The Romance of an Old Fool
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Roswell Field >> The Romance of an Old Fool
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She smiled at the thought, recalling the Sunday breakfast, and
then with a roguish look and a half-embarrassed laugh she said:
"At all events you cannot deny that you did not kiss me when you
left last night."
"Didn't I?" I asked in amazement, and then, quite thrown off my
guard, I added thoughtlessly: "I had forgotten."
"That," she replied quietly, "was because you were so taken up
with the philosophy of love, and the mental attitude, that you
overlooked the physical demonstration. Do you remember the
conversation?"
Unfortunately I did. I recalled that I had spent an hour or more
defining the moral status of love and proving the sufficing
reason. It was not a pleasant reflection that so agreeable and
instructive a conversation was not thoroughly appreciated.
"We spoke at length on love," I ventured feebly.
"That is, you did," she replied. "I'll admit that it was better
than an ordinary sermon, because the subject was more personal.
But don't you think we admitted the sufficing reason at
the start, and isn't it natural that a girl who has been
conventionally brought up is pretty well satisfied in her own
mind of the moral status? Of course," she added, with a toss of
her pretty head, "I am not asking you or anybody else to kiss me.
I am merely curious to know if this plays any part in the
philosophy of love as understood by the greatest thinkers."
Her speech had given me time to pull myself together. "No," I
said with marked emphasis, "I did not kiss you, because I had
noted the unworthy suspicions you have expressed to-day, and
I was hurt and grieved. It was hard for me to exhibit my
displeasure in this way, and I am regretful now that I have
learned that it was simply playfulness on your part. Don't
interrupt. I am satisfied that the pure merriment of your nature
is responsible for this assault, and I shall take great pleasure
in making up this evening for the deficiencies of last night."
She laughed and we were friends again. And with such jocular
asperities the days passed quickly and agreeably until my nephew
arrived with the plans and specifications. Frederick Grinnell was
not only my nephew, but an architect of reputation and promise,
considering his years and experience. Like Phyllis he had been
left an orphan early in life, and it had been my pleasure and
privilege to give him an education and see that he was fairly
started in life. While I think I may say that Frederick was not
quite so attractive as was I at his age, he was nevertheless a
fine, manly young fellow, tall, well put together, of good
habits, industrious and devoted to his profession. It pleased me
to see that he admired Phyllis's pretty face and bright, animated
manner; but one evening, when I fancied that he was too deeply
stirred by her really beautiful voice, I took the opportunity to
converse with him confidentially as we walked back to the tavern.
"I have been intending to tell you, Frederick," I began a little
airily, "of the relations existing between Miss Kinglake and
myself. So far it has been a profound secret"--I did not then
know that the entire village was gossiping about it--"but I feel
that I owe it to you, as my nearest relative, to admit that Miss
Kinglake and I are engaged."
I paused, and noting that he did not wince or appear in the least
degree discomposed, continued:
"Of course you will respect my confidence in this matter. Of
course," I added magnanimously, "it will be perfectly proper for
you to signify to Miss Kinglake that you are aware of our little
secret as that will put us all on a better basis and lead to no
misunderstandings. It would be awkward to play at cross purposes,
and I should be extremely sorry, my dear boy, to think that I had
withheld anything from you, for you have always enjoyed my
fullest trust."
Whatever he may have thought, his manner betrayed no unusual
interest. "I congratulate you," he replied very calmly.
Now that so perfect an understanding existed in the immediate
family circle, I gave myself no further uneasiness. I was truly
rejoiced to notice that Frederick was deferentially polite to
Phyllis, and I encouraged him to show her those polite attentions
which my betrothed would reasonably expect from my nephew. And at
times I even insisted that he should represent me at certain
gatherings of Phyllis's friends, who were too young and
frivolous to claim my serious attention. When he protested, and
pleaded headache, business, or other sign of disinclination, I
rallied him good-humoredly on his lack of gallantry.
"Nonsense, my boy," I argued; "a young fellow of your spirit
should be only too glad to go out with a pretty girl and enjoy
himself. You certainly would not deprive Phyllis of an evening's
pleasure because your uncle has a stiff knee which interferes
with his dancing, and--confound it, you know they never let me
smoke at these frolics. Come now, be a good fellow and show the
proper family impulse."
