“Well, I’m not Amanda!” she said, gaily. “Nobody thought of giving me that name! But I’m sorry you don’t like the name of Sylvia!—I rather fancy it myself!”
The Philosopher made no further comment just then. This conversation had taken place in the very early days of his acquaintance with the Sentimentalist, and he was careful of his ground. Greatly as he admired his own rudeness (which he considered clever and amusing) he knew it was not advisable to display his inherent bad manners to a hostess before making himself sure of her amiable tolerance; as a more or less “distinguished” man of literary attainment he had established a convenient reputation for eccentricity which allowed him a certain latitude of behaviour,—he could say things which nobody else said, and do things nobody else did. His acrid observations on men and things were condoned because “he’s so clever, you know!” people would declare, with the foolish giggle wherewith they accept monstrosities at a country fair. And his professed objection to the name of Sylvia wore down in time, being in truth an objection that never existed at all save in the inconsistent and crotchety tendency of his own brain. Two or three times he had found occasion to sniff and snort his irritation when Jack, now happily removed for a time from the social scene, had essayed to sing “Who is Sylvia, what is she?” in a voice which was unfortunate in timbre and guiltless of training,—but he had refrained from any positive comment on that young man’s vocal efforts. And a long period had elapsed or had seemed to elapse between then and now. The mild peace of the English countryside had been harried by “alarums and excursions”;—War, the wicked—War, the barbaric—had arisen in mad ferocity like a brute beast from its lair, and its destructive force and evil influence was felt everywhere, even in the little sequestered village where the Sentimentalist had her pretty home, and where she had been accustomed to see little save the beauty of an untroubled Nature. The long white building temporarily erected as a Voluntary Aid Hospital for the wounded made its suggestive presence felt on the land where it stood sheltered by a belt of beautiful old trees,—and the Sentimentalist’s time was divided between it and the care of her father in a manner that left her little leisure to attend to the Philosopher when he came (as he persistently did) to assist in the continuance of the great philological work which was intended to propound an entirely new idea of civilisation to a waiting and expectant world. Dr. Maynard, the venerable author, was growing more and more feeble, and the gout was laying a faster grip on his weary limbs, and had it not been for the interest he took in his literary research and the patient indulgence maintained by his devoted daughter for all his whims and fancies he might have “gone under” more rapidly than was anticipated. This was indeed the reason why the Philosopher was tolerated and even encouraged,—for the poor little Sentimentalist dreaded being left entirely alone with her father, and “The Deterioration of Language.” As long as the old gentleman was kept amused and occupied the gout was partially held in check, and this desirable result was all she sought. For herself and her own happiness she had little care,—her naturally bright spirit was clouded by sorrows she could not alleviate,—sorrows wrought by the war, and coming fast one upon the other like clouds rolling up in a storm. Day after day the wounded were brought to the hospital among the trees,—day after day she saw terrible sights of suffering which she, as the little “rose-lady” of Jack’s adoration had never expected to see,—and what was worst of all to her, day after day of utter silence and suspense racked her nerves in the longing for news that never came. In the first year of the war, old John Durham, Jack’s father,—had received letters and “field cards” with tolerable regularity—his son wrote that he was “well” and “in fine form”—and Sylvia had a card or two expressed with the usual military reticence. But after a while and all suddenly a great silence fell, and enquiries at the War Office only elicited the ominous word “Missing.” The blow was a heavy one to the father of the cheery young fellow who had so gallantly resolved to risk his life in the service of a country not his own, and he crept about more or less feebly, with bent head and drooping shoulders, only bracing himself up whenever he saw Sylvia, who made it one of her special duties to look after him as much as possible—“for Jack’s sake” as she would whisper to herself sadly when alone. Not that she ever gave up hope. No,—the word “Missing” held out fair promise to her pure and prayerful soul. She was sure—yes, quite sure, that Jack was not killed—that he would return just the same joyous-hearted Jack as ever! So she told his father—her sweet, loving, blue eyes sparkling with tears, as she spoke;—and he,—well!—somehow he found it difficult to speak, and only pressed her little hand till it was almost crushed in his own rough palm.
