The Romance of an Old Fool
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Roswell Field >> The Romance of an Old Fool
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Then Mary went on to tell me of Sylvia's happy marriage to George
Kinglake, how, when little Phyllis had come, and the world was
at its brightest, the parents had been stricken down in the same
week by a virulent disease, and how, with her dying breath, the
mother had asked her sister to look after her little one and
protect her from sorrow and harm. Very simply this stern-featured
woman told the story of her efforts to do her duty to her
sister's child, and it seemed to me that her face grew softer and
her voice gentler as she went over the years they had grown older
together, while the beauty of this woman's life was glorified by
the willing sacrifices of imposed motherhood. I could not see
Phyllis, for she was spending the night with friends in another
part of the village. Next time, she hoped, I might be more
successful.
Walking slowly to the tavern my mind still went back to my little
playmate and the golden days of youth, and if my heart grew a
little tenderer, and my eyes were moistened by the recall, what
need to be ashamed of the emotion? And if in the night I dreamed
that I was a boy again, and that a fair-haired child played with
me in the changing glow of dreamland in the best and purest
scenes of the human comedy, was it a delusion to be dispelled, a
memory to be put aside? Did I remember Sylvia?
The thought that my train was to leave at ten o'clock did not
depress me as I awoke, with the sunlight streaming through the
window, for, after all, I was obliged to admit that the monotony
of Meadowvale and the sluggishness of my village friends were
beginning to have an appreciable effect. Then the memory of
little Sylvia came to me again, and nothing seemed pleasanter, as
a benediction to the old days, than a visit to the burying-ground
where she was sleeping. The previous day I had paid the
obligations of remembrance and respect to the graves of
my kindred, and it gave me at first an uncomfortable feeling
to realize that the thought of them was less potent than
the recollection of this young girl. But was it strange or
inexcusable? Had they not lived out their lives of honored
usefulness, and grown old and weary of the battle? And had
not she passed away just as the greater joys of living were
unfolding, and the assurance of happiness was the stronger?
Poor Sylvia!
The spectacle of a correctly dressed, middle-aged man passing
down the street, bearing a somewhat cumbersome burden of
lilies-of-the-valley and forget-me-nots, must have had its
peculiar significance to the inhabitants of the village, and many
curious glances were my reward. I passed along, however, without
explanations in distinct violation of rural etiquette. The old
caretaker of the burying-ground met me at the entrance and gave
me the directions--second path to the right, half way up the
hill, just to the left of the big elm. The old man had known me
as a boy and would have detained me in conversation, but I
pleaded that my time was short, and reluctantly he let me go my
way. Slowly up the hill I walked, occasionally pausing to place a
forget-me-not on the grave of one I had known in childhood. Even
old Barrows did not escape my passing tribute--a cynical,
cross-grained old fellow, the aversion of the boys, who tormented
him and whom he tormented with reciprocal vigor. No need of a
forget-me-not for Barrows, for he never forgot anything, so I
gave his somewhat neglected grave the token of a long stem of
little lilies, in evidence that the past was forgiven, and moved
on to avoid possible protestation.
I paused under the wide-branching elm to recover my breath. The
assent had been arduous for a gentleman inclined to portliness
and with wind impaired by tobacco. I turned to the left, and at
that moment, just before me, a woman's figure slowly rose from
the ground. A creeping sensation possessed me. My heart bounded
and my pulses thrilled. Was this Sylvia risen from the dead?
Surely it was Sylvia's graceful girlish form! This was Sylvia's
oval face, with Sylvia's large gray eyes. In such a way Sylvia's
pretty light hair waved about her temples, and the pink and
white of her delicate complexion revealed the blue veins.
Twenty-five years had rolled back in an instant, and I was
standing in the presence of the past. Alas, the swift passing of
the illusion, for the conversation of the evening came to me.
"You are Phyllis?" I said.
"I am Phyllis," she answered softly--her mother's voice--"and you
are Mr. Stanhope. My aunt told me."
I did not answer, for I was staring stupidly at her, reluctant to
abandon the pleasing fancy that my thinking of her had brought
her back from the dead again. She did not speak, but glanced
inquiringly at the flowers I held in my hand.