As they went off together I looked at them admiringly and rather
fancied that I saw in them a suggestion of what Sylvia and I had
been when we made the rounds of the birthday parties. For it is
fair to confess that the image of Sylvia did not infrequently
rise before me, and I constantly saw in Phyllis the replica of
her adorable mother. In my happiest moments I spoke of this
suggestion to Phyllis, and continued to regale her with fragments
of my early life associated with her family. At first I thought
that the girl was somewhat piqued, fearing that Frederick was
thrust upon her, although she admitted that he was good-looking,
polite, and danced extremely well, but I succeeded in convincing
her that true love should not be gauged by the low standards of
hot-night dancing, and that all philosophers agree that the
purest affection springs from quiet contemplation, such as I
should enjoy while she was making merry with her friends. To this
she once ventured to remark that in that case perhaps my
affection would thrive to greater advantage if I contented myself
with thinking about her and not seeing her at all, a suggestion
which wounded me in my tenderest sensibilities, for I was
very much in love. I was also not a little disturbed when,
supplemental to my reminiscences, Mary went back to the past and
humorously drew pictures of me as her own early lover. There is
considerable difference between the impalpable, airy spirit of
the fancy and a wrinkled and austere feminine actuality of fifty.
In the midst of these innocent and improving pleasures a small
cloud appeared in the summer sky. I received a letter addressed
in a peculiar but not ornate hand, and I opened it with
misgivings and read it with consternation.
MR. STANHOPE SIR: Prudence and I thinks youd better come home.
The plummer was hear twice yisterday and the cutworms is awfle.
Hero got glass in her foot and the brown tale moths is bad
again wich is al for the presnt.
Respecfuly
MALACHY.
Duty is one of the exactions of life which I have never shirked
when there seemed no possible way of evading it, but in this
instance the call of duty was compromised by matters of equal
urgency, for nothing can be more important than the successful
administration of the affairs of love. It was a happy thought
that suggested to me a way out of the difficulty, which was
neither more nor less than that we should all go to the city
together. I sprang the proposition at a family conference.
Phyllis was delighted. "There is always so much to be seen in the
city," she cried, "and I shall meet Mr. Bunsey. It has been one
of the dreams of my life to know a real literary man."
This appeared to call for an explanation. Heaven knows I am not
jealous of Bunsey, and would not deprive him of a single
distinction that is honestly his. But a regard for the truth,
coupled with much doubt as to Bunsey's ability to live up to such
lively expectations, compelled me to resort to a little gentle
correction.
"My dear Phyllis," I said, "you must disabuse your mind of that
fallacy. Bunsey is a popular novelist, not a literary man."
"But isn't a novelist a literary man?" she asked in amazement.
"Not necessarily," I replied pityingly. "In fact I may say not
usually. Of course we are speaking of popular novelists. The
popularity of the novelist is in proportion to his lack of
literary style. The distinctive popular charm of Bunsey is that
he is not literary--at least, if he is, his critics have not
succeeded in discovering it; he successfully conceals his crime.
If he is popular, it is because he is not literary; if he were
literary he could not be popular."
"That does not seem right," said my little Puritan.
"It is not a question of ethics at all, but a matter of
taste. However, don't be prejudiced against Bunsey because
he is a product of the time and fairly representative of the
civilization. You shall meet him and shall learn from him how a
man may succeed in so-called literature without any hampering
literary qualifications."
Mary did not receive my proposition in a thankful and
conciliatory spirit. She shook her head doubtfully, and when we
were alone together, she gave voice to her fears.
"Phyllis is country-bred," she said, "and knows nothing of the
toils and snares that beset young girls in the city."
"Toils and snares," I echoed. "One might gather from your
objections that we contemplate taking Phyllis to the city merely
to expose her to temptation and corrupt the serenity of her mind.
You seem to forget the elevating influences of my modest home."
"No, John; I dare say that your home is not objectionable, taken
by itself. But I am not blind to the seductions of the great
city. You too forget," she added, with a touch of complacency,
"that I am not inexperienced or without knowledge of the
profligacy of the town."
"Granting all this," I said, highly diverted by her earnestness,
"and what are some of these seductions you have in mind?"
"Theatres," she replied promptly, "theatres and late hours,
midnight suppers--and cocktails."
I laughed uproariously. "My dear Mary, if these deadly sins and
perils alarm you, we'll cut them out. I care little for theatres,
and less for midnight suppers. And as for cocktails, I shall make
it my peculiar charge to see that Phyllis never hears the
abominable word. Allowing for the removal of these temptations, I
still think that a trip to the city would do our country flower a
world of good, though I have nothing but praise for the manner in
which you have brought her up."
