The Romance of an Old Fool

by Roswell Martin Field

"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.