed cheeks and sparkling eyes, I was nearly betrayed into
promises of the most preposterous nature. At the end of
my remarks--I recall that I spoke with unusual grace and
eloquence--the chairman stood up and gravely thanked me,
intimating that I was a credit to Meadowvale and its perfect
public school system. I fancy I should have been applauded if it
had been compatible with the nature of the people of Meadowvale
to make so riotous a demonstration. At the close of the meeting
it happened, by the purest accident, that I walked home with Mary
and Phyllis, and when Mary said in her blunt way that I really
had been most generous, Phyllis did not speak, but she slipped
her hand under my arm and gave me an appreciative little squeeze,
which made me regret that I had not pledged another thousand.

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 assistance, 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
embarrassed. To be called "papa" the first time by a pretty girl
was more embarrassing 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 Othello
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 noble 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 Japan
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
analyzed 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
assuring 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, analyzed 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 analogous case, but while I
knew that I possessed such a book I could not remember the
circumstances 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 assure 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, passing
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 passed 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 embarrassed, as if she knew what
was passing in my mind. I have always believed that women, in
addition to their acknowledged intuition, have a special sense
that enables them to anticipate a declaration of passion, and I
had no doubt that Phyllis was fully prepared for my confession in
spite of her embarrassment. 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 embarrassment 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."

I seized her other hand and held her firmly. "About fifty
minutes."

She laughed, rather joyously I thought. "And having loved me for
fully fifty minutes, you wish to make me your wife? Confiding
man!"

"Little girl," I said tenderly, "let us be serious. If my dull
consciousness did not awaken till an hour ago, my heart tells me
that I have loved you ever since I first saw you standing near
this spot. I am not going to ask you now whether you love me, or
ever can learn to love me. It is happiness enough for me to-day
to know how much I love you, and to know that I have told you of
that love. I do not care to have my dream too rudely and too
suddenly dispelled. Very probably you do not care for me as I
should like to have you care for me, but do not make a jest of my
affection. I am wholly aware of the preposterousness of my
demands in many respects"--this sounded very conventional and
commonplace, but every lover must say it--"and, believe me, I
shudder when I think of what I have dared confess."

Then she said with the most delightful demureness: "Mr. Stanhope,
is it likely that a girl would sit in a burying-ground on a bench
with a gentleman, allowing him to hold both her hands, unless she
cared for him a little--just a little?"

Up to this moment I had fairly forgotten that I was depriving her
of all power of resistance, but with such encouragement I took an
even more sympathetic grasp and sat a trifle closer, while the
minutes ticked away. A robin flew down from the tree near by and
saucily hopped toward us, until at a rebuking call from his mate
he flew away, and I fancied that I could hear them talking over
the situation, and drawing conclusions from their own happiness.
Phyllis was the first to break the charming spell.

"Mr. Stanhope," she asked, hardly above a whisper, "what did Aunt
Mary say when you told her that you wished to make me your
wife?"

"She said, Phyllis, that Providence may have decreed that I am
the man to bring you happiness."

And still in that same enchanting whisper, with her face a little
rosier, as she half hid it below my shoulder: "Mr. Stanhope, do
you think that a girl with my Christian training could fly in the
face of Providence?"




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!"

"Prudence," I said rather hotly, for I did not relish her
amazement, "you will oblige me by not speaking of these ladies as
the 'lamb' and 'the other one.' I might gather from your remarks
that I am a sort of ravening wolf, instead of a well-meaning
gentleman who is merely exercising the privilege of selecting a
wife. But," I said, checking myself, for I was ashamed of my
explosion, "I shall be magnanimous enough to believe that you are
delighted with my choice, and that I have your congratulations.
You will be glad to know that Miss Kinglake and I are perfectly
satisfied with each other, and that we are both entirely
satisfied with you. And now that we understand the situation, I
think I may presume that we shall have breakfast at the usual
hour this morning, and to-morrow morning, and for many mornings
to come. And, by the way, Prudence, while I have honored you
with my confidence, permit me to impress it upon you that this
revelation is not village gossip as yet, and you will put me
under further obligations by not mentioning the circumstance.
Good-morning, Prudence. Kindly call the ladies at eight o'clock."

And thereupon I hastily departed, leaving the good woman in a
state of stupefaction, since, for the first and only time in our
long and controversial association, had I retired with the last
word. Taking a second turn in the garden I encountered Malachy,
and my conscience reproached me. "Am I doing right," I asked
myself, "in withholding the glad news from this faithful servant
who has shown himself so worthy of my confidence? Is it not my
duty to tell him--not so much to interest him in his future
mistress as to demonstrate the trust I repose in him?"

Malachy received my confidence with less excitement than I had
expected. In fact I was slightly humiliated by his seeming lack
of gratitude. He touched his hat very respectfully, and observed
irrelevantly that the roses below the arbor were looking
uncommonly well. This was a poor reward for my attempt at
consideration, and further convinced me of the uselessness
of establishing anything like intimate relations with the
proletariat.

"By the way, Malachy," I said in parting, "you will keep this
matter a profound secret. Miss Kinglake and I are desirous that
we shall not be annoyed by village chatter and premature
congratulations."

Having discharged my duty to my good servants, I felt that my
obligations, so far as the relation with Phyllis was concerned,
were at an end, and the morning wore away without further
misgivings of disloyalty. In the afternoon Bunsey came over for
his daily smoke, and as we sat together in the library, and I
noticed the entire absence of suspicion in his manner, my heart
smote me. "Truly," I reasoned silently, "I am behaving ill to an
old friend who has never withheld from me the very secrets of his
soul. Should I not be as generous, as outspoken, with him as he
has always proved to me? Should I not confide to him this one
precious secret, at the same time swearing him to preserve it as
he would his life?"

I blew out a ring of smoke, and then I began with the utmost
seriousness: "Bunsey, how do you like the ladies?"

He shifted his position, tipped the ashes from his cigar, and
replied tranquilly: "Oh, I dare say I shall in time."

The answer vexed me. Bunsey was a bachelor, and should have been
therefore the more impressionable. I forgot for the moment, in my
annoyance, that he was a novelist, and had been so diligently
creating lovely and impossible women to order that he was not
easily moved by the realities of humanity.

"At all events," I replied with delicate irony, "I am glad that
the future is hopeful for the ladies. My reason for asking the
question was simply to lead the way to a confidence I intend to
repose in you. To proceed expeditiously to the end of a long
story, I intend to marry one of them."

Bunsey's tranquillity was unshaken. "Which one?"

"Which one?" I echoed with heat, "why, Miss Kinglake, of course."

"Does she intend to marry you?"

"Naturally."

"Or unnaturally?"

"Confound your impertinence!" I roared, "what do you mean by
that?"

"No impertinence, at all, my dear fellow. In fact it is most
pertinent. Miss Kinglake is a girl, and you--well, you voted for
Grant."

"Which is your gentle way of saying that I am too old."

"No, not too old; just old enough--to know better."

"We are never too old to love," I said, conscious that I was
uttering a melancholy platitude.

"Too old to love? Heaven forbid! But we may be too old to
marry--at least to marry anybody worth while. Come, Stanhope,
tell me: do you really love this young woman?"

"Love her? Here I have been telling you that I intend to marry a
charming girl, and you turn about and ask me if I love her. Of
course I love her. I have been loving her in one way and another
for years."

"What do you mean by that? I thought you only met her a few weeks
ago."

I smiled pityingly. "So I did, but for years she has been my
affinity. Incidentally I don't mind saying I began by loving her
mother."

Bunsey sat up straight. "Oh, you loved her mother. Was her mother
pretty?"

"She was as you see Phyllis. In fact I think she was, if
anything, a trifle prettier. We were playmates and schoolmates,
and in the nature of things, if I had not wandered off to the
city, I presume we should have married. Dear little Sylvia," I
went on musingly, "I can see her at this moment, looking down
from heaven and smiling on my union with her daughter. For if
ever a match was made in heaven this was. Confound it! what are
you doing now?"

