The Romance of an Old Fool
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Roswell Field >> The Romance of an Old Fool
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"Of course you will write to me--papa?"
Doubtless the novelty of the situation made me just a little
embarrassed. To be called "papa" the first time by a pretty girl
was more embarrassing than I had expected. And why that
half-laugh in her eye, and why that almost quizzical tone? Was I
not kind and good enough to be her father, and had I not tried to
show her every paternal consideration? Was I not honestly
endeavoring to fulfil a sacred pledge? I was perplexed but not
discouraged. "I will prove to her," I said to myself with
firmness, "that I am entirely worthy of her filial affection, and
that she may lean confidently upon me." And I went straightway
to bed, and dreamed of her all night as every true father should
dream of the daughter of his heart and his hope.
In the very nature of things it was necessary that I should
return frequently to Meadowvale, to confer with the village
committee and make all proper arrangements for beginning so
important a local enterprise. While this put an end to my
projected trip to Europe I accepted the situation with calmness
and forbearance, satisfied that in the pursuit of duty and in
giving happiness to my fellow creatures I should have the reward
of an approving conscience. To my nephew, Frederick Grinnell, I
gave the task of preparing the plans, and his excellent
suggestions were cordially adopted. Much of my spare time--and it
is amazing how much spare time one has in a village--was spent at
the Eastmann cottage with my new daughter, and in the evening I
talked to her of the world outside, quite, I fancy, as Othello
may have spoken to Desdemona, but with a more conservative and a
better impulse. I unfolded to her the wonders of great London,
the pleasures of Paris, the beauties of Venice, the sacred
mysteries of Rome, the noble traditions of Athens. I journeyed
with her up the Nile and down the Rhine. One night we were in gay
Vienna, another in Berlin, a third in the grandeur of the
Alhambra. From the fjords of Norway to the tea houses of Japan
was the journey of a few minutes, and the indifference of my
surfeited life gave way before the kindling enthusiasm of this
lovely country girl, whose world had been the area of scarcely
more than a township.
But the paternal relation, however honest and commendable my
intentions, did not seem to thrive as I had fondly hoped. Only in
her teasing moments would this vivacious creature admit the
solemnity of our compact, and when she called me "papa" there was
always that gleam of the eye, with that merriment of tone, which
may not have been disrespectful but was certainly not filial.
This troubled me exceedingly. I thought it all over and one night
I said to her:
"My dear Phyllis, it has become only too evident that you do not
entertain that deferential feeling for me which a daughter should
have for a father. I shall not describe your emotions as I have
analyzed them, but I am satisfied that we shall not make a
complete success of my long cherished plan. However, I am not
prepared to withdraw unreservedly from my schemes for your
comfort and happiness, and since you cannot look upon me as a
father, or treat me like a father, I have another suggestion to
offer. Let me be your elder brother, and watch over and guard you
as a brother's duty should direct. There shall be no diminution
of my love, no retraction of my promises. Perhaps, in the feeling
that I am your brother, you will talk with me with greater
frankness, and feel more closely drawn to me, and we shall be all
the better and the happier for the change."
Thus speaking I took her pretty hand and carried it respectfully
to my lips, at the same time patting it affectionately and
assuring her of my brotherly devotion. And this incomprehensible
girl threw back her head and laughed; then burst into tears,
laughed again, flushed to crimson and ran out of the room. I was
grieved beyond measure. Had I done wrong so quickly and rudely to
sever a connection so holy? Had the filial feeling been suddenly
awakened in her breast? Was I depriving this poor child of a
tender paternal care, for which she longed, but which maidenly
coyness could not immediately accept?
As a philosopher I have made woman the subject of much research,
and my library bears witness to the attention I have paid to the
written opinions of the ablest writers and thinkers of all times,
who have had anything to do with this fascinating theme. I have
seen her in all her phases, analyzed her in all her emotions, and
Bunsey has admitted to me that my theoretical knowledge has been
of great value to him in dealing subtly with his heroines. And
yet, despite my complete equipment in mental construction, I am
constantly surprised by a new development, a sudden and
unaccountable phenomenon of feminine nature, which undoubtedly
escaped the experience and reasoning of the experts and sages. It
is indeed a matter of pride in woman that while man has studied
her for thousands of years, she continues to exhibit fresh
delights in her infinite variety of moods and to put forth
unexpectedly new and astounding shoots.
