"Why, yes; if you wish—and if you think you ought, you know."
"Well, then,—Phyllis. Your name has become to me the one name worth saying in the world. Ever since I met you for the first time, four months ago, I have been saying it, Phyllis; but I wanted to say it to you. So with your face: I know every mood of you by the lights and shadows of it. I can see it in your absence, almost as well as when I am with you. Your dear, sweet face, Phyllis, and your crown of gold, and your loyal eyes, I know by heart, as well as your name. Dear Phyllis. And I know, too, your quick and beautiful mind; its clear, wise judgment of the true and the false. I know its freedom from selfishness, and all littleness. I know its purity and its steadfastness I know your capable hands, Phyllis, and your eager, pitying heart,—for I have seen them at work day after day, and week after week. I love you, my dearest, and I must tell you so. I think I have loved you longer than I have known you, but I know I have loved you as long. Perhaps you can care for me, and perhaps you can't. Sometimes I have dared to hope you might, but almost always I have known it was too high a hope. For I am only a poor poet, with nothing but faith in myself and love for you to offer. I know you have everything; a beautiful home, and beautiful clothes, and beautiful jewels, probably, though I haven't seen them. Every wish of yours is answered almost before you know it is yours. Life's promise to you is the earth and the fullness thereof; and I offer you only love. But in the end I shall win, Phyllis, I am perfectly certain of that. I shall never, never be rich; possibly never even well-to-do; but I love you, Phyllis; I love you. I want to ask you to wait for me—and be my wife."
With a pretty impulse she took one of his hands and raised it to her lips.
People were passing almost constantly. They were forced to separate, to pass a group of children, playing noisily on the pavement.
"I know I should have spoken to your uncle, first," he said, "but I knew he would say no, unless—unless you asked him, too."
"Ah! but I am so glad you told me to-day," said Phyllis. "I am so glad, so glad! Of all the days in the year I should have chosen to-day. You don't know why, do you? Because to-day is the fourteenth of February,—Saint Valentine's Day."
In a rush of words she told him of her mother's name, and of her mother, and of her valentines.
"You haven't told me you love me yet," said John.
"Can't you hear my heart singing it?" asked Phyllis.
"But I want to hear you say the words," he urged.
"I love you, John," said Phyllis softly.
"And you will promise to marry me—some day?" he asked.
"Yes—some day," she repeated shyly.
"And you are not afraid of the future?"
"Not a bit," said Phyllis. She smiled up at him. "You must take me home, now, and we will tell Uncle Peter."
They rode home on the top of a motor-bus. He tucked her hand into his greatcoat pocket, and held it there. Their mood was exalted. The streets were glorified; the gloomy buildings had become wonderful castles; their fellow-passengers were surrounded with the mystery of romance.
It grew colder rapidly; at the terminus they clambered down stiffly. Twilight had fallen when they reached the great gates of the park. John stopped and laid a detaining hand on Phyllis's arm. They kissed for the first time. Moment of ecstasy!
It is doubtful if they would ever have got past the park gates except for the warning whistle of a hurrying messenger boy, on a bicycle.
"My eye! What a smack!" he yelled, as he shot past. John glared, but Phyllis laughed happily.
He would have lingered as they walked down the long street to the house; but Phyllis had no doubt of the outcome; Sir Peter's frown was without terrors for her, but to John—how formidable. His footsteps lagged as they climbed the wide steps to the door.
"Sir Peter was called out of town by a telegram," said Burbage, in the hall. "He said he would be home by a late train. Thompson's to meet the twelve-thirty."
John clutched at this reprieve.
"I have a class at Saint Ruth's at seven," he said. "I must hurry away, Miss Oglebay." Burbage was helping Phyllis with her furs.
It was arranged he should call early the following morning. They exchanged significant looks, and he was gone. A ring, set with old-fashioned garnets, was left in the hand he had pressed; one of his mother's rings, worn on his watch-chain. Phyllis seized Burbage and danced her up and down the hall and back again, demoralizing the rugs. Then, having picked up her muff and thrown it at her, Phyllis raced up the stairs.
Sir Peter was gruff at the breakfast table. The hurriedly written telegram, or his hasty reading of it, had led him a wild-goose chase. To find your host concealing surprise as he shakes hands, and to learn, at the end of ten minutes of feverish cordiality, that you were invited to dine the following night, is never comfortable, even at the home of an old friend. When two hours on a train each way are involved, and loss of one's sleep as well——! A bleak east wind, this morning, too, and Sir Peter was Jarndyced as to that quarter.
Worst of all, Phyllis looked like her mother, with her hair over her ears, like that; the likeness always irritated Sir Peter, but this morning it was particularly striking.
He accepted her morning endearments graciously, but Phyllis was glad the toast wasn't cold. She recognized unpropitious portents.
John was shown into the library at ten, sharp; his chin had come to his rescue. He gave Phyllis a bright look, and led up to the business in hand promptly.
Sir Peter, savoring his cigar, "The Times" spread over his knees, invited the young man to be seated; the young man preferred to stand, and did, very straight, his back to the fireplace. His eyes were large and serious his color high; his hands were behind him and the nervous fingers couldn't be seen. Phyllis viewed her champion with approving eyes, and sat on the edge of her chair.
"I am afraid my errand won't be an agreeable one to you, sir," John began. "I am sure it wouldn't be to me if—if I were you. But I must tell you my story from the beginning, if you are willing. You knew my father and something of my family. The people of his parish were tremendously fond of him. He gave them all of himself. He died poor, of course, and left me a good name and two hundred pounds a year. The countryside came to his funeral. The faces of the men were streaked with tears, as they stood by his grave, and women wept openly. I had letters of sympathy from every county in England, from Canada, and from far-away India. His spirit was as gentle as a child's; but he welded men and women to him as with bonds of steel. Yet he had never tried a cause, nor built a bridge, nor saved a life as a physician, nor laid one down as a soldier. He hasn't even left a sermon in print, for he never wrote one."
John hesitated. Sir Peter rustled "The Times" uneasily. Phyllis sat perfectly still, waiting.
"My father taught me more than I learned at Magdalene, and he gave me my ideals. Perhaps they are unusual, but I believe they are true. They may be told in a few words,—to face life fearlessly, live it cleanly and fully, and use it to what end one's conscience and one's talents direct without too much regard for the careless opinion of the world. I haven't anything behind me that I am ashamed of. I am far from being ashamed of my profession though I admit it has seemed to require defense rather often since I came to London. My father encouraged me to adopt it when I suggested the idea to him. I will tell you what he said to me. It was this: 'All work is fine. Of course, I think labor in the Church of God is the finest. But every profession offers opportunities for useful service; and trade is honorable to honorable men. But, John,' said he, 'one imperishable poem is worth more to mankind than all the gold and silver stored in the stronghold of the Bank of England. You may never write one, but a lifetime devoted to trying will not be wasted.' That was what my father said, sir."
"That would be like him as I recall him," said Sir Peter shortly. He had no inkling yet of John's errand. He was disposed to be generous to this quixotic young man for his father's sake.
Phyllis wondered how any one could look at John or hear him speak, and not love him; but she had momentary pangs of foreboding; a vague presentiment of impending unhappiness.
"I settled his few affairs,—he did not owe a penny,—and I came to London. There had been some correspondence between Dr. Thorpe and my father, and I called at Saint Ruth's. I thought I saw a chance of touching a larger life and of doing a little good; I have given some of my afternoons and all of my evenings there ever since. Dr. Thorpe is a brick, as you know, sir; he and his wife have been very kind to me. I was rather lonely at first, and—all that. My mornings I devote to my profession. I think I have made some progress, if only in finding the wrong ways of putting words together." John smiled. "There are a great many wrong ways and I am finding them all, one by one."
Sir Peter concealed his impatience; the dull ache in Phyllis's heart continued, she knew not why.
"I met Miss Oglebay at Saint Ruth's some months ago. I think I must tell you, sir, that from the very first moment I loved her."
Sir Peter half rose from his chair, in his sudden astonishment.
"The devil you say!" he gasped. "Upon my word, this is effrontery. You amaze me, Landless. You must have lost your senses. My niece"—he turned to Phyllis. Something he saw in her face diverted the torrent "Has Landless spoken of this to you?" he asked grimly.
"Yes, Uncle Peter. He told me yesterday that he—he cared for me, and we both hurried home to tell you, but you were——"
Sir Peter was out of his chair, and on his feet, now.
"You spoke to my niece before you came to me, Landless; knowing that I had met you—not more than three times, at most; that you had been in my house but once?" His voice was raised, his scowl threatening.
"I am sorry to have seen so little of you, sir," said John. "But I have seen a great deal of Phyllis."
"Where, sir?" demanded Sir Peter.
"At Saint Ruth's, and in its neighborhood," John answered evenly. "We have worked there together."
"How long has this been going on?" Sir Peter had regained control of himself, but his fine face was distorted. Phyllis's hands were clenched tightly in her lap. She was very pale.
"If you mean how long have we been meeting each other there, and going about in the neighborhood together——"
"I think my meaning is clear, sir."
"About four months, then. It seems a short time, but we have seen each other almost every day."
"Landless, you are a sneak," said Sir Peter quietly. "You are a damned sneak."
John's face flamed; he started as if struck by a whip.
"Oh, no! Uncle Peter!" cried Phyllis. "Oh, no, no! Uncle Peter."
"Leave the house, Landless."
"But Mr. Landless is my guest!" She was as pale as death, now, and breathing hurriedly; her eyes were unnaturally large, and there was a stricken look in them.
"You heard what I said, Landless." The voice was unyielding.
John moved toward the door, chin up and shoulders squared. Phyllis intercepted him swiftly, and put both hands appealingly on his arm.
"Wait a moment, John. Oh, wait a moment for my sake, John," she pleaded.
"I can't," said John. "You know that I can't."
"Ah, but you must, John, for my sake; for my sake."
She linked her hands closely about his arm and turned to her uncle. John, facing the door, moved slowly toward it, trying gently to disengage her hands, and forcing her to walk a step or two backward as she spoke.
"I must ask you to apologize to Mr. Landless, Uncle Peter," she said earnestly. "Whatever fault there has been, if there has been any, is mine. I have often spoken to you of meeting Mr.—of meeting John at Saint Ruth's. But I see now you didn't realize how often I went there, nor that I was with him so many of the times. I should have told you, Uncle Peter; the fault was mine, not John's. I am sorry, Uncle Peter, and I ask you to forgive me. But you must apologize to John." She looked at the stern face entreatingly; the doorway was very near.
"Oh, John," she implored, "I beg you to wait a moment; just a tiny second. Uncle Peter will tell you he didn't understand."
John stopped, and stood facing the doorway his back turned to Sir Peter.
They waited in silence; the slow ticking of the tall clock could be heard.
"I love him dearly, Uncle Peter," whispered Phyllis.
Ah! Valentine Germain; pretty, dead Valentine Germain; your daughter is wonderfully like you now.
"I ask you to wait, Landless," said Sir Peter.
His next words were calmly spoken; deliberate passionless; the more awful for that.
"I have known one reckless marriage, Landless, and one is enough for a lifetime. There is a taint in all of this of which you know nothing. This unhappy child's father was a fool. Her mother was a shallow, soulless, shameless creature—and worse. Her——"
"It is a lie!" cried Phyllis. "A cruel, cruel lie! God pity you, Uncle Peter, and forgive you. I am sorry for you; I am sorry for you. You have nursed those bitter, black thoughts in your heart for so many years that they have poisoned your life. But you have soiled my mother's memory for the last time in my presence. Never, never again!" A great sob choked her. "I am going to leave you, Uncle Peter. I am grateful to you for many years of generous, loving kindness. Indeed, I do not forget them; indeed, I am grateful. But I cannot stay here any longer. I should be miserable—wretched if I stayed. I cannot breathe in this room—in this house." She rocked her body as if in pain. She would have said more, but——
"Go, then!" said Sir Peter, through set teeth.
Phyllis ran from the room and out of the house, bareheaded; John snatched his hat and stick in the hall and overtook her as she fled through the iron grille. They ran together a short distance. Then Phyllis slackened the pace to a rapid walk. She was breathless, her hands pressed to her heart; a maid distraught. Pitiful, inarticulate little cries escaped her from time to time. John walked beside her, silently. They passed through the gates of the park, and she walked more slowly. Slowly, and still more slowly they wandered, aimlessly, under the leafless trees. She turned to him at last, her lips blue with the cold.
"You must take care of me now, John. I have no one else," she said quietly.
Was it Dr. Johnson who remarked that one great charm of London is that you may walk in a crowded street, eating a twopenny bun, without attracting a second glance? Or was it Benjamin Franklin? Not that it matters.
On a wintry morning, in a public conveyance a hatless and coatless young woman of unusual beauty, and a very self-conscious young man, sitting beside her, were not annoyed by more than a curious stare or two.
John had suggested a cab.
"We must economize from the very beginning," said Phyllis, with a wan smile.