While I was talking Bunsey had reached over, taken a sheet of
paper and was busily writing. He looked up carelessly.

"Your story interests me, and is such good material that I
thought I would make a few notes. Young boy loves young
girl--goes to city--forgets her--young girl marries--has charming
daughter--dies--years pass--venerable gentleman returns--sees
daughter--great emotion on part of v. g.--thinks he loves
her--proposes--accepted--mar--no, there I think I must stop for
the present."

"Oh, don't stop there, I beg," I said sarcastically; "if you are
thinking of using these materials for one of your popular
novels, be sure to throw in a few duels, several heartrending
catastrophes, and other incidents of what you call 'action,'
appropriately expressed in bad English."

Bunsey was imperturbable. "Thank you for your appreciative
estimate of my literary style," he replied coolly; "but really,
my consideration for my old friend deprives me of the pleasure of
robbing his diary."

I was still out of temper. "Bunsey, I don't mind favoring you
with a further confidence. You're an ass!"

With this parting shot I strode out of the library, when,
remembering the sacredness of my revelation, I turned back.

"Of course you will understand, Bunsey, that however flippantly
you may choose to regard what I have said to you, you will have
the decency to keep the subject-matter to yourself. I do not ask
your congratulations or your approval, but I demand your
secrecy."

"The ass brays acknowledgments," answered Bunsey meekly, helping
himself to another cigar. "You may rely on my loyal and devoted
interest. The fact that I have heard your secret twice before
to-day shall not open my lips or cause me to violate your trust."

Notwithstanding my attitude of indifference I was greatly
troubled by Bunsey's unfeeling suggestion. Could it be possible
that I had mistaken my own heart? Was I, yielding, as I had
believed, to the first strong passion of my life, only deluding
myself with a remembrance of my vanished youth? I dismissed the
thought impatiently. For, after all, was not Bunsey a hopeless
cynic, a fellow without a single emotion of the ennobling
sentiment of man toward woman, a sordid story-teller, who created
characters for money, wrecked homes, committed literary murders,
played unfeelingly on the tenderest sensibilities, and boasted
openly that the only angels were those made by a stroke of the
pen and retailed at department store book-counters? And while
thus reasoning Phyllis came to me, so winsome in her girlish
beauty, so radiant in the happiness I had infused into her life,
so joyous in the pleasures of the present, that I laughed at my
own doubts, reproached myself for my own unworthy suspicions, and
straightway forgot both Bunsey and his evil promptings.




Love at eight and forty is a very pleasant and indolent emotion,
marking the most delightful stage in the progress of the great
human passion. At twenty-five we talk it; at thirty-five we act
it; at forty-five it is pleasant to sit down and think about it.
The very young man loves without really analyzing. Ten years
later he analyzes without really loving. In another decade he has
compounded the proportions of love and analysis, and becomes,
under favoring conditions, the most dangerous and hence the most
acceptable of suitors. The man in middle life takes his adored
one tolerantly, and keeps his reservations to himself. In the
ordinary course of events he has acquired a certain knowledge of
feminine character, he knows the rocks and the shoals of love,
and, skillful pilot that he is, he avoids them. He is sure of his
course, master of his equipment. If he errs at all--but I
anticipate.

Those were very joyous days, notwithstanding the applications
of cold water so liberally bestowed by my confidential advisers.
And eagerly and successfully I exerted myself to convince
the doubting ones in general, and Bunsey in particular, how
absurd were their suspicions, and how apparent it was that Phyllis
and I had been purposely created for each other. Mary threw
herself into our pleasures as heartily and joyously as her New
England nature would permit, which was never a very riotous
demonstration, and Phyllis, with the effervescence and enthusiasm
of girlhood, eagerly assented to every proposition that had
its pleasure-seeking side; while I, as a thoughtful lover
should, busied myself in schemes for summer dissipation, thankful
that it was in my power to prove so devoted a knight, and
inwardly rejoicing at my triumph over those who had taxed me
with such unworthy thoughts. Even Frederick--good fellow that
he was--allowed himself unusual days of vacation to partake of our
merriment, and it pleased me greatly to see that when business
cares or physical disinclination kept me off the programme, he no
longer allowed his indifference to interfere with his duty as my
nephew and personal representative. Such, I take it, is the
obligation of all young men similarly placed.