"I knew your mother, Phyllis," I managed to say. "She was a very
dear playmate of my childhood. I have brought these flowers to
put upon her grave. Shall we go together?"
The girl's eyes filled, and she pointed to the rising mound at
her feet. Silently we bent over and reverently laid the lilies
and forget-me-nots under the simple headstone.
"May I talk to you of your mother?" I asked.
We sat down on a rude bench in the path, and I told her of my
childhood, of the days when Sylvia and I were sweethearts, of our
little quarrels and frolics, of her mother's beauty and
gentleness. The girl laughed at the recital of our misadventures,
and the tears came into her eyes when I touched on my boyish
affection for my playmate. Then she told me of her own life, so
peaceful and happy in the little village, and in the neighboring
town, where she had been educated with all the care and diligence
of the New England impulse. I looked at my watch.
"It is quarter past eleven," I said ruefully, "and my train left
at ten."
"There's another train at three," she replied. "You will go home
and dine with us? We dine at twelve in the country, you know."
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."
Thinking it over I came to the conclusion that Prudence was right
in the general effect of the suggestion. What I needed was a
change of scene. Long abstention from travel and variety of
incident had made me restless and discontented. I had not been in
Europe for two years. Undoubtedly I was pining for a lazy tour of
the Continent. The thought decided me. I should book my passage
on the steamer that sailed the Saturday of the following week.
Strangely enough, at this interesting moment, I received a letter
from the chairman of the committee on public improvements in the
village of Meadowvale, announcing that it had been resolved to
procure new rooms for the village library, and would Mr. John
Stanhope do his native village the honor of subscribing a small
amount toward this desirable end. As it is always much easier for
an indolent man to telegraph than to write letters, I replied by
wire that Mr. Stanhope felt himself much honored by the request.
Not entirely satisfied with this confession, I sent a second
telegram an hour later doubling my subscription. Still my
conscience troubled me.
"I have not done my duty," I said to myself. "Here I am, a man of
means, I may say of large wealth, with no special obligations
resting upon me, and yet I have done nothing to benefit or enrich
my old home. It is strange that it has not occurred to me before
what a privilege, what an honor, it is to be a philanthropist
even in a small way, and with what alacrity those whom Heaven has
blessed with a fortune should respond to the calls of deserving
need. I blush for my past thoughtlessness, and I shall hasten to
atone for my astonishing neglect. My duty lies before me, and I
shall not shrink from it, whatever the personal inconvenience."
Thereupon I telegraphed for the third time to the chairman that
it would give Mr. Stanhope the greatest pleasure to put up a
suitable library for the village of Meadowvale, and, in order to
guard against any possible misunderstanding, he would depart the
following day to confer with the committee as to site and
probable extent of the structure. This concession to my
conscience comforted me greatly, and I prepared for my journey
with a lightness that was almost buoyancy. The chairman and two
of the committee met me at the junction. They were most
deprecatory and apologetic, and mentioned with evident sorrow
the absence of several of the members which might cause a
postponement of the conference until the following day. I bore up
under this intelligence with astonishing cheerfulness.
"My good friends," I said, "don't let this disturb you for a
minute. I am not so pressed for time that I cannot wait on your
reasonable convenience. Your tavern is well kept and the food is
wholesome. I think I may say that my old friends in Meadowvale
will interest me until we can come to an amicable understanding.
Suppose, to be sure of a full meeting, that we fix the time of
conference at day after to-morrow--a little late in the
afternoon."
After this suggestion had been received with suitable expressions
of gratitude, we journeyed together to the village, where I was
duly turned over to old Pettigrew. And then, as the day was by no
means done, I strolled down the street and, most naturally and
quite unthinkingly, found myself a few minutes later looking over
the Eastmann gate at Phyllis on the porch. To say that this
charming girl was surprised by my sudden appearance was no less
true than to admit that she did not seem in the least displeased.
I positively had no intention of going in, but before I knew it I
was sitting beside her, relating in the most casual way the
reason of my coming.
"How good it was of you," said the ingenuous creature, "and how
delighted and grateful Meadowvale will be. It must be glorious to
be rich enough to do things for other people."