She blushed deliciously when John handed her money, and she hurried into a shop. Such a simple, brown hat she found, a little shopworn; the long, warm coat she bought matched perfectly. Standing at the street corner, waiting for her, John counted the money in his pockets; enough for luncheon, fares, and even contingencies, he was glad to find. But he thought with satisfaction of the full quarter's income at his lodgings. When she rejoined him, John looked her over critically.
"I suppose that is a terribly cheap coat," he said, trying to remember other coats he had seen on her pretty figure.
"It is a lovely coat. I like it very much," replied Phyllis, stroking the flaps of the pockets.
"Well, it really is becoming," John assured her. "So is the hat."
"I think so, too," said Phyllis. "And I am particular about hats."
"I would be willing to wager five shillings you never had such an inexpensive one before," said John. Phyllis didn't answer that; and John added, "Your uncle will send your pretty clothes to—to—wherever you go," he ended lamely.
Phyllis held up two slender fingers.
"Two things I didn't like in one sentence" she admonished him. "First, Uncle Peter will send me nothing. Oh, John, I couldn't, couldn't take anything from him now. I really could not." She stopped suddenly "I must have my valentines, though. They were my mother's. They will go with me wherever—That reminds me of the second thing you said I didn't like. You should not have said—'Wherever you go,' but 'Wherever we go'!"
She smiled at him bravely.
"Well, we will go to lunch now," said John, smiling, too, and making the most of the pronoun. "It is early, but we can sit and talk it all over."
"Where?" she asked, almost gayly. Her heart was bruised, but she meant to forget all that, and the thought of a lunch with John was a very good place to begin.
John took his bearings as to restaurants.
"If you could walk a short distance, there is Mildmay's," he suggested.
"I can walk miles," she answered; but she thought ruefully of her thin soles.
A white table between them, a waitress with rolls, and something hot in prospect; John thought the time had come.
"But, seriously, my darling, what shall we do? What is the best for you? Shall I take you to the Nevilles'?"
Phyllis looked blank.
"To be sent home in their car, bound hand and foot, and lectured besides!" she remonstrated.
"Well, Mrs. Thorpe could certainly put you up for the night. Odd I didn't think of her first."
"John, dear," began Phyllis, and then blushed, for the word had popped out of itself. However, after a moment she went on courageously—"Did you hear me say 'we,' a little while ago? We are going together wherever we go." She hesitated. "Don't you want me, John?" A swift look at his face, and hers glowed.
"My dearest, dearest girl." John's voice expressed his earnest sincerity. "I won't pretend to misunderstand your meaning, and I do so long to believe it possible that my head swims. But—"
"I perfectly hate 'buts,'" she interrupted She put her elbows on the table, and flashed a smile at him, through her arched fingers.
"But, dearest, you must consider this seriously I want you to think for a moment. Need I tell you I love you more than life! Only yesterday I scarcely dared hope that you might be willing to wait years for me to—to earn enough with my pen to ask you to share my lot. To-day—the doors of Paradise are opened wide. Ah! my dear, my dear, I am eager to enter, but I fear for you. I should be taking advantage of your helplessness——"
"Listen, John," said Phyllis. "I am not the least bit helpless. There are dozens of houses to which I can go and dozens of friends who would be glad to have me come to them. But at every open door there is also a finger pointing inevitably back to Uncle Peter's house. And there I shall never, never go. So far as your lot is concerned—it is mine. For better or for worse John, dear. But I trust you, and believe in you, and think perhaps there is a high destiny for you. I want to share in that, too, if you will let me, please. And I can't do so fully unless we go, hand in hand, all the way, together. I am not dismayed by the thought of doing without a great many unnecessary things. And the really vital things I hope to have more of than ever—with you. And so, John, if you don't mind, please, we will eat our lunch like sensible young people, and afterward—and afterward—Now, John, I simply cannot say that. You must say that, you know. I haven't left much of it for you to say, but that little I insist upon your saying for yourself."
Ah! Valentine Germain! pretty, dead Valentine Germain! your daughter is wonderfully like you now.
John looked steadily into her trustful eyes; a long, long look.
"Then I ask you to marry me this afternoon my dearest," he said solemnly. "And—oh! Phyllis, I pray God you may never reproach me."
"I never shall, John," she answered. "For I honestly believe I am to be the happiest and the proudest girl in England."
"Wich of you gets the chocolate, and wich the tea?" asked the waitress.
They were married before three; it was amazing how short, how simple, so marvelous an event could be. John spent ten minutes at the telephone. A quarter of an hour was passed in the coldly official precincts of Doctors' Commons. In the Faculty Office, through an open doorway, Phyllis caught glimpses of the formalities incident to securing a license. A clerk filled up a printed form; John made affidavit to the clerk's accuracy of transcription; a stamp was affixed; a document was blotted, examined; the dotting of aniwas attended to, and the dot blotted; a bank-note changed hands. The license in his pocket, John rejoined her.
"We must hurry now, darling," said he.
"Oh, dear!" said Phyllis. "I am glad to hurry away from here. That clerk's face was so unsympathetic."
Half an hour after they entered the dark, quiet church, the clergyman, with a cold in his head, had pronounced them "bad ad wife."
They were on top of a motor-bus, jolting cityward, and John was gayly addressing her as Mrs. Landless, before Phyllis realized that it was really all over—that the irrevocable step was taken—that they were married. The whirl of her thoughts then!
At the terminus, John bought a newspaper and scanned its advertisements. They started on their search for lodgings. His room was in Whitechapel, near Saint Ruth's.
"It is up under the roof, and looks over the week's washing of the submerged tenth; it won't do at all!" he had declared.
The idea of a hotel impressed Phyllis unpleasantly.
"Well, then," said John, "we must look for a new tree in which to build our nest."
How many dissonant bells jangled to their touch; how many dreary hallways they entered and stood waiting in; how many steep staircases they climbed; how many rooms they peeped into—one look enough; how many others they viewed at greater length, but with no more satisfaction in the end; a few, John thought, had possibilities, but Phyllis could not bear the sight of them!
The curious questions they were asked; as though the lodgers instead of the lodgings were undergoing inspection. Most of the lodging-house keepers asked John where he was employed; some of them wanted to know if he could give references.
"How cime you to leave your last plice?" was one shrill question.
In utter weariness Phyllis at last consented to John's suggestion; he would make a preliminary survey and she should be called into counsel only in promising cases. They were few enough. She walked up and down monotonous streets while John was indoors; to be told, time after time, that was not the place they sought.
Even John might have been discouraged; on the contrary, that young man's chin rose to his difficulties. But Phyllis's eyes grew more and more troubled when darkness fell, and the lights in windows reminded them that they were still homeless.
