Then came the sound of a light step on the gravel path outside the window, and both men looked through the vista of shrubs and flowers to see the Sentimentalist returning from her hospital work. She moved quickly, checking the wild gambols of a rough Airedale terrier to whom her presence was the acme of all earthly bliss,—but there was a little indefinable air of lassitude and fatigue about her which had not been any part of her aspect before the “silly ass” Jack Durham was known to be “missing.” Her father looked at her wistfully as she went past the window; then suddenly laid his hand on the Philosopher’s arm.
“I want her to be happy!” he said, pathetically. “She is a sensitive little creature! I want her to be loved and understood! There are too many wretched martyrs of married life in the world!—Heaven forbid the child should be one of them! But—if she has any affection for you—(it would be very strange!)—but if she has, I won’t stand in the way! You must find it out for yourself,—you can speak to her if you like, and put all the pros and cons before her. No one can beat you at that sort of thing! Tell her she’ll be lonesome when her old Dad dies”—he paused to swallow a lump in his throat—“and that you’ll try to take his place! Tell her that you will love her and make a pet of her!—that she’ll never hear a word of unkindness—tell her you love her now—that is, if you do! A woman will do anything to be loved!—it’s the nature of the creature. I should never have thought that you could love anybody!—but the strangest things happen oftenest—and the notion of your falling in love with my girl is one of those strangest things! I have said—and I repeat it—I won’t stand in the way!”
The Philosopher shrank a little from the pressure of his friend’s hand on his arm. Maynard was taking too sentimental a view of the case—much too sentimental a view! Because he had not really “fallen in love” with Sylvia—such a notion was absurd! quite absurd as applied to him, the Philosopher. Nevertheless he recognised the futility of argument on so delicate a matter, especially as he had gained his point in so far that he had permission to speak to Sylvia. He hummed and hawed a little—his ugly cough threatened explosion, but he restrained it.
“Thanks very much!” he said, reservedly. “You must not over-rate my—my—sense of attraction for—or attachment to—your daughter. My emotions are well under control—and when I speak to her on what I consider this very vital subject I shall take care to ground my approach on a strong basis of reason as well as—as affection. I am not in the flush of youth—”
“No, that you’re not!” interpolated Dr. Maynard, with a shake of his head. “That’s a rosy colour we’ve both done with!”
“I am not in the flush of youth,” repeated the Philosopher, laboriously. “But I have experience, patience and sound common sense. And from all I hear and read, it seems to me that these are valuable attributes in a husband. They are seldom evidenced by a wife. Wherefore I argue that a man possessing experience, patience and common sense is the proper guardian for a charming but inexperienced woman whose errors are all on the side of sentiment. Pretty sentiment—delightful sentiment!—still Sentiment—and Sentiment is a dangerous guide—”
“Well, leave it at that!” said Dr. Maynard,—and a whimsical smile brightened his worn features. “Leave it at that! It won’t guide you anywhere too fast or too far!”
CHAPTER XI
SUNDAY was always the pleasantest day in the week for the Sentimentalist. She loved the peace of it,—the hush that seemed to fall on all the traffic and business of the world,—the slow, soft chiming of the village church bells at the morning and afternoon hours of service, and the comparative respite from her work at the hospital, which she never attended on Sundays, except when, moved by her own sympathies, she went to read to the wounded for an hour or so, or write letters for them to their homes. But, for the most part she spent the day at home, after attending church in the morning, devoting herself chiefly to her father, with whom she chatted cheerfully on the smaller affairs of the time, avoiding as much as possible all distressful subjects, and almost allowing him to think with the old farmer in “Punch”—“There ain’t no war!” She generally found time on this “holy” day to run down to the quaint old cottage rented by John Durham for his pet “sport” of fishing, and see for herself how “Jack’s father” was getting on, for it pained her beyond all words to notice his “broken” air, and the evident mental suffering he was undergoing, though he bravely repressed all outward sign of it. Concerning the Philosopher she troubled herself little. She had convinced herself that he was of that singularly strong and leathery constitution which is the frequent accompaniment of all persons who are well seasoned in selfishness, and that he required no particular attention beyond what he was an adept in securing for himself. So long as he was a companionable literary assistant to her father she had nothing to say either for or against him, albeit she was disappointed that her former notions concerning him as a distinguished writer and would-be instructor of less advanced mankind, were hopelessly dispelled. Sometimes she turned for reference to one or two books he had written,—books that were admired by press “cliques” and pushed into the reluctant notice of the public without any successful result,—and she marvelled at the lofty utterances and didactic phrases which inculcated so much, from the pen of a man who never attempted to practise what he preached. And her meditations on this incongruity generally ended in a little shake of her fair head and a whimsical smile at her own folly for having imagined—once upon a time!—that such a man could have a heart for the sorrows or joys of his fellow-men.
Sunday, as already stated, was her peaceful day;—her “stay-at-home” day, when she allowed herself some rest,—when, if the weather was fine, she would sit in the garden among the roses—the very roses where “Jack” was accustomed to look for some special bud which he thought fitting for the adornment of the “rose-lady,” and where the Philosopher had scratched his hand, to the imminent danger (according to his own diagnosis) of blood-poisoning. Just now the pretty “bosquet” was a sad place—there were no roses out, and though the sun shone, the wind was cold. Nevertheless she went there with a book, moved to distract her thoughts from sickness and wounds and death, if only for a brief interval. From the window of the drawing-room the Philosopher saw her,—and, first of all filling his pipe and putting a box of matches in his pocket, strolled slowly out to make her aware of his presence. He was in an agreeable mood, and his smile was a pleasant one.