"John," she answered very gravely, "I have endeavored to do my
duty as I saw it. I have tried to bring Phyllis up in the nurture
and admonition of the Lord."
The expression carried me back to my childhood, and I bit my
lips. "Of course you have," I said. "Wasn't I brought up in this
same village, in the same way? Did not my good mother and my
blessed, grandmother inflict nurture and admonition upon me, that
I might grow up as you see me, a true child of the pilgrim
fathers? The nurture, I remember, was a particularly hard seat in
our particularly gloomy old meetinghouse, and the admonition took
up the greater part of the Sabbath day, with a disenchanting
prospect of further admonition at home if I failed to keep awake.
I do not mean to say that I am not thankful for the experience.
In truth I am doubly thankful--thankful that I had it, and
thankful that it is over."
To this Mary vouchsafed no further remonstrance than a
distrustful shake of the head. Excellent woman! Is it not to such
as you, earnest, faithful, self-sacrificing, God-fearing, that
the best in young manhood, the purest in young womanhood, owe the
strength of the qualities that are the vital force of the
nation?
In the end the united opposition was too much for Mary's
arguments, and to town we went. The pleasure of the journey, on
my part, was somewhat clouded as to the welcome we should receive
from Prudence, and truly it acquired my greatest powers of
dissimulation to feign an easy indifference and air of authority
before that worthy creature, as with the most studied politeness
and formal hospitality she received us at the gate. Prudence and
I had sparred so many years that we were like two expert
athletes, and while neither apparently noticed the other, each
was perfectly conscious of the adversary's slightest movement.
Hence I detected at once her strong aversion to Mary, whom she
immediately selected as a probable mistress, and I saw her
several times vainly try to repress a grimace of disdain and
wrath. It was my first impulse to follow Prudence into the
kitchen, after the ladies had gone to their rooms, and make a
clean breast of the untoward tidings, but I lacked the moral
courage and contented myself with an inward show of strength. Why
should I pander to this woman's caprices? Was I not master in my
own house? Should I not do as I pleased? I would punish her with
the severity of my silence, and perhaps in a week or two, when
she was more tractable, I would condescend to tell her exactly
how matters stood. In this I would be firm.
But the next morning, before my guests were out of bed, I decided
that I was not acting wisely. Was not Prudence an old, faithful,
and trustworthy servant? Had she not been loyal to my interests,
and was not her whole life wrapped up in my comfort? Surely I
wronged her to withhold from her the confidence she had so fairly
earned, and the flush of shame came to my face as I reflected
that I was indulging my first deceit. I took a turn in the
garden, in the heavenly cool of the early morning, to compose my
nerves for a very probable ordeal, and then I walked boldly into
the kitchen where Prudence sat, with a wooden bowl in her lap,
paring apples.
It was one of the unwritten laws of the cuisine that Prudence was
never to be disturbed when engaged in this delicate operation.
She maintained that it destroyed the symmetry of the peel, and
I dare say she was right. Consequently she looked at me
reproachfully as I entered, and bent again more assiduously to
her work. I was much flustered by the ill omen, but I knew that
if I hesitated I was lost; so I advanced valorously, though with
accelerated pulse, and said with all the calmness I could
command:
"Prudence, I think it only right to tell you that I am going to
be married."
One apple rolled from the bowl down along the floor and under the
kitchen stove. I cannot conceive of any shock, however great,
that would cause Prudence to lose more than one apple. Partly to
conciliate, and partly to conceal my own trepidation, I made a
gallant effort to rescue the wanderer, and as I poked the
hiding-place with my stick, I heard her say: "Lord, I know'd it'd
come!"
"The fact that it has come, Prudence," I answered with a sickly
attempt at gayety, "does not seem to be a reason why you should
call with such vehemence on your Maker. There does not appear to
be any need of Providential interposition. Things are not so bad
as all that."
I always used my most elegant English when conversing with
Prudence. If she did not understand it, it flattered her to think
that I paid this tribute to her intelligence.
"Mr. John," she said, and there was a suspicious break in her
voice, "for twenty years I have tried to do my duty by you, and
now that I must go--"
"Go?" I interrupted; "who said you must go? Who spoke about
anybody's going? You certainly do not expect to turn that bowl
of apples over to me and leave me to get breakfast?"
"No, Mr. John, I shall go on and do my duty, as I see it, until
you have made all your plans and are comfortable."