I saw Phyllis no more that evening, save in my dreams, and it
was wholly creditable to the goodness of my motives and the
sincerity of my affection that she abided with me in my
slumbering fancies with no protracted intermissions. The next
day she was as sweet and gracious as ever, but I thought her
tone a little constrained, and when, as a father or brother
should, I ventured to speak of the tenderness of our family
relation, a half-imploring look came into her beautiful eyes.
And when I casually remarked on the softness of her hair, or the
slenderness of her fingers, her glance was timidly reproachful.
All this gave me great unhappiness, and I discovered, to my further
distress, that in my attempt to return to the old familiar footing
I was neglecting the committee and losing interest in the affairs of
the library. A certain peevishness took possession of me; I was
no longer myself, and I lost the gayety and sprightliness which
had been always my distinguishing virtues.
Furthermore I missed the companionship and solace of my books in
this emergency, for I had no reference library to which I could
go in Meadowvale for aid in establishing the true condition of
this strange girl. I recalled dimly that somewhere on my shelves
was a volume which contained a fairly analogous case, but while I
knew that I possessed such a book I could not remember the
circumstances or the incidents cited, and this added to my
unrest. Only a student can understand the absolute wretchedness
which overtakes a man when he finds himself miserably dependent
on a distant library. For several days I gave myself up entirely
to my mental depression, greatly wondering at the perplexing
change in my life, and marvelling that in all my explorations in
philosophy I had not provided for just such a crisis, whatever it
might be. One afternoon as I sat in my room at the tavern,
looking idly out of the window and across the little river which
rippled by, something seemed to strike me violently in the
forehead. It may have been a telepathic suggestion, it may have
been a return to consciousness; at all events it was an idea. I
leaped from my chair, put on my hat, and proceeded rather
feverishly to the Eastmann cottage. Phyllis was away for the day;
Mary was knitting in the sitting-room. I watched her in silence
for a moment, and then I said abruptly:
"Mary, I think I should like to marry Phyllis."
Mary Eastmann was not the type of woman to lose herself or betray
astonishment. She pushed her spectacles sharply above her eyes,
looked at me sternly, and said in a rasping voice.
"John Stanhope, don't be an old fool."
"Whatever I may be, Mary," I answered, much nettled by her tone,
"I do not think anybody can properly regard me as a fool. As for
the other qualification," I went on complacently, "I am not so
old."
"You and Sylvia were the same age, and she would have been
forty-eight."
"A man is as old as he feels," I ventured, finding refuge in a
proverb.
"That is evasive, and has nothing to do with the question.
Beside, what reason have you to believe that Phyllis has the
slightest desire to marry you?"
"Frankly, not the slightest reason in the world," I replied with
the utmost candor. "That is why I have been so bold as to speak
to you on the subject."
"Perhaps you thought I might use my influence to help you
along?"
"Quite the contrary, my dear Mary, I assure you. I may not know
very much about women"--I was quite humble when separated from my
library--"but I do know that nothing is so fatal to a lover's
prospects as the encouragement of the loved one's relations. You
see that I am perfectly frank."
"Then you wish my opposition?"
"Come, let us be reasonable. I have told you I wish to marry
Phyllis. I know my good points, and I am not unacquainted with my
weak ones. Unhappily I can figure out my age to a day. Alas, I am
forty-eight, and Phyllis is not yet twenty-three. The difference
is positively ghastly from a sentimental standpoint, but if I
love her, and she is not hopelessly indifferent to me, I think
that even that difficulty can be bridged. You know my position,
my character, my general reputation. Neither of us knows what
Phyllis really thinks or what she will say or do in the matter. I
do not ask either for your opposition or your good offices. I
have come to you as an old friend and the girl's nearest
relative to tell you exactly how I feel and what I wish to gain.
And I ask only that I may have the same chance to win her
affection that you might grant to a younger man."
Mary's voice was gentler when she spoke again. "John," she said,
"Phyllis is all I have in the world. It is my one idea to have
her happily married to a worthy man whom she honestly loves.