Seeking new bills, "To Let," they found themselves in a small square, surrounded by houses; a fine neighborhood in its day.
"Oh dear, John, I fear I can walk no farther," said Phyllis. "We must go to a hotel after all, though I detest the idea. My shoes are worn through."
He led her to a bench in the little square, and kneeling before her took off one shoe, and then the other, and carefully fitted each with a new sole, made from a page of "The Daily Chronicle."
"If I fail as a poet I shall be a cobbler," he said to her brightly.
He sat down beside her. "My dearest, I am so sorry. I have blundered through this afternoon, horribly. Perhaps I should have taken you to my own room at once, poor as it is. Perhaps I should have sought advice from Mrs. Thorpe. Perhaps I should have insisted on a hotel, for a few days, until we could look about. At least, we might have had a cab. I have been most inconsiderate. I am so strong in the new hope and strength you have given me that I haven't thought enough for you. My poor, tired Phyllis."
He held her hands; his face contrite. She was too dispirited for words, but she patted his hand softly.
As they sat there, John saw a lighted shop-window, not fifty yards distant.
"Sit here and rest, darling, while I run over there and inquire for any lodgings in this vicinity. If there are none, I will call a cab and we will go to a hotel. Think of the beautiful dinner we shall have. Our wedding dinner, dearest! I warn you I mean to be extravagant." He leaned over her and kissed her, and then ran across the street.
Then she allowed herself to cry for the first time. Poor, sad, tired little bride, whose wedding day had been so different from all her girlish dreams of it. She cried quietly, on the bench, alone, in the darkness. She was cold and tired and lonely.
John came back on the run, from the opposite direction.
"I inquired at the bookseller's shop," said he. "He directed me to the house in which he lodges himself. He recommended it so highly I thought I would leave you alone for a few minutes longer and see the rooms. Phyllis, I really believe I have found what we want. There are three rooms, though one is very small. There is the coziest little sitting-room, with a fireplace and an easy-chair. Adjoining it is a smaller room. But the bedroom is large, and has two windows. The place is spotlessly clean. And the woman who lets the rooms is a wholesome, good-hearted soul; I am sure you will like her. The terms are a little—well, just a little higher; but the woman says, of course, that is to be expected—with the view of the square from our windows."
John looked at Phyllis doubtfully. "Do you think, dearest, that you could see these for yourself? It isn't far, and I will not ask you to look at another place if you don't like this one."
She drew new courage from his hopefulness They walked the length of the little square.
John rang. The door opened, and a motherly looking woman stood aside to let them enter. Phyllis stood directly below a flaring gas-jet, as she turned to wait for their conductress.
The woman screamed and her hands went to her heart.
"Valentine Oglebay!" she exclaimed.
"That was my mother's name," said Phyllis. She was too tired to be surprised, even. The woman took a step forward.
"Your mother! Then you must be little Phyllis. You don't remember—"
"Farquharson!" cried Phyllis. "Farquharson! Oh! dear, dear Farquharson."
They were crying in each other's arms, repeating names endearingly, incredulously.
John stood staring.
Finally, Mrs. Farquharson, tears streaming down her kindly face, held Phyllis away from her and looked at her long and lovingly.
"My dear, my dear, my deary dear. How ever did you come to find me?"
"I didn't," replied Phyllis. "John found you. He—we—we are looking for lodgings. We—we were married this afternoon. We have been hunting for rooms for hours—and this was the last place——" Phyllis faltered. She turned to John, and then to Mrs. Farquharson. "This is Mr. Landless, my—this is my dear, dear old Nurse Farquharson. She knew my mother and father, and she took care of me when I was a little, little girl. Oh, John, you cannot know how glad I am to see her!"
They shook hands.
"I told her she would like you," said John to Mrs. Farquharson.
"And to think of her being married," said Mrs. Farquharson. "And coming to my house with her husband, looking for a place to live, and me with three rooms all ready for them as soon as ever I can get a fire laid in the grate."
She turned to Phyllis again.
"Just you sit down here in the warm hall a minute, my deary dear," she said, "while I get—though maybe you would like to look at them first. Yes, of course. Come straight upstairs, Miss—my dear. If you decide to stay—"
"Oh, Farquharson! How can you suggest that we shouldn't stay!" said Phyllis.
"Never would I hint such a thing," replied Mrs. Farquharson. "But, of course, there are only the three rooms, and one of them small, to be sure, and no others in the house unoccupied. This way,—these are the rooms, Miss—my dear. And as I says to the young gentleman—your husband, that is—the sitting-room is that cozy, with the fire, and the bedroom is airy. The view is something pretty, I do assure you. Oh! my deary dear, my deary dear! How ever did you come to find me?"
It was hard to tell whether Mrs. Farquharson was laughing or crying. Phyllis sank into the easy-chair with a sigh.
"I shall never get up again," she said to John.
"Slippers," said Mrs. Farquharson, and vanished.
John kissed Phyllis and tried, awkwardly, to take off her hat. He managed it finally, and a loose strand of beautiful hair fell over one of her ears. She tucked it away.
"Isn't it too wonderful to be true!" she said. John's heart was too full for speech. He turned away to hide his working mouth.
Mrs. Farquharson was on her knees before Phyllis a moment later. The slippers were too large, but how welcome to her aching feet. One of her shoes, upturned, caught Mrs. Farquharson's eye. She inspected John's handiwork; then gave Phyllis a startled look.
"In February, my dear. And on your wedding day! How ever came it? With newspapers, all wadded in. Whatever's happened?"
"It has all been very sudden, dear Farquharson" said Phyllis. "I will tell you all about it as soon as I have rested a little. Oh! It is good, good, to be with you. I am so glad, so glad. Aren't you glad, John? Just think—if you hadn't tried once more. If you hadn't asked at that little shop."
"Shop?" inquired Mrs. Farquharson.
"The little old bookshop, at the other aid of the square," explained John.
"Oh, Mr. Rowlandson's. He sent you here. He would, to be sure. My oldest lodger, sir, and the easiest to do for—though odd. Here's Genevieve with the tea. Don't put the tray on the sofa, Genevieve On the table, of course. Whenever will you learn? Here, drink this, my deary dear. It will prepare your stomach for something more. I am getting your supper ready now downstairs, and the young gentleman's. There's a chop. Do drink a little of the tea, my dear, even if you don't want it. It's for your best. Do you like apricots as well as ever you did? Oh, whoever has had the bringing of you up, that I should have had! The many times I've thought. And your poor dear mother and father both taken at once, too."
"I went to my Uncle Peter," said Phyllis "I have lived there ever since."