"Now, look here, Prudence, I am very comfortable as things are,
thank you. And you will pardon me if I say I cannot understand
why you should go at all. I shall continue to eat, I hope, after
I am married, and I think it altogether probable that I shall
require a house-keeper and a cook. I believe they do have such
things in well-regulated families."
"At my age, and with my experience, and considerin' how we
have lived, Mr. John, I couldn't get along with a mistress,
'specially," she added with a touch of malice, "with a woman
considerable older than me."
"Older than you? What are you talking about? Miss Kinglake is
young enough to be your daughter."
Another apple rolled on the floor. "Miss Kinglake!" she exclaimed
in astonishment, "that lamb? Good Lord, I thought you were goin'
to marry the other one!"
"Prudence," I said rather hotly, for I did not relish her
amazement, "you will oblige me by not speaking of these ladies as
the 'lamb' and 'the other one.' I might gather from your remarks
that I am a sort of ravening wolf, instead of a well-meaning
gentleman who is merely exercising the privilege of selecting a
wife. But," I said, checking myself, for I was ashamed of my
explosion, "I shall be magnanimous enough to believe that you are
delighted with my choice, and that I have your congratulations.
You will be glad to know that Miss Kinglake and I are perfectly
satisfied with each other, and that we are both entirely
satisfied with you. And now that we understand the situation, I
think I may presume that we shall have breakfast at the usual
hour this morning, and to-morrow morning, and for many mornings
to come. And, by the way, Prudence, while I have honored you
with my confidence, permit me to impress it upon you that this
revelation is not village gossip as yet, and you will put me
under further obligations by not mentioning the circumstance.
Good-morning, Prudence. Kindly call the ladies at eight o'clock."
And thereupon I hastily departed, leaving the good woman in a
state of stupefaction, since, for the first and only time in our
long and controversial association, had I retired with the last
word. Taking a second turn in the garden I encountered Malachy,
and my conscience reproached me. "Am I doing right," I asked
myself, "in withholding the glad news from this faithful servant
who has shown himself so worthy of my confidence? Is it not my
duty to tell him--not so much to interest him in his future
mistress as to demonstrate the trust I repose in him?"
Malachy received my confidence with less excitement than I had
expected. In fact I was slightly humiliated by his seeming lack
of gratitude. He touched his hat very respectfully, and observed
irrelevantly that the roses below the arbor were looking
uncommonly well. This was a poor reward for my attempt at
consideration, and further convinced me of the uselessness
of establishing anything like intimate relations with the
proletariat.
"By the way, Malachy," I said in parting, "you will keep this
matter a profound secret. Miss Kinglake and I are desirous that
we shall not be annoyed by village chatter and premature
congratulations."
Having discharged my duty to my good servants, I felt that my
obligations, so far as the relation with Phyllis was concerned,
were at an end, and the morning wore away without further
misgivings of disloyalty. In the afternoon Bunsey came over for
his daily smoke, and as we sat together in the library, and I
noticed the entire absence of suspicion in his manner, my heart
smote me. "Truly," I reasoned silently, "I am behaving ill to an
old friend who has never withheld from me the very secrets of his
soul. Should I not be as generous, as outspoken, with him as he
has always proved to me? Should I not confide to him this one
precious secret, at the same time swearing him to preserve it as
he would his life?"
I blew out a ring of smoke, and then I began with the utmost
seriousness: "Bunsey, how do you like the ladies?"
He shifted his position, tipped the ashes from his cigar, and
replied tranquilly: "Oh, I dare say I shall in time."
The answer vexed me. Bunsey was a bachelor, and should have been
therefore the more impressionable. I forgot for the moment, in my
annoyance, that he was a novelist, and had been so diligently
creating lovely and impossible women to order that he was not
easily moved by the realities of humanity.
"At all events," I replied with delicate irony, "I am glad that
the future is hopeful for the ladies. My reason for asking the
question was simply to lead the way to a confidence I intend to
repose in you. To proceed expeditiously to the end of a long
story, I intend to marry one of them."
Bunsey's tranquillity was unshaken. "Which one?"
"Which one?" I echoed with heat, "why, Miss Kinglake, of course."
"Does she intend to marry you?"
"Naturally."
"Or unnaturally?"
"Confound your impertinence!" I roared, "what do you mean by
that?"
"No impertinence, at all, my dear fellow. In fact it is most
pertinent. Miss Kinglake is a girl, and you--well, you voted for
Grant."