For, before many weeks had passed, I discovered that it was not
wise to allow the fleeting dissipations of the moment, however
alluring, to monopolize time which should be given to the serious
affairs of life. I found that a cramped position in a boat in the
hot sun brought on nervous headaches, and that too much time in
the garden when the dew was falling was conducive to lumbago.
Furthermore I had been invited by a neighboring university to
deliver my celebrated lecture on the protagonism of Plato, and
several new and excellent thoughts had come to me which required
careful and elaborate development. I explained these matters
conscientiously and fully to Phyllis, and while she offered no
unreasonable protest, her pretty face clouded, and she did me the
honor to say that half the enjoyment was removed by my absence.
Once she even went so far as to declare that Plato was a "horrid
man," and that she believed I thought more of him than of her--a
most ridiculous conclusion but so essentially feminine that I
forgave her at once. And, when she came to me, and put her arms
around my neck and urged me to go with her to a tennis match--a
foolish game where grown-up people knock little balls over a net
with a battledore--I pointed out to her that such spectacles,
while eminently proper for young folk, argued a failing mind in
those of maturer years. With a charming pout she said:

"Do you think you would have refused to go if my mother had asked
you?"

Now tennis is a sport that has come up since Sylvia and I were
children together, but I recalled, with a guilty blush, the time
when she and I won the village championship in doubles in an all
day siege of croquet, so what could I say in my own defence?
Therefore I went with Phyllis to the tennis-court and sat for two
long and inexpressibly dreary hours watching the senseless and
stupid proceedings. It was pleasant to reflect that I was with
Sylvia's daughter, and I tried to imagine that the keen interest
of youth still remained, but I was sadly out of place. I am
satisfied that this game of tennis has nothing of the fascinating
quality of croquet. On our arrival home Phyllis kissed me, and
thanked me for what she called my "self-denial," but after that
one experience Frederick represented me at the tennis-court, as,
indeed, the good-natured boy consented to do at many similar
festivities.

And so the summer wore gradually away, one day's enjoyment
lazily following another's, with nothing to disturb the serenity
of my life, or to interfere with the calm content into which I
had settled. Phyllis was everything that a moderate and
reasonable lover could wish--kind, gentle, affectionate within
the bounds of maidenly discretion, attentive to my wishes,
and considerate of my caprices. The more I saw of her the
more I was persuaded that I had chosen wisely and well. One
afternoon--Frederick, at my suggestion, had gallantly given up
his work in the office and taken Phyllis down the river. I sat
with Bunsey in the library, and took occasion to expound to him
the philosophy of perfect love.

"The trouble is," I said, "that people rush blindly into
matrimony. They think they are in love, work themselves up to the
proper pitch of madness, propose and marry while they are in
delirium. Hence, so much of the wretchedness and misery that we
see in the homes of our friends. For my part I am committed to
the doctrine of affinities. It is true that I, like many others,
was guilty of the usual folly in my youth, and perhaps that gave
me the wisdom to wait for my second venture until precisely the
fight party came along. Matrimony, Bunsey, is an exact science.
If we regulate our passion, control all silly emotion, study
feminine nature as critically and methodically as we investigate
a mathematical problem, and commit ourselves only when the
affinity presents herself, we shall make no mistakes. For, after
all, what is an affinity? Nothing more than a human being sent by
Providence as perfectly adapted to the wheels and curves of your
nature."

"A very pretty theory," retorted Bunsey, grimly; "and, by the
way, when do you think of rushing into matrimony?"

"Really," I said, somewhat confused, "to be entirely honest with
you, I have not settled on any particular day. You see Phyllis
should have her fling. She is very young."

"True, but you are not."