Among these characters and influences one would have thought the Philosopher—the learned Walter Craig, F.R.S.A., LL.D., and as many other letters of the alphabet as various Universities can tack on to one small mortal name—would have found himself out of place. In strict accordance with his own theories he ought to have been “bored”—but he wasn’t. As a matter of fact after young Jack Durham had been reported as “Missing” he had experienced a greater interest in the whole situation. There was nothing to disturb his general equanimity. His work with the querulous and ailing old Dr. Maynard was intricate and more or less amusing; he had comfortable quarters in a pretty and well-ordered house—and he had no twinges of conscience in performing the part of a “sponge,” because he felt (and in this he was right) that in keeping his invalid host occupied with his “great work” he was performing a real service, for which he might justly claim board and lodging. And as the war was going on and things were very uncomfortable in London, he took his chance of ease and safety as long as he could get it. The only fly in his amber was old John Durham. With all his heart he detested this wiry wizened American with eyes as sharp as gimlets and a face like a nut-cracker. He grudged the affectionate solicitude with which Sentimentalist Sylvia regarded him—the anxiety she evinced concerning his health and general well-being all, forsooth!—because he was Jack’s father, and Jack himself was “Missing.” To him there was nothing pathetic in the gradual droop of the old man’s physical frame, or the lines of sorrow and suspense that delved themselves round his whole countenance,—all that he saw was that Sylvia rather allowed herself to be monopolised by him in the intervals when she was not in attendance on her father or working at the Hospital; and one day the startling notion seized him that perhaps,—Jack being “missing,”—his father might “make tracks” (an expression old Durham often used) for Sylvia himself! This idea buzzed in his brain like a persistent bumblebee on a window-pane.
“Old men marry young women every day—” he argued with himself. “Especially when they feel lonely. Then, from all I can gather, this American has got money, and she may not be indifferent to that! Of course his great asset is that he’s ‘Jack’s father’!” Here the Philosopher snorted contempt. “Little goose as she is!—little sentimental goose! I wonder if Maynard has any suspicion of the intentions of this ancient courtier—”
Here another brilliant suggestion struck illumination on his brain.
“I’m not as old as Durham,—certainly not!” he thought. “Ah!—not by a good six or seven years! Then why—”
His meditations here began to gallop along strange and unaccustomed routes,—stray reflections of couleur de rose wavered across the grey monotony of his learned mentality, and almost he was conscious of a faint sense of returning youth.
“I’m not as old as Durham!” he repeated, with a kind of inward jubilation. “Then why should not I take a bold step? My peace of mind would probably be destroyed, and I should have to put up with many annoyances and small absurdities—still, take her for what she is, there’s a charm about her rather rare to find nowadays among modern women. I know what I’ll do! I’ll give a gentle hint—quite gentle,—to Maynard himself. He might be glad to have his daughter’s future safely assured—it would make him easier in his mind.”
But—for the moment—none of his ideas or resolutions matured into action. The days went on,—each day bringing its dreadful toll of young brave lives crushed out on the fields of Flanders,—and in the pretty old Manor-house the famous “Deterioration of Language” also went on as relentlessly as the war. Quietly the Sentimentalist performed all her rounds of duty, growing visibly paler and thinner, but making no complaint. Only when she was alone in her bedroom at night and when she looked out of its quaint latticed window at the thick battalions of stars in the dark space, did she weep a little and wonder at the cruelty of men to one another,—at the selfishness of statesmen who make war—and at the solemn silence of that vast Ruling Power to whom all the generations of mankind have in turn appealed in various forms,—apparently in vain! Was it wicked to think that it was “in vain”—she questioned herself? To pursue such an enquiry was futile, for she constantly pictured to herself the helpless, stiffening forms of brave boys stretched out on the sodden battlefield, whose lives might have been the joy and pride of their parents; and in these sad reflections she failed to see anything but the direct injustice, nor could she admit that there was a “divine Providence” in the ordainment of such disaster. She recognised clearly enough that the mischief was the work of man and man only, but in a simple, blind way she would think that if indeed a good God ruled the world He might have stopped it in the beginning. And she prayed to be forgiven if her thought was wrong.
One quiet evening when an unusually glorious sunset had showered its glowing crimson on the river and woods and had shed a warm and tender light on the pile of books and manuscript on the table in Dr. Maynard’s library where he and the Philosopher sat at work, the author of the “Deterioration of Language” showed signs of fatigue and irritation, whereat the Philosopher suggested a break in their studies.