"Which is your gentle way of saying that I am too old."
"No, not too old; just old enough--to know better."
"We are never too old to love," I said, conscious that I was
uttering a melancholy platitude.
"Too old to love? Heaven forbid! But we may be too old to
marry--at least to marry anybody worth while. Come, Stanhope,
tell me: do you really love this young woman?"
"Love her? Here I have been telling you that I intend to marry a
charming girl, and you turn about and ask me if I love her. Of
course I love her. I have been loving her in one way and another
for years."
"What do you mean by that? I thought you only met her a few weeks
ago."
I smiled pityingly. "So I did, but for years she has been my
affinity. Incidentally I don't mind saying I began by loving her
mother."
Bunsey sat up straight. "Oh, you loved her mother. Was her mother
pretty?"
"She was as you see Phyllis. In fact I think she was, if
anything, a trifle prettier. We were playmates and schoolmates,
and in the nature of things, if I had not wandered off to the
city, I presume we should have married. Dear little Sylvia," I
went on musingly, "I can see her at this moment, looking down
from heaven and smiling on my union with her daughter. For if
ever a match was made in heaven this was. Confound it! what are
you doing now?"
While I was talking Bunsey had reached over, taken a sheet of
paper and was busily writing. He looked up carelessly.
"Your story interests me, and is such good material that I
thought I would make a few notes. Young boy loves young
girl--goes to city--forgets her--young girl marries--has charming
daughter--dies--years pass--venerable gentleman returns--sees
daughter--great emotion on part of v. g.--thinks he loves
her--proposes--accepted--mar--no, there I think I must stop for
the present."
"Oh, don't stop there, I beg," I said sarcastically; "if you are
thinking of using these materials for one of your popular
novels, be sure to throw in a few duels, several heartrending
catastrophes, and other incidents of what you call 'action,'
appropriately expressed in bad English."
Bunsey was imperturbable. "Thank you for your appreciative
estimate of my literary style," he replied coolly; "but really,
my consideration for my old friend deprives me of the pleasure of
robbing his diary."
I was still out of temper. "Bunsey, I don't mind favoring you
with a further confidence. You're an ass!"
With this parting shot I strode out of the library, when,
remembering the sacredness of my revelation, I turned back.
"Of course you will understand, Bunsey, that however flippantly
you may choose to regard what I have said to you, you will have
the decency to keep the subject-matter to yourself. I do not ask
your congratulations or your approval, but I demand your
secrecy."
"The ass brays acknowledgments," answered Bunsey meekly, helping
himself to another cigar. "You may rely on my loyal and devoted
interest. The fact that I have heard your secret twice before
to-day shall not open my lips or cause me to violate your trust."
Notwithstanding my attitude of indifference I was greatly
troubled by Bunsey's unfeeling suggestion. Could it be possible
that I had mistaken my own heart? Was I, yielding, as I had
believed, to the first strong passion of my life, only deluding
myself with a remembrance of my vanished youth? I dismissed the
thought impatiently. For, after all, was not Bunsey a hopeless
cynic, a fellow without a single emotion of the ennobling
sentiment of man toward woman, a sordid story-teller, who created
characters for money, wrecked homes, committed literary murders,
played unfeelingly on the tenderest sensibilities, and boasted
openly that the only angels were those made by a stroke of the
pen and retailed at department store book-counters? And while
thus reasoning Phyllis came to me, so winsome in her girlish
beauty, so radiant in the happiness I had infused into her life,
so joyous in the pleasures of the present, that I laughed at my
own doubts, reproached myself for my own unworthy suspicions, and
straightway forgot both Bunsey and his evil promptings.
Love at eight and forty is a very pleasant and indolent emotion,
marking the most delightful stage in the progress of the great
human passion. At twenty-five we talk it; at thirty-five we act
it; at forty-five it is pleasant to sit down and think about it.
The very young man loves without really analyzing. Ten years
later he analyzes without really loving. In another decade he has
compounded the proportions of love and analysis, and becomes,
under favoring conditions, the most dangerous and hence the most
acceptable of suitors. The man in middle life takes his adored
one tolerantly, and keeps his reservations to himself. In the
ordinary course of events he has acquired a certain knowledge of
feminine character, he knows the rocks and the shoals of love,
and, skillful pilot that he is, he avoids them. He is sure of his
course, master of his equipment. If he errs at all--but I
anticipate.
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