"Sir Peter Oglebay—your father's brother I might have known." Mrs. Farquharson nodded her head vigorously. "Though he was terrible down on your—To think of that now! And so you have been here in London all these many years! And me never to know! Deary me!"
"We—my uncle did everything to find you," Phyllis assured her. "He even advertised for you. I cried for you very often when I was little, dear Farquharson."
"Did you, indeed, my dear?" asked Mrs. Farquharson, smiling, and wiping her eyes with her apron. "And advertised for me. In the papers. Reward offered and no questions asked. I've read them myself, but never did I think."
"Oh, yes. I wanted you very badly," Phyllis assured her again. "I used to tease Burbage when I was naughty, by telling her you were never cross with me."
"And who is Burbage?" asked Mrs. Farquharson.
"She is my uncle's housekeeper. She was very good to me, too. But I missed you dreadfully. You know, John, my mother and father were away from home for weeks at a time, and Farquharson took such care of me."
"Such games as we had," said Mrs. Farquharson reflectively; and then to John,—"She was everything whatever from Mary, Queen of Scots, to a dromedary, I've beheaded her many's the time, and her humps was the pillows off her little bed. If Genevieve hasn't burned those chops to a cinder, they must be ready, and why ever she doesn't bring them up I do not know."
What a dainty supper! John did full justice to it.
Mrs. Farquharson brooded over Phyllis; but she could eat nothing.
The kind-hearted woman maintained a constant stream of talk, in which lodgers, rooms, chops, apricots, and toast, and the old times were inextricably intermingled.
The first-floor front and his wife had seen better days; in stocks, they were. The vagaries of Mr. Rowlandson, the bookseller, third-floor front, the walls of his rooms lined with—what do you think? No, not with books, nor pictures, but with glazed cases containing old patch-boxes and old fans. Mrs. Farquharson had seen Mr. Singleton and Mr. Leonard once. But the trio of painters was inseparable no longer. Mr. Knowles had married their favorite model. "The hussy!" said Mrs. Farquharson.
One reminiscence followed another.
"Ah, me," she sighed. "Your father and mother was a pair of lovers if ever there was a pair. As long as I knew them, they never had a word—much less words. 'Pard' he called her. 'What shall we do to-day, Pard?' he would ask her of a morning. She would want him to be at his pictures 'On such a sunshiny morning!' he would say. And the next day, maybe, it would rain. 'You know I can't paint these dark days,' says he. And off they would go, on some harum-scarum or other, like a couple of children. Like a couple of children—and so they ever were, too. Do you mind my speaking of them?"
"I love it," Phyllis assured her. "I—you know I have had no one with whom I could talk about my mother and father. Uncle Peter—" She could not finish the sentence.
"Yes, yes, my deary dear, I know," said Mrs. Farquharson soothingly. "Your mother knew what he thought. Often and often she told me she wished she could find a way to make Sir Peter not think so hard of her. 'Oh, Farquharson,' says she, 'he thinks I snared Robert. If he only knew how hard I tried to refuse him.' She was wild for a stage career when first they met. It grieved her sorely that your uncle didn't know the rights of it; but, bless your heart, she couldn't bear the thought of any one, high or low, not being good friends with her. She was that tender-hearted, you wouldn't believe. But along with it as proud as—as—I can't think of his name—that makes the matches. You know, my dear."
Mrs. Farquharson mused over her memories
"Your father was her first love-affair," she resumed. "She was wrapped up in her acting till she met him. Her mother and father were both on the stage. Did you know that? Yes, my deary dear, she told me a costume-trunk was her cradle, and a dressing-room the only nursery that ever she knew. She hated to give it all up, but she did; your mother loved your father beyond all that ever I saw or heard of, and he worshiped the ground she walked on. Strong words, my dear, but true as true."
It was midnight before they knew it. The dark circles under her darling's eyes gave Mrs. Farquharson occasion for concern. Genevieve had visited the bedroom with clean linen in her arms.
"I will take a short walk," whispered John to Phyllis.
Poor Phyllis. She needed her old nurse; the excitement and fatigue had exhausted her completely.
Standing in the square, looking upward at the stars, a white-faced poet, his thoughts unutterable, at last saw the lights in her windows grow dim and disappear.
On the stairs he met Mrs. Farquharson. Her voice was anxious as she bade him good night.
From the little sitting-room John could see into the bedroom. The light shone on the face of Phyllis asleep.
He sat watching the dying fire for a long while. Finally he rose, slowly wound up his watch, turned out the gas, and lay down on the sofa. He soon slumbered peacefully.
In the gray dawn Phyllis awakened. Recollections slowly crowded upon her consciousness. She rose and stood by the window, looking out on the quiet square, and at the houses, opposite, emerging from obscurity with the growing light. She stepped to the door and peeped into the other room. John lay on the sofa, sleeping soundly, one arm flung boyishly over his head.
The rooms were very cold. She took the coverlet from her bed and spread it over him.
He stirred a little. "Thanks, old chap," he murmured sleepily.
Phyllis tiptoed back to bed.
Within a fortnight their rooms were transformed. Mrs. Farquharson declared she would not have known them herself.
John's old room, dismantled, yielded his bookshelves and his books; his father's old desk, a Sheraton, and therefore a beauty and joy forever; and his armchair, which took its place in a corner of the cheery sitting-room and seemed to say—"Come, sit here, and be comfortable," as naturally as though it had been established there for years. Certainly it had this advantage over the other chairs; it was so roomy John and Phyllis could sit in it together; and often did.
There were photographs of his father as a young man; and of his mother, a flower-like creature, who had faded like a flower, leaving a fragrant memory. Phyllis gazed at her picture with wistful eyes; and once, when John was absent, held it to her lips.
But Phyllis's old valentines gave the rooms their charm. A dozen or more, framed in dull gold, hung on the walls, their delicate coloring softened by the passing of many years; their sentiment as fresh and gentle as of yesterday.
On the day after her marriage, Phyllis had written this letter:—
DEAR UNCLE PETER:—John Landless and I were married yesterday. We have found a pleasant place to live, with Farquharson, my old nurse. I hope you will try to think of me as kindly as you can, and kindly, too, of John, whose heart is pure gold, and all mine, as mine is his. I want you to know I am sorry, even when I am happiest,—and, indeed, Uncle Peter, I am happy,—sorry for the pain my thoughtlessness gave you? sorry for the mischief that was done, unconsciously, because I did not tell you, long ago, that I was learning to love him. It would have been far, far better to have told you? I am truly, truly sorry. Some day, when you want me to, I hope to tell you all this much better than I can write it.I have a favor to ask of you, Uncle Peter. I want my valentines. Could Burbage put them all in the leather cases, and send them, by Thompson, to Saint Ruth's? And, please, I ask you to send nothing else? just the valentines, please, Uncle Peter.Always lovingly,PHYLLIS.