As Bunsey said this he rose and tossed his cigar out of the
window. "Stanhope," he went on, "we are old friends, and I don't
wish to be continually seeming to interfere with your business,
but if I were a man with fifty years leering hideously at me, and
engaged to a pretty girl of two and twenty, I'd make quick work
of it before Providence came along with a younger affinity in a
Panama hat, negligée shirt, and duck trousers."

I stared at him with a sort of helpless amazement. "Exactly what
do you mean?" I asked.

"Well," he answered, shrugging his shoulders, "at the risk of
being kicked out of the house, let me say that I think such an
affinity has already presented himself."

"Indeed, and who may that be?"

"Suppose we say Frederick."

"My nephew?"

"Exactly; your nephew. He is an uncommonly good-looking fellow,
and, thanks to his uncle's childlike belief in Providence and
the doctrine of affinities, he has most unusual opportunities to
test that doctrine for himself. I dare say that he is making a
formal study of the situation at this very moment, and inviting
Providence to appear on the scene as his sponsor."

What more was said at this interview, if, indeed, it did
not terminate with this brutal statement, I cannot recall,
for Bunsey, usually so flippant and cynical, spoke with an
earnestness that stunned me. My knowledge of the philosophy of
love told me that he was wrong; my observation of the actualities
of life made me fear that he might be right. Theoretically, I
could not have been mistaken in my course; practically, I began
to see weak spots in the chain of evidence. Swiftly, I ran over
the events of the spring and summer, and as little spots no
bigger than a man's hand magnified themselves into black clouds,
Bunsey, sitting opposite, seemed to grow larger and larger, and
his smile more malicious and demon-like. Possibly, had I been a
younger and more impetuous man, I should have flown into a
passion, taken Bunsey at his word, and kicked him out of the
house; but the philosophy of the thing engrossed me, filled me
with half fear, half curiosity, and engaged all my mental
faculties. Had I been mistaken? Could I be deceived in the
daughter of Sylvia?

However strong my suspicions may have been, they were not
increased when, with the evening, Phyllis and Frederick came home
from their excursion. Never was Phyllis more unreserved, more
cordial, more joyous, more attentive to the little wants, which
I, in a mean and shameful test, imposed on her. She could not be
acting a part, this New England girl, with her alert conscience,
her Puritan impulse and training, her aversion to everything that
savored of deceit. And Frederick was as much at his ease as if I
knew nothing, as if I had not heard of his duplicity, as if the
whole house and grounds were not ringing with accusations of his
unworthiness. Such are the phenomena of the philosophy of middle
life, I insisted that he should remain for the evening, and,
after dinner, with that contrariness accountable only in a true
student of psychology, I made a trifling excuse and walked down
to the square, leaving them together.

The curfew was ringing as, returning, I entered the lower gate at
the end of the garden, and passed slowly along by the arbor. It
may have been Providence, it may have been chance, it certainly
was not philosophy that directed my steps to the far side of the
syringa hedge which shut me off from the view of those who might
come down to the rustic seat at the foot of the cherry tree. At
least I had no intention of playing the spy, and when I heard
Frederick's voice, and knew instinctively that Phyllis was with
him, I quickened my pace that I might not be a sharer of their
secrets. But an irresistible impulse made me pause when I heard
the foolish fellow say:

"After to-night I shall not come again. It is better for us to
break now than to wait until it is too late."

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. God 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 passion 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 shagginess 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
cockles as I recalled his words. Bravely said, my boy, and nobly
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 gods
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 passed 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 rôle 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 pass 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-godmother, who had taken the form for good purposes.
I would have said fairy-godfather, but I have never come across a
fairy-godfather in all my reading, and I must be truthful. Well,
the fairy-godmother 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 passing 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 shore, 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!




TRANSCRIBER'S NOTES

Page 103: Changed housekeeper to house-keeper for consistency.

Page 116: Changed typo "effervesence" to "effervescence."

Page 142: Changed typo "moolight" to "moonlight."





End of Project Gutenberg's The Romance of an Old Fool, by Roswell Field