Now it is not a disagreeable sensation to feel that one is rich
and good and glorious in the large gray eyes of a very pretty
woman, and I was conscious of the mild intoxication from the
compliment. "It is, indeed," I answered magnanimously. "I have
always maintained that money is given to us in trust for those
around us, and that in making others happy we find our greatest
happiness. I regret that I have not wholly lived up to this
undeniably correct principle."
"It will require at least a thousand dollars," she said naively.
"Oh, at least."
She was silent a moment. Then she said: "I was wondering what I
would do if I had a thousand dollars to give away."
"What do you think you would do?"
"Speaking for my own preferences I think I should like to
establish a country club."
"The very thing. If there is one crying want more than another in
Meadowvale it is a country club, with golf links, tennis courts,
and shower baths."
"Now you are laughing at me."
"Not at all. Fancy old Hank and you playing a foursome with Aunt
Mary and me for the cider and apples. Why, it would add years of
robustness to our waning lives."
"No," said the girl decisively. "It isn't feasible."
"Then," I went on musingly, "we might have an Art Institute, or
the Phyllis Kinglake School of Expression, or the Meadowvale
Woman's Club, or the Colonial Dames, or, best of all, the
Daughters of the American Revolution."
"That shows how little you appreciate the local situation," she
responded quickly, "for your best of all is worse and worse.
Imagine an order of Daughters in a place where every woman's
ancestors did nothing but fight in the Revolution. As well call a
town meeting at once. Ah,"--with a sigh--"I see that I shall
never spend the thousand dollars in Meadowvale."
"Don't be too sure of that, my dear Phyllis," I exclaimed in an
outburst, for I was in a particularly happy and generous mood;
"and remember that when you do decide how the money is to be
philanthropically invested we shall see that it is forthcoming."
With such agreeable banter the minutes slipped away, and when
Mary appeared with the customary invitation to tea, it would have
been a jolt to the harmonious order of things to decline. I
cannot say that I have ever cordially approved the austerity of
the New England tea-table, with its cold bread and biscuits, its
applesauce, its frugal allowance of sardines, its basket of cake,
and its not very stimulating pot of tea. But such are the
compensations of pleasant society that even these chilly viands
may be forgotten, and I said my "Amen" to Phyllis's sweet and
modest grace with all the heartiness of a thankful man. As no
gentleman may, with propriety, run away immediately after he has
accepted hospitality, I lingered in the evening, and we had more
music, which so calmed and rested me that I wondered at my past
nervousness and marvelled that I had even contemplated a journey
across the water.
How it came about that the next morning Phyllis and I were
strolling over the village, down by the river and into the
pleasant woods, I have forgotten, but I dare say that we were
discussing further developments of philanthropy, and endeavoring
to come to a conclusion as to the proper disposition of that
troublesome thousand dollars. The girl was so young and
joyous, so pretty, so arch, so fascinating with that little
coquettishness that is not the usual type of the Puritan maiden,
I could not find it in my heart to remember Mary's words and "try
to instil in her a closer appreciation of the more serious
purposes of life." Indeed life is so serious that it is one of
the blessed decrees of Mother Nature that we have that brief
allotment of time when it is too serious to think about, and
youth passes so quickly that it is criminal to rob it of its
golden hour. In such a presence I felt my own spirits rising, my
step becoming springy, my whole nature less sluggish, and, had I
looked in the mirror, I should have confidently expected to see a
youthful bloom in my cheeks and a return of hair to primary
conditions.
It is due to this interesting young woman to say that she coyly
urged me not to forget my other friends, since I was to leave so
soon, and it pleased me to fancy that she was not altogether
offended when I spoke somewhat hastily and rather flippantly of
those of my former companions who had lapsed into tediousness. I
reminded her also that as the happiest memory of my childhood was
associated with her mother, so it was sweet to me to be with her
and live again, in a pleasant dream, the brightness of the past.
Then, for her mother's sake, she shyly let me take her hand while
I went over again, not without emotion, the story of my early
love. Dear little Sylvia!