DEAR UNCLE PETER:—
John Landless and I were married yesterday. We have found a pleasant place to live, with Farquharson, my old nurse. I hope you will try to think of me as kindly as you can, and kindly, too, of John, whose heart is pure gold, and all mine, as mine is his. I want you to know I am sorry, even when I am happiest,—and, indeed, Uncle Peter, I am happy,—sorry for the pain my thoughtlessness gave you? sorry for the mischief that was done, unconsciously, because I did not tell you, long ago, that I was learning to love him. It would have been far, far better to have told you? I am truly, truly sorry. Some day, when you want me to, I hope to tell you all this much better than I can write it.
I have a favor to ask of you, Uncle Peter. I want my valentines. Could Burbage put them all in the leather cases, and send them, by Thompson, to Saint Ruth's? And, please, I ask you to send nothing else? just the valentines, please, Uncle Peter.
Always lovingly,PHYLLIS.
On the following afternoon, John went to Saint Ruth's to tell the news, and announce his unavoidable absence from the Settlement for the month to be devoted to his book.
"And to you," he said, as he kissed Phyllis good-bye.
"Tell Mrs. Thorpe we shall both be back in a month, eager to do more than ever," was her reply to this. "Tell her, please, not to think we are selfish; but the little book is so important just now."
Phyllis listened, smilingly, to Mrs. Farquharson's gossip about her lodgers.
"'Never again,' he says to me solemnly, and pointing at me with his long finger. 'The keys I shall leave in the cases as I ever have, but never again touch dust-cloth to my fans and patch-boxes!' And never have I since that day, which is seven years if it's a minute. He dusts them himself of a Sunday morning. I've caught him at it!" Mrs. Farquharson picked a thread from her skirt, and carefully wound it around her finger.
"Speaking of catching him at it reminds me of that Mrs. Burbage," she continued. She never referred to her save as "that" Mrs. Burbage; the designation expressed anathema. "I have wondered, did ever it occur to you whether Sir Peter asked that Mrs. Burbage to take the advertisements to the papers; it being my belief that if he ever did she never did. And consequently, however could I see them, and know my deary dear wanted her old nurse?"
The whir of a motor, immediately below the windows, caused Mrs. Farquharson to look out.
"Whoever is that now? A man in leggings and a middle-aged woman in spectacles. I never set eyes on her before. He's beginning to take the little leather trunks out. Whatever is—"
Phyllis's intuition was swift as light. A glimpse from another window, and—
"It is Uncle Peter's car, Farquharson," she exclaimed. "The boxes are the old Valentines you remember so well—that I sent for yesterday. The woman is——"
"That Mrs. Burbage, of course. She found me quick enough when she wanted to!"
Phyllis was in flight down the stairs. Mrs. Farquharson smoothed her hair, and followed majestically. They met in the hall. While Thompson carried the boxes up, Phyllis introduced the rivals. They talked for a few moments constrainedly, surveying each other as though watchful for an opening. When the last of the cases had gone up Phyllis said:—
"I want to hear news of my uncle, and show Burbage our pretty rooms. You will excuse us, Farquharson, won't you?"
"Certainly, my dear," she replied; then, addressing Mrs. Burbage—"Shall I light the gas for you, ma'am? I see your age is beginning to tell on your eyes."
"Oh, no, thank you, ma'am," replied Burbage. "I can see perfectly. Though your hallisuncommonly dark."
Both shots told. Phyllis hurried Burbage upstairs.
There was little to learn. Sir Peter had not spoken her name since she had left. He had given her note to Burbage.
"Carry out these directions implicitly," he had said. But Burbage allowed herself latitude; the directory gave Mrs. Farquharson's address—and here, rather than to Saint Ruth's she had brought the valentines—eager to see her darling,—now a bride.
Phyllis chatted happily with her for an hour. She spoke affectionately of her uncle. "It will all come out right in the end," she concluded.
Burbage promised to come often to see her.
"My pretty," she whispered, as she held Phyllis's hand, in parting, "I warn you of this Mrs. Farquharson. A woman with eyes like hers is not to be trusted."
The framed valentines were hung when John came home. Thus they were the first of their Lares and Penates; the first of the pretty things that made a home of lodgings.
"Ah, John, you have no idea how I love my old valentines," said Phyllis that evening, as they looked around the rooms. "I love them dearly for themselves—as well as for their association with my mother. Aren't they sweet and pretty?"
"Indeed, they are," said John warmly. "Don't they light up the rooms, though?"
And so, with John's books and furniture, and Phyllis's valentines, the rooms were transformed. "I wouldn't know them myself" was Mrs. Farquharson's oft-repeated comment.
Of course you have read "Old Valentines, and Other Poems," by John Landless; that is the disadvantage under which this story labors. You know, beforehand, that the little book won instant hearing; you know that "Lyrics" quickly followed, and the favorable verdict of the critics whose good opinion was most worth having. When that wonderful epic—"London: A Poem"—made its appearance, our poet was fairly on the royal road.
But you must pretend you don't know all this; and that "Lyrics" and "London" are not, at this moment, in plain sight on your reading-table. You must forget that you saw John's portrait in the last "Bookman." Unless you are good at make-believe, it is no fun at all. You must know nothing of the rosy glow on the peaks of Parnassus, so that you may struggle with John and Phyllis up the first, heart-breaking, storm-swept steeps.
We are back in their pretty rooms now. Are you there? Very well, then; we proceed.
They had lived at Mrs. Farquharson's for a fortnight. John worked steadily at his desk; Phyllis sewed. Poetry reads very smoothly on a printed page; but Phyllis had not realized that ten satisfying lines is a fair morning's stint; nor that a little book of synonyms is first aid in emergency cases; nor that one may talk as much as one pleases at times, but must be quiet as a mouse when the pen is scratching away so busily; she had to learn that when John's eyes were full of anguish he was probably at his best.
"Phyllis," said John, one morning, looking up from his writing.
"Yes, dear."
"That's all—just Phyllis," he replied, smiling.
She beamed at him over her embroidery. The pen resumed its slow progress. Phyllis rocked happily. When the pen paused again, she watched his face. It welcomed speech, so—
"What word from the publishers?" asked Phyllis.
"They will have none of it," replied John. "They all tell me the verses have merit; they all regret the public taste; but—in short, business is business."