Providence, in inscrutable wisdom, may have decreed that you are
that man, but," she continued with a sudden return of Yankee
caution, "I have my doubts, considering your age. However, you
have acted honorably in coming to me, and while I think Phyllis
would be a better daughter than wife to you, I cannot speak for
her. Remember that she is very young and very inexperienced. Her
acquaintance with men has been slight. You are a man of the world
and with enough of the surface polish--I don't say it stops with
that--to dazzle any girl accustomed to such surroundings as we
have here. Undoubtedly an offer from you would flatter her; it
might induce her to accept you, thinking that she loved you. Be
careful. Be sure of your ground before it is too late."
As I walked back to the village I mused on what Mary had said,
but I felt no apprehension. Most lovers are alike in this--in
youth, in middle age, in senility. Perhaps the advantage of
middle life is that a man is more the master of himself, more in
possession of the faculties necessary to carry him through a
crisis. Without the impetuous desire of youth, or the deadened
sensibilities of old age, he has a certain serene confidence that
is a mixture of love and philosophy. It disturbed me somewhat to
find with what equanimity I faced a situation which promised
nothing. It really annoyed me to note that I was picking out
mentally the place to which I should conduct Phyllis in order to
have the harmonious environment adapted to a sentimental
proposition. I remembered that down by the river, just beyond
the willows, there was an old tree where Sylvia and I--ah, so
many years ago!--had sat and talked of our lives before us. To
that sacred spot I would lead Sylvia's daughter, and, passing
gently from the past to the present, I would tell her of my love
and of my fondest hopes. How dignified and appropriate such a
spot for a frank, calm, and self-contained avowal!
Thus philosophically and amiably plotting I walked contentedly
along, and, looking up, I saw Phyllis coming toward me, swinging
her hat in her hand, and suggesting in her girlish beauty and
graceful outline the poet's shepherdess. She did not see me, and,
yielding to a sudden impulse, I stepped quickly aside in the
shadow of a neighbor's house, as she passed on with her eyes on
the ground. I followed at a little distance, and discovered,
much to my dismay, that she chose the road that led to the
burying-ground. Now a cemetery is not at all the spot that a man,
whatever his philosophy, would select for a tender declaration,
but I was buoyed by the remembrance of Mary's words. "The finger
of Providence may be in it," I muttered. "The Lord's will be
done."
Slowly up the winding path she walked, and I as slowly followed.
When I reached her, she was standing at her mother's grave, just
as she had stood the morning we first met. I tried to accept this
as an omen, but failed miserably, and omens, after all, depend on
the point of view. She raised her eyes, and, seeing me, blushed,
another omen which means comparatively little to a man who is
aware of the thousand emotions that are responsible for the blush
of woman. I was again annoyed by the discovery that my pulses
were not beating wildly, and that my heart was not throbbing
tumultuously, and when I addressed a commonplace remark to her I
was thoroughly ashamed and humiliated. It seemed like taking a
mean advantage of innocence and inexperience.
We sat together on the little bench, and for the first time in
our acquaintance she appeared embarrassed, as if she knew what
was passing in my mind. I have always believed that women, in
addition to their acknowledged intuition, have a special sense
that enables them to anticipate a declaration of passion, and I
had no doubt that Phyllis was fully prepared for my confession in
spite of her embarrassment. This induced me to proceed to the
point without unnecessary preliminaries.
"Phyllis," I said, not without a certain agreeable ardor, "I have
been talking with Aunt Mary."
"Indeed?"
"And about you."
"Really?"
"When I say that I have been talking with Aunt Mary, and about
you," I continued in a grieved tone, for I do not like jerky
responses, "I wish you to understand that it was in connection
with no ordinary topic. Phyllis,"--I spoke with the utmost
tenderness--"can you not guess the nature of our discussion?"
Phyllis was equal to the emergency; her embarrassment had
disappeared. "I am glad," she said, "that your conversation so
far as it related to me was out of the ordinary. I suppose I may
ask what the topic was--that is, if you don't mind telling."
This was approaching the serious. "Phyllis, I was telling Aunt
Mary that I loved you and wished to make you my wife."
A flash, half merry, half angry, came to her eye. "That was
thoughtful of you. Is it customary for gentlemen in the city,
when they think they love a girl, to honor all her relations with
their confidence before they speak to the girl herself?"
