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?"