Phyllis bit her thread in two. John continued
"If I could get the first little book out,—and reviewed in the papers that count,—I have enough verses for a second, to follow at once, and catch the favoring breeze;—but if there is no first, how can there be a second?"
Phyllis shook her head. The idiosyncrasies of the publishing trade were beyond her comprehension. How they could refuse such beautiful—Well!
"I had a proposal from Kendall, Ransome & Company yesterday afternoon that I meant to have told you about—only Miss Neville's and Mark Holroyd's coming to spend the evening knocked it out of my head."
"Wasn't it dear of them! Didn't Peggy look sweet in that blue gown? What was the proposal, John? Any proposal is encouraging isn't it?" asked Phyllis.
"I suppose so," John answered, running his hand through his hair. "But this one couldn't be accepted under the circumstances They offered to publish the book if I would pay the cost of printing and relinquish copyright."
"The idea!" exclaimed Phyllis.
"I laughed at it myself," replied John. "I had another reason for laughing than the one they knew, though. For, really, I am so sure of my little book that I might have accepted the offer—if I had the money."
"Would it cost a great sum?" inquired Phyllis.
"Something less than fifty pounds for the first edition; a small edition. If there were a second, of course, they would pay the charges, but I should get nothing."
Phyllis sat sewing thoughtfully. Suddenly John saw that her eyes were filled with tears.
"If there weren't me to think of, you might—" she began.
John had her in his arms in the big chair in less time than it takes to tell it. When her troubled heart was comforted, he returned to his desk.
"However, I have been the rounds of the publishers now. I started with the best and I have seen them all. I have condescended to the smallest. I have even tried the Populars. But it has all been of no use. Same story everywhere. 'Marked ability, but we regret.'"
"If you had friends with influence——" Phyllis began, but John interrupted her.
"I wouldn't if I could, and I haven't if I would," said he. "But the fact is there's less of that than you think. 'Pull' isn't required; I can say that even when I am at the end of my rope. Books are published honestly, on their quality; mine simply hasn't the quality the public likes. It may be Art—but will it sell? That's the question."
Having plumbed the depths, John took up his pen again; his chin resolute as ever.
That evening when Mrs. Farquharson tapped at the door, John was teaching Phyllis chess.
"Just in time, Farquharson," said Phyllis. "I am routed horse and foot—by a man without a queen, too."
The chessboard was set aside; a chair brought forward; but Mrs. Farquharson would not sit down; she rarely would when John was present.
"No, my dear, no. I just dropped in for a minute—not to disturb ever. Besides, Genevieve's walking out with her young man, and there's the bell to watch. No, I just dropped in to say that Mr. Rowlandson—the rooms over yours, Mr. Landless—Mr. Rowlandson says, 'Tell the young lady she may like to go up to my rooms some morning when I am not there to bother her,' he says, 'and look at my fans and patch-boxes. They're pretty, too,' says he, 'as pretty as her valentines.' And so they are, my deary dear, and you must go up and see them. Oh, yes, he knows all about your valentines. He bought them for your uncle, at your father's sale, and a pretty penny they cost. More than two hundred pounds. It seems your uncle was bidding against some public institution."
Mrs. Farquharson replaced the proffered chair.
"Is the poetry book to be out soon, sir?" she asked. "I hope so, I am sure. I'm that anxious to see your name in gold letters on the cover. Good-night, sir. Good-night, my dear. Are you certain you don't want more coals? Well, then, good-night."
John and Phyllis had their usual good-night talk by the fire.
"And so Mark Holroyd and the Honorable Margaret are engaged," said John, replacing a fallen coal with the tongs.
Phyllis put her feet on the low, brass fender, and tucked in her skirt.
"Yes, they are engaged," she replied. "It is to be announced very soon. Peggy says it shouldn't be called an engagement, but rather a two-year probationary period. She could hardly wait to tell me. The darling! That was why she was so anxious to help me unwrap the rug in the little room."
An old prayer-rug, with a golden tree of life in its deep blue center, was the Honorable Margaret's wedding gift; Mark sent a coffee percolator.
Phyllis sighed.
"She will have a beautiful wedding," she said softly. "Ah, John, you don't know what that means to a girl."
John poked the fire.
Suddenly Phyllis laughed.
"How could I have forgotten to tell you about the cards?" she continued. "It was so funny, and so like Peggy Neville. You see,—her card was fastened to the rug with a bit of ribbon—and on it was written—-'With love and sympathy.' When Peggy saw it she shrieked. 'Oh, Phyllis!' she said, 'mother's cousin, Caroline Molesworth, has been at the hospital for a week; day before yesterday she had her surgical operation, and yesterday I sent flowers. I wrote the cards at home,—and they got mixed. On hers is written—"May all your days be as full of joy as these last few days have been!"'"
In the night Phyllis found herself wide awake. She lay quietly considering a new thought that had come to her, somehow, while she slept. If she only dared! Oh, no, no! She couldn't ask him. And yet—She fell asleep again wondering whether—perhaps, just possibly—she could do it, if she kept her mind firmly fixed on John's book.
Bookshops are the most charming of all shops because they relate themselves so intimately to their visitors. Mr. Rowlandson's gained by its setting—at the corner of the green square. Not a very good place for trade, you would say. However, he thrived.
His shop-window does not differ from a score of others one may see, on a morning's walk: a shallow bay-window, with small, square panes of inferior glass; the familiar array of old books turn their mellow title-pages toward the light; a window designed for lingering. Three rows, or four, of books—and a few old prints—may be examined from the front; these whet the appetite. But two other rows are so set in the window as to necessitate sidelong inspection, and tempt the observer to take two steps around the corner. Here, to be at ease, one must stand with one foot on the first of the four stone stairs leading downward to the door; stairs worn by the footfalls of four generations of book-hunters. Just within the door one sees an alluring stack of books, the topmost sustaining a neatly printed sign—"Sixpence—your choice."
In short—the foot once placed upon the first of these descending stairs returns not to its fellow. A little bell rings, and one is inside.
Against the background of his overflowing shelves, with his old-fashioned clothes, his stooping shoulders, his iron-gray hair, and his firm, tender, and melancholy face,—you will never visit Samuel Rowlandson's shop without wishing to frame him as he stands, and set him in the window, among the other rare old prints.
He must have known you a long, long time to intrude a particular book upon your notice; and then with the air of consulting a connoisseur rather than suggesting a purchase. Yet he is a shrewd dealer. Not for Samuel Rowlandson is the fairly marked price on the fly-leaf; nor even hieroglyphics representing cost. A book is worth what it will fetch; and every customer's purchasing power is appraised with discrimination, concealed, indeed, but most effective.