I took her hand. She made the slightest motion to withdraw it,
and permitted it to remain in my grasp. "Phyllis," I said with
all earnestness, "do not misunderstand me. I sought you at the
house. You were absent. Your Aunt Mary and I have been friends
from childhood, and it was only natural that out of my heart I
spoke the words that were in my mind. I told her that I loved
you, just as at that moment I might have shouted it from the
housetop. My heart was full of you and I had to speak. Can't you
understand?"
The girl was still obdurate, and she spoke with some petulance.
"If that is the case, perhaps it is just as well that it was Aunt
Mary and not one of the neighbors."
"Dear little Phyllis, you are not angry with me because I love
you? You cannot remain angry with me because I confessed my love
before I met you to-day? If you had only seen with what
applications of cold water your aunt rewarded my confidence, you
would pity and not reproach me."
For a minute the girl was silent. Then she asked softly: "How
long have you known that you loved me?"
"Must I answer that question candidly and unreservedly?"
"Unreservedly and candidly."
I seized her other hand and held her firmly. "About fifty
minutes."
She laughed, rather joyously I thought. "And having loved me for
fully fifty minutes, you wish to make me your wife? Confiding
man!"
"Little girl," I said tenderly, "let us be serious. If my dull
consciousness did not awaken till an hour ago, my heart tells me
that I have loved you ever since I first saw you standing near
this spot. I am not going to ask you now whether you love me, or
ever can learn to love me. It is happiness enough for me to-day
to know how much I love you, and to know that I have told you of
that love. I do not care to have my dream too rudely and too
suddenly dispelled. Very probably you do not care for me as I
should like to have you care for me, but do not make a jest of my
affection. I am wholly aware of the preposterousness of my
demands in many respects"--this sounded very conventional and
commonplace, but every lover must say it--"and, believe me, I
shudder when I think of what I have dared confess."
Then she said with the most delightful demureness: "Mr. Stanhope,
is it likely that a girl would sit in a burying-ground on a bench
with a gentleman, allowing him to hold both her hands, unless she
cared for him a little--just a little?"
Up to this moment I had fairly forgotten that I was depriving her
of all power of resistance, but with such encouragement I took an
even more sympathetic grasp and sat a trifle closer, while the
minutes ticked away. A robin flew down from the tree near by and
saucily hopped toward us, until at a rebuking call from his mate
he flew away, and I fancied that I could hear them talking over
the situation, and drawing conclusions from their own happiness.
Phyllis was the first to break the charming spell.
"Mr. Stanhope," she asked, hardly above a whisper, "what did Aunt
Mary say when you told her that you wished to make me your
wife?"
"She said, Phyllis, that Providence may have decreed that I am
the man to bring you happiness."
And still in that same enchanting whisper, with her face a little
rosier, as she half hid it below my shoulder: "Mr. Stanhope, do
you think that a girl with my Christian training could fly in the
face of Providence?"
The philosopher was in love. It comes, I have no doubt, to every
well-ordered man to be in love once. Some there are who maintain,
with plausibility, that the passion we call love may be of
frequent recurrence, and they point to the passing fancies of
boys and girls, the romances of moonlight, the repeated sighings
of the fickle Corydon, and the matrimonial entanglements of the
aging Lydia, as evidence for their argument. That there are
varying degrees of the ecstatic emotion cannot be truthfully
denied. Heaven has wisely decreed that the heart, once filled
with its ideal, may be compensated for the bitter hour of sorrow
by the soothing balm of a new affection, and it is even possible
that the second love may be more satisfying than the first, the
third or fourth more typical of exaltation than its predecessors.
But love, whether early or late, in the perfect absorption of the
faculties comes only once; as compared with this remarkable
mental state all other conditions are unemotional, unfilling.
The true lover rises early, before the world is astir. If it is
summer and in the country, his thoughts lead him to the cool
groves, the shady banks of the river, the retired spots where he
may uninterruptedly commune with his happiness or his misery, and
reflect on the blessings that are to be, or should be, his. Was
it not then as a true lover that in the early morning I walked
into the country, and down the banks of the stream where Sylvia
and I had strayed and talked in the sunny days of youth? And
nature seemed a part of the wedding procession, and the squirrels
on the fence rails, and the robins, wrens, and wood-thrushes in
the trees chirped and twittered: "John Stanhope is in love! John
Stanhope is in love!" And the mocking crow, lazily flapping his
wings at a safe distance, croaked enviously: "Ha, ha! old
Stanhope is in love. Ha, ha!" Yet the whole conspiracy of
animated nature could not make old Stanhope in his present
exaltation regretful of his age or ashamed of his passion.