The meeting of the committee was followed by a general
congregation of citizens, and I was invited to the platform,
where I outlined my plans. I hinted that the library was merely
the beginning of a number of beneficences which I desired to
contribute to Meadowvale's prosperity, and as I looked down upon
my listeners and caught sight of Phyllis, glancing up with
flushed cheeks and sparkling eyes, I was nearly betrayed into
promises of the most preposterous nature. At the end of
my remarks--I recall that I spoke with unusual grace and
eloquence--the chairman stood up and gravely thanked me,
intimating that I was a credit to Meadowvale and its perfect
public school system. I fancy I should have been applauded if it
had been compatible with the nature of the people of Meadowvale
to make so riotous a demonstration. At the close of the meeting
it happened, by the purest accident, that I walked home with Mary
and Phyllis, and when Mary said in her blunt way that I really
had been most generous, Phyllis did not speak, but she slipped
her hand under my arm and gave me an appreciative little squeeze,
which made me regret that I had not pledged another thousand.
I was to leave the next morning, thanks to the officious members
of the committee, who had so blunderingly hurried matters to
accommodate me that I had no longer an excuse of remaining. And
it was for this reason that I went in and sat again in the little
parlor, while Phyllis sang for me the songs that were my
favorites, and some her mother sang in the long ago. Memories
were again pleasantly stirred within me, as was not infrequent in
those days, and I experienced all the happiness that comes to him
who is persuaded that he has made himself a little above the
ordinary attractions of the earth. In this excess of good
feeling, and stimulated alike by the music and the consciousness
of a philanthropic impulse, I waited until the moment of parting
before declaring definitely my excellent intentions.
"My dear Mary," I began, turning to that admirable spinster, "you
know how our childhood was linked by a close family feeling, and
how you and Sylvia and I planned in our simple ambitions to live
together in the great world outside. We may say now that this was
childish romance, and that the caprice of time has made it an
idle fancy. For many years we have been separated, and only by a
happy chance have we been brought together. Fortune has been kind
to me. I am called a rich man, and I believe I may say without
boasting that I am far beyond the need of anxiety. But to a
degree I am a lonely man. My sister's child is my one near
relative in the world, and he is a young man with an excellent
business, able to take care of himself, and naturally engrossed
with his own occupations. You can understand that at my time of
life, alone as I am, and still young enough to appreciate the
joys of living, I have a feeling of desolation for which no
riches can compensate. Had fortune given me a daughter, like our
Phyllis here, I think no happiness could have been so great. It
has pleased me to look back upon the past, to recall the days of
our childhood, and to see in Phyllis the image of her mother. Why
can I not link the present and the future with the past? Why can
I not look on Phyllis as my own daughter, and give to her all the
father love I have learned to feel? I do not rob you either of
her love or her presence. I merely add a new joy to my life, and
know that in caring for you both and in contributing to her
happiness, and securing her against misfortune after we are taken
away, I am carrying out the pledge, however idle at the time, I
made to Sylvia."
I fancied I saw what may have been the suspicion of a tear in
Mary Eastmann's eye. It vanished as quickly as it came, and when
she spoke and thanked me for my generous offer, her voice was as
calm and her manner as collected as if I had made a casual
suggestion for attendance at a prayer meeting. She could not
deny that the opportunity was too enticing to be ignored, and
she admitted that my fatherly proposition was distinctly
advantageous. Her New England independence rather revolted at the
thought of any immediate financial assistance, which was not
needed, while her New England thrift approved a future settlement
based on family friendliness of many years' standing. On the
whole she was inclined to be favorable to my point of view.
As for Phyllis, she had listened to me with undisguised
amazement. Her big gray eyes had grown larger, and the color left
her cheeks as I finished. Then the rosy red rushed back, her lip
quivered and the tears sprang to her eyes. A moment later she
smiled, then laughed, and was serious again. How incomprehensible
are these young girls! Poor child! she had never known a father's
love.
Phyllis followed me to the door. The light, streaming from the
parlor, shone squarely on her exquisite face. A thrill of
pleasure went through me as I realized that at last I had a
daughter whom I could love and cherish. I took her hand in both
of mine, and, as I released it, I parted the light, wavy hair,
and kissed her forehead. It seemed to me that she trembled
slightly, but in a moment she was herself, and a gleam of
merriment was in her eyes, as she said:
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