The shop grows larger as your eyes become accustomed to the gloom of its remoter part. There are four thousand books on those overweighted shelves; all sorts and conditions of books; big folios and little duodecimos, ragged books and books clothed by Rivière and Bedford. Once he thought a Roger Payne binding had found its way to the shop, an inadvertent bargain; but, alas! the encyclopædia dashed his tremulous hopes; years before the date on the title-page that seedy but glorious craftsman had laid down his tools forever.
The shelves are catholic: Samuel Pepys, immortally shameless; Adam Smith, shaken; Beaumont and Fletcher, in folio as they should always be found; Boswell's Johnson, of course, but Blackstone's "Commentaries" also; Plutarch's "Lives" and Increase Mather's witches; all of Fielding in four stately quarto volumes; Sterne, stained and shabby; Congreve, in red morocco, richly gilt; Molière, pocket size, in an English translation; Gibbon in sober gray; Burton's "Anatomy"——
"The only book," says Mr. Rowlandson, "that ever put me to sleep two hours before I wished."
Here is Addison's "Spectator," its near neighbor Steele; the "Gentleman's Magazine," a long run this, but not complete; rare Ben Jonson, rubbed at the joints; Spenser's "Faerie Queen," with marginal notes in a contemporary hand; the "History of the Valorous and Witty Knight Errant," in sable morocco, with armorial decorations; Tacitus in all his atrocity, Herbert, all gentleness.
Overweighted shelves! Overweighted, indeed, for the books stand double-breasted. One must never assume a volume is not in stock because it is not in sight, though Mr. Rowlandson himself does not always know.
"Otway," he ponders, in response to your inquiry; "let me think. H'm. Yes, yes, to be sure, behind the set of 'English Men of Letters.' Not there? H'm. Well, I must have sold him, then. Oh, no. You will find him in that row of old dramatists, behind the—yes, there! A little to the left—Ah! of course. Old Otway, and a very nice, sound copy, too."
Not that all the books in Mr. Rowlandson's shop are old; his clientele is too diversified. The moderns are there, too. Thackeray and Dickens; Meredith and Carlyle; Tennyson; gallant old Sir Walter in various editions.
"Lockhart's 'Life,'" he would say, handling a volume from one hand to the other. "The saddest true story in the world"; and then, brightening, "Two pound, ten."
Mr. Barrie is always handsomely represented on Mr. Rowlandson's shelves. He is one of the few authors Mr. Rowlandson will recommend to casual customers. He suggests "Margaret Ogilvy: A Memoir. By her Son." "But are you sure it is by Barrie?"—they ask. He has sold more than four hundred copies. Once a year for several years he has written a letter to Mr. Barrie's publishers: "Why don't you bring out his Plays?" he pleads. "Think of the thousands of people in the provinces and in America who can't see them on the stage."
Mr. Rowlandson treasures a half-promise from Mr. Hewlett that he will write a novel around the picturesque, if unheroic, figure of François Villon. "I am keeping his letter," says Mr. Rowlandson, "to insert in the book—when it is published."
Of De Morgan he observes, sententiously: "Too late." Joseph Conrad's novels he shelves next to Stevenson's, significantly. He has a high regard for Arthur Christopher Benson's essays. "But does the man think I have as much shelving as the Museum?" he growls.
But these newer books are the minority. The composed, brown calf bindings give the shop its tone,—and its faint odor, too; a cultivated taste, the liking for that odor of old books.
Mr. Rowlandson's desk is in the alcove at the back of the shop; and in its lowest drawer, oftener than elsewhere, his gray cat, Selima, stretches her lazy length.
On a bright, crisp morning, nearly a week after Phyllis had lain awake thinking, Mr. Rowlandson sat at this desk, looking through his post, which consisted chiefly of book-catalogues. Having laid these aside, he opened a bulky parcel the post had brought. It proved to be a thick, square, black volume; a most unattractive book. But Mr. Rowlandson viewed it with interest.
"My me! My me!" he exclaimed, and read the title-page; "'Proceedings of the British Engineering Society for the Year 1848.' So, you have finally come to light, old hide-and-seek! Sir Peter Oglebay will be pleased. From Brussels, of all the unlikely—Well, well, I must remember to cancel the advertisement in the 'Athenaeum.'"
He picked up a blue saucer from the floor and stood, for a moment, watching Selima's quick paw, engaged in ablutions.
"Over your ear it goes," said he. "That means customers."
He began his morning's work with a feather duster. Occasionally he straightened a row of books. The bell tinkled, and Phyllis, in her brown coat and hat, stood, hesitant, at the door. She carried a parcel.
"Mr. Rowlandson?" she asked timidly.
"My name," he replied. "And you are Mrs. Landless. I have seen you before, although you have not seen me."
"I have heard a great deal about you, though, from Farquharson," said Phyllis. "And yesterday I took advantage of your invitation to see the pretty things in your rooms; I want to thank you for the opportunity; they are lovely old things."
"Mrs. F. took you up, did she? Well, they are pretty, and I am glad they pleased you. A foolish fancy, Mrs. Landless; a foolish fancy for an old man like me. But I am very fond of my fans and patch-boxes."
"I should think you would love them," said Phyllis. "Where in the world did you find them all?"
"Oh, in all sorts of odd nooks. They turn up when one is looking for them. Everything does, Mrs. Landless. That is one of the queer things about collecting. I could tell you some curious stories. Your old valentines, now. My me! The attics of the Continent must have been ransacked for them. It is very interesting. But the scattering of a collection is the sad part; saddest when books are dispersed. Only the other day I saw an autograph letter of De Quincey's,—the opium-eater, you know; it was written to the auctioneer who sold his library. It seems De Quincey had his son buy a few of the books at his own auction. The poor old fellow could not bear the thought of parting with them, I fancy, when it came to the pinch."
Mr. Rowlandson waited for Phyllis to say something. Poor Phyllis! It was even more difficult than she had expected. She was tempted to retreat; but she thought of John's book.
"A remarkable coincidence,—your finding your way to Mrs. F.'s," continued Mr. Rowlandson. "And a very happy one for her."
"For me, too," said Phyllis. "We have you to thank for that."
"Well—in a way." Mr. Rowlandson nodded. "It is strange what fortuitous circumstances seem to direct the current of our lives. I say they seem to, Mrs. Landless, for it may be only seeming. Perhaps all is planned for us, even when our decisions rest on the toss of a penny."
A gentle pressure against her skirt attracted Phyllis's attention. Selima's arched back invited her caress.
"Isn't that an unusual name for a cat?" she asked, when told of it.
Mr. Rowlandson's eyes twinkled and he began to quote, straightway. His voice was pleasant to hear:—