Mary Eastmann had accepted the situation without comment. She
neither congratulated nor demurred, but went on with her
household duties with the same method and precision as before.
Men may come and go, hearts may be won and lost, republics may
totter and empires may fall, but the grand scheme of sweeping,
dusting, bed-making, and cooking knows no interruption. If I did
not understand I at least commended this housewifely prudence,
and often when the domestic battle was at its height I would
spirit away my little charmer for the discussion of topics within
my comprehension. At the outset I had declared that while it had
pleased Providence to begin our romance in a burying-ground, I
did not propose to sacrifice all tender sentiment to meditations
among the tombs, and I bore her away to the old tree down by the
river, where we sat for hours together as I unfolded my plans for
our future life.
A man who has sat at the feet of the philosophers from Ovid to
Schopenhauer, and has gorged his intellect with the abstract
principles of love, naturally adapts himself to the professorial
capacity, and I soon saw that Phyllis, while one of the most
lovable, one of the sweetest of girls, was almost wholly ignorant
of the psychology of passion. I could not expect that a young
girl of twenty-two would discourse glibly of the emotion in its
intellectual phase, but I could not bear the thought that she
should enter lightly into so serious a compact, and without
gaining a reasonable comprehension of its mental analysis. Hence,
as opportunity presented, I enriched her mind with the beauties
of love from the standpoint of philosophers and thinkers, and
showed her the priceless blessings that must result from a union
dictated by careful provision of reasoning. To these addresses
she listened with sweet patience, and if she did not always grasp
their meaning, she showed much admiration for my erudition and
frequently remarked that she had no idea that love was so
abstruse a science. It seemed to me, in the serenity of my years
and the calm assurance of my love, that I was a most persistent
wooer, and I was greatly grieved when she broke out rather
petulantly one afternoon:
"I don't believe you really love me."
"You don't believe I love you? And why?"
She hesitated, half abashed by her own outburst, then added a
little defiantly: "Well, in the first place, you never quarrel
with me."
"And why should I quarrel with you? Aren't you the most amiable,
the most perfect little woman in the world?"
"Oh, of course; I know all that. But I have always read, and
always believed, that when two persons are truly, deeply in love,
they have most exciting quarrels. Is it not true that in all
romances the man is eternally quarrelling with the girl and
bidding her farewell forever?"
"Yes, and coming back in ten minutes to weep and grovel at her
feet and beg her to forgive him. My dear little Phyllis, why
should I bid you farewell forever, when I am morally certain that
in half that time I should be cringing in the turf, weeping and
begging you to say that all is forgiven and forgotten?"
"That would be lovely," she said pensively.
"Perhaps, but it would be very undignified and unnecessary. And I
am not at all sure that you would admire me in that attitude even
if I did imitate the heroes of romance. A weeping lover is much
more agreeable in a novel than in actual life. However if you
insist that we must quarrel, in order to demonstrate the
sincerity of my affection, I shall suggest that we have our spats
when we part for the night, in order that no precious waking
hours may be lost."
"You are joking," she exclaimed with a little pout.
"Not at all. Still," I added reflectively, "even this plan has
its disadvantages, for if we quarrel when we part at night, it
will necessitate my return to your window, which would not only
annoy your aunt but might scandalize the neighbors. Furthermore
it might give me a shocking cold, unless you immediately
repented, for the nights are very damp. No," I sighed with great
feeling, "all this seems impracticable. You must give me a better
reason for my coldness."
Phyllis toyed with a clover blossom, and made no answer. I went
on:
"As a slight indication of my unlover-like hauteur, let me
confess that I am going to bring you a marvellously glittering
bauble when I come back from the city, something that will
bewilder you by day and dazzle you by night."
She shrugged her shoulders. "Of course you are; you are always
giving me presents."
I laughed at this. "Well, suppose I am; I have never heard that
it is a sign of waning affection to bestow gifts on the loved
one."
"You refuse me nothing. I dare say you would give me the Boston
State House if I wished it."
"No, you are wrong there," I replied decisively. "If I bought the
State House I should be compelled to include the emblematic
codfish, and you know my aversion to codfish."
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