The Romance of an Old Fool

by Roswell Martin Field

If I was somewhat ashamed to face Mary Eastmann, she received us with the same stolidity she had manifested when we first met, and at once insisted that I should remain for dinner. "Go into the parlor," she said abruptly.

Phyllis plucked the sleeve of my coat. "Don't go in there," she whispered; "that's Aunt Mary's room exclusively, and I'm afraid you'll not find it very cheerful. Come out on the porch."

"I know the room," I whispered back, as we went out together. "At least I know the type. Lots of horse-hair belongings. Square piano against the wall. Wax flowers under a glass case on the mantel. Steel engravings of Washington crossing the Delaware. Family album, huge Bible, and 'Famous Women of Two Centuries' on the centre table. Seashells, blue wedgwood and German china things mingled in delightful confusion on the what-not. If not wax flowers, it's wax fruit."

Phyllis laughed—how much her laugh was like her mother's—and nodded her head. "Not a bad description," she assented; "you must have the gift of second sight."

"Not second sight. Suppose we call it the gift of second childhood."

We sat on the porch and looked down on the lawn that sloped to the orchard, and watched the robins run across the grass. And I pointed out to Phyllis the very tree under which Sylvia and I had stood the day we had our first memorable quarrel, confessing that while at the time there was no doubt in my mind that Sylvia was clearly at fault, I was now prepared to concede, after plenty of reflection, that possibly she might have had a reasonable defence. The recital of this pathetic incident led to other reminiscences connected with the old house and its grounds, and I was hardly in the second chapter when Mary came out and ordered us in to dinner. Mary never invited, never requested; she merely ordered. We sat at the table, and at a severe look from Mary I stopped fumbling with my napkin, while Phyllis—sweet saint!—folded her hands and asked the divine blessing. Pagan philosopher that I was, I was singularly moved by the simple faith of these two women, and I think that when I am led back into the fold of my family creed, a girl as young and fair and holy as Phyllis will be the angel to guide me.

The dinner was toothsome, the environment fascinating, the afternoon perfect, and so it came about quite naturally that I missed the three-o'clock train. "There is nothing so disagreeable in life," I explained apologetically to my friends, "as a hard and fast schedule, which keeps one jumping like an electric clock, doing sixty things every hour and never varying the performance. Fortunately trains run every day except Sunday, and the general order of the universe is not going to be upset because I am not checking myself off like a section-hand."

Perhaps Mary did not wholly coincide with my argument, but she was called away to her sewing-circle, while Phyllis and I lounged lazily on the porch, I continuing my reminiscences. Garrulity is not merely the prerogative of age; the privilege of the monologue is always that of the old boy who comes back to his childhood's home and finds in a pretty girl a charming and attentive listener. He is a poor orator, indeed, who cannot improve such opportunities. At a convenient lull in the flow of discourse we went off to ride, exploring the country roads I knew so well, and here began new matter and new reminiscences, patiently endured by Phyllis, who was a most delightful girl. And when we returned late in the afternoon it was directly in the line of circumstances that I should remain for tea; and after tea Phyllis played and sang for me in the little parlor, for Phyllis was a musician of no small merit. When in reply to my inquiry she sang a simple Scotch ballad her mother had sung so touchingly many years before, a great lump rose in my throat, and I sat far over in the shadow that she and Mary might not see how blurred were my eyes, and how unmanageable my emotion. At what age does it come to a man and a philosopher that he is no longer ashamed of honest, sympathetic tears?

I shall never know whether it was the journey in the train, the air and cooking of Meadowvale, or the visits to the burying-ground, that upset me, but for the first time in a dozen years I found myself dissatisfied with my home. I remarked to Malachy that the roses seemed to be in a most discouraging condition, and that the garden in general was altogether disappointing. I noticed that my dogs barked a great deal, that the neighbors had become most tiresome, and that Bunsey was an unmitigated nuisance. Even the cuisine, which had been my pride and boast, grew at times unbearable, and I had not been home a fortnight before I astonished Prudence by positively assuring her that the dinner she had set before me was not worth any sane man's serious attention. Whereupon that excellent woman announced with superb pride that she "guessed it was about time for that Rogers woman to give another card-party."

"Prudence," I said severely, for I encourage no flippancy on the part of domestics, "that remark, while probably hasty and ill-considered, borders on impertinence. I shall overlook it this time on account of your faithful services in the past. But don't let it happen again. In any event," I amended considerately, "don't let it drop in my presence."