During this time the “Philosopher” was an absentee,—he had undertaken to partially revise the proofs of “The Deterioration of Language” before bringing them on to Dr. Maynard for final correction, and he had installed himself in his own collegiate rooms for this purpose. The “great Book” was well on its way to be launched, like a literary Leviathan on the uneasy waters of public favour; the accepting publishers being fully nerved to the task by the “no expense to be spared” orders of the author’s prospective son-in-law, Jack Durham. And so the days and weeks went round in a swift circle till April showed a nymph-like face of tears and laughter through budding boughs of green and snowy garlands of wild cherry and pear-blossom, and the sunny morning dawned at last when the little “rose-lady” stepped forth from her maiden home to be married. Very sweet she looked in her soft garments of white—very serious, too, with blue eyes more full of tears than smiles; and among the few intimate friends asked to the wedding there was not one who had not some under-consciousness of the real gravity of marriage for a girl who had led so quiet and simple a life as Sylvia Maynard. Always in the country,—always the one companion of her father—completely contented to be without “social gaieties” so-called,—what a change from such a peaceful little home and routine of daily duties to be the wife of a millionaire!
Probably the thoughts of Walter Craig, F.S.A., who was, against his own inclination and protest, selected as “best man” by the bridegroom, wandered in this direction if one might form any opinion by the expression of his face. Once during the ceremony he caught a fleeting, almost frightened glance from the little “sentimentalist” bride; and a most insane desire possessed him to take her up in his arms as Shakespeare’s Petruchio took his Katherine and run away with her,—but his furrowed features and formal demeanour showed nothing of the strife within him. He placed the “philosophic” curb on his emotions, and feigned an almost frigid indifference when with other friends in the vestry at the signing of the marriage register he was permitted to kiss the bride. All the village turned out to see the wedding, and as the happy pair came through the old church doorway the school children scattered a shower of spring blossoms at their feet, and, led by “Riverside Sam,” broke into a hearty cheer. A silver rain of new sixpences flung broadcast by old Mr. Durham rewarded their enthusiasm, whereat the Philosopher moralised somewhat after the style of the “melancholy Jaques”—“Money’s the only wear!” And then,—in another two or three hours, which seemed to her less than minutes, the little bride, half sobbing, yet checking her tears as much as she could, clung fondly to her father in a farewell embrace, whispering, “I shall came back as soon as possible! You mustn’t feel lonely!” while she turned appealingly to the “Philosopher” saying—“Do stay with him for a little! Take care of him!” And with this she entered the beautiful “limousine” car, which was one of old Mr. Durham’s wedding gifts to his daughter-in-law, and was whirled away amid a shower of blossoms on her honeymoon with her proud and adoring young husband. A small group of friends gathered on the steps of the old Manor house to watch their departure,—more interested in the reported wealth of the bridegroom and the bridegroom’s father than in anything else—and as they dispersed, some of them made remarks to one another such as: “Artful little girl! Quiet, but clever enough to catch a millionaire!” or “She must have known her game all the time!” and “A pity we did not know more of that dull old man in the fishing cottage! He pretended to be deadly poor—” “And that’s why we didn’t call!” observed one more honest than the rest.
And so on, and so on. Perhaps the Philosopher—great light of Oxford, whom nobody present knew much about,—caught some of these sotto voce observations,—perhaps not,—anyway his facial expression became more and more saturnine and forbidding as he helped to “speed the parting guests.” The “dull old man in the fishing cottage,” millionaire Durham, did certainly gather up a few crumbs of “social” comment, and now and again a sardonic smile made extra wrinkles in his furrowed countenance, especially when one self-important personage, the local brewer, laid a patronising paw upon his shoulder, saying, “We must see more of you, Mr. Durham! Come and dine with us one day this week, will you?”
Whereat Durham replied slowly in a strong, nasal drawl:
“Thank you! I guess not! I’ve been living here over two years and have never been asked out to dine before—it would seem kinder strange to me to be doing it now!”
And the brewer retired discomfited, feeling the poignant flash of satire in the old man’s eyes more keenly than the blunt refusal of his invitation.
The April evening closed in with sweet moisture and warm scent of flowers, and the old Manor house, full of bridal blossoms and “remainders” of the wedding, looked, despite its floral garlanding, strangely empty and deserted, bereft of the flitting presence of its fair little mistress who was its chief charm. Vainly old Dr. Maynard strove to be cheerful, but it was an evident effort, and though he said little, his sudden loneliness made him deeply grateful for the society of the Philosopher, who had decided to stay on at the Manor for a day or two;—the Sentimentalist’s parting words “Take care of him!” had laid a sort of trust upon his mind which he was not disposed to ignore. Durham remained late, smoking and chatting till the moon lifted a silver round above the trees, and lighted the path to his cottage by the river; he was full of eager plans for the happy future of the just-wedded pair, and gave himself away quite unreservedly. Nothing was too good for them,—a beautiful house in town,—a flat in Paris—and other luxurious “fitments” of life which somehow, in the mind of the Philosopher at least, seemed unsuitable to the tastes and the temperament of the little “rose-lady,”—a creature “toned to finest melodies, unheard by grosser ears.” But he made no comment. It would have seemed ungracious to check the flow of affection and ungrudging munificence of a father for an only son by so much as a word. Yet he was in a sense relieved when the millionaire took his departure and left him alone with Dr. Maynard. “The Deterioration of Language” was a ponderous piece of work, but it had formed a link between them of interest and scholarship; it had brought them together in pleasant and intimate relations, and it had been the means of letting a little light in upon his hitherto strictly locked and darkened prison-house of human motion,—such light as had, at odd moments, blinded him into a faint belief that he was still young. On this particular night, after all the joyous stir of the wedding, and the subsequent silence and desertion of the house, he felt old—older than he cared to feel. He and the old doctor sat together in the study, smoking their pipes by a cheerful log fire,—for the April evenings were chilly,—and for some time they had hardly exchanged a word. A somewhat heavy sigh from Maynard roused the Philosopher to attention.
“Don’t ‘grouse’!” he said with a half smile. “That’s slang, I know, and I never use it—but if you sigh like a schoolboy, you merit a schoolboy’s reproach. It’s no use regretting,—it’s no use grumbling.”
“I don’t regret,—I don’t grumble,” Maynard replied. “No, Craig! It’s not that. It’s the emptiness of things without her—the silence—the solitude—” His voice trembled—then failed.
Craig was silent for a minute. Then he said: