And so on, and so on. Perhaps the Philosopher--great light of Oxford, whom nobody present knew much about,--caught some of these _sotto voce_ observations,--perhaps not,--anyway his facial expression became more and more saturnine and forbidding as he helped to “speed the parting guests.” The “dull old man in the fishing cottage,” millionaire Durham, did certainly gather up a few crumbs of “social” comment, and now and again a sardonic smile made extra wrinkles in his furrowed countenance, especially when one self-important personage, the local brewer, laid a patronising paw upon his shoulder, saying, “We must see more of you, Mr. Durham! Come and dine with us one day this week, will you?”
Whereat Durham replied slowly in a strong, nasal drawl:
“Thank you! I guess not! I’ve been living here over two years and have never been asked out to dine before--it would seem kinder strange to me to be doing it now!”
And the brewer retired discomfited, feeling the poignant flash of satire in the old man’s eyes more keenly than the blunt refusal of his invitation.
The April evening closed in with sweet moisture and warm scent of flowers, and the old Manor house, full of bridal blossoms and “remainders” of the wedding, looked, despite its floral garlanding, strangely empty and deserted, bereft of the flitting presence of its fair little mistress who was its chief charm. Vainly old Dr. Maynard strove to be cheerful, but it was an evident effort, and though he said little, his sudden loneliness made him deeply grateful for the society of the Philosopher, who had decided to stay on at the Manor for a day or two;--the Sentimentalist’s parting words “Take care of him!” had laid a sort of trust upon his mind which he was not disposed to ignore. Durham remained late, smoking and chatting till the moon lifted a silver round above the trees, and lighted the path to his cottage by the river; he was full of eager plans for the happy future of the just-wedded pair, and gave himself away quite unreservedly. Nothing was too good for them,--a beautiful house in town,--a flat in Paris--and other luxurious “fitments” of life which somehow, in the mind of the Philosopher at least, seemed unsuitable to the tastes and the temperament of the little “rose-lady,”--a creature “toned to finest melodies, unheard by grosser ears.” But he made no comment. It would have seemed ungracious to check the flow of affection and ungrudging munificence of a father for an only son by so much as a word. Yet he was in a sense relieved when the millionaire took his departure and left him alone with Dr. Maynard. “The Deterioration of Language” was a ponderous piece of work, but it had formed a link between them of interest and scholarship; it had brought them together in pleasant and intimate relations, and it had been the means of letting a little light in upon his hitherto strictly locked and darkened prison-house of human motion,--such light as had, at odd moments, blinded him into a faint belief that he was still young. On this particular night, after all the joyous stir of the wedding, and the subsequent silence and desertion of the house, he felt old--older than he cared to feel. He and the old doctor sat together in the study, smoking their pipes by a cheerful log fire,--for the April evenings were chilly,--and for some time they had hardly exchanged a word. A somewhat heavy sigh from Maynard roused the Philosopher to attention.