VII
Within a fortnight their rooms were transformed. Mrs. Farquharsondeclared she would not have known them herself.
John's old room, dismantled, yielded his bookshelves and his books; hisfather's old desk, a Sheraton, and therefore a beauty and joy forever;and his armchair, which took its place in a corner of the cheerysitting-room and seemed to say--"Come, sit here, and be comfortable," asnaturally as though it had been established there for years. Certainlyit had this advantage over the other chairs; it was so roomy John andPhyllis 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 fragrantmemory. Phyllis gazed at her picture with wistful eyes; and once, whenJohn was absent, held it to her lips.
But Phyllis's old valentines gave the rooms their charm. A dozen ormore, framed in dull gold, hung on the walls, their delicate coloringsoftened by the passing of many years; their sentiment as fresh andgentle 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.
On the following afternoon, John went to Saint Ruth's to tell the news,and announce his unavoidable absence from the Settlement for the monthto 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 morethan ever," was her reply to this. "Tell her, please, not to think weare selfish; but the little book is so important just now."
Phyllis listened, smilingly, to Mrs. Farquharson's gossip about herlodgers.
"'Never again,' he says to me solemnly, and pointing at me with his longfinger. 'The keys I shall leave in the cases as I ever have, but neveragain touch dust-cloth to my fans and patch-boxes!' And never have Isince that day, which is seven years if it's a minute. He dusts themhimself of a Sunday morning. I've caught him at it!" Mrs. Farquharsonpicked a thread from her skirt, and carefully wound it around herfinger.
"Speaking of catching him at it reminds me of that Mrs. Burbage," shecontinued. She never referred to her save as "that" Mrs. Burbage; thedesignation expressed anathema. "I have wondered, did ever it occur toyou whether Sir Peter asked that Mrs. Burbage to take the advertisementsto the papers; it being my belief that if he ever did she never did. Andconsequently, however could I see them, and know my deary dear wantedher 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 inspectacles. I never set eyes on her before. He's beginning to take thelittle 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 arethe old Valentines you remember so well--that I sent for yesterday. Thewoman is----"
"That Mrs. Burbage, of course. She found me quick enough when she wantedto!"
Phyllis was in flight down the stairs. Mrs. Farquharson smoothed herhair, and followed majestically. They met in the hall. While Thompsoncarried the boxes up, Phyllis introduced the rivals. They talked for afew moments constrainedly, surveying each other as though watchful foran 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. Youwill excuse us, Farquharson, won't you?"
"Certainly, my dear," she replied; then, addressing Mrs. Burbage--"ShallI light the gas for you, ma'am? I see your age is beginning to tell onyour eyes."
"Oh, no, thank you, ma'am," replied Burbage. "I can see perfectly.Though your hall _is_ uncommonly dark."
Both shots told. Phyllis hurried Burbage upstairs.
There was little to learn. Sir Peter had not spoken her name since shehad left. He had given her note to Burbage.
"Carry out these directions implicitly," he had said. But Burbageallowed herself latitude; the directory gave Mrs. Farquharson'saddress--and here, rather than to Saint Ruth's she had brought thevalentines--eager to see her darling,--now a bride.
Phyllis chatted happily with her for an hour. She spoke affectionatelyof 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, "Iwarn you of this Mrs. Farquharson. A woman with eyes like hers is not tobe trusted."
The framed valentines were hung when John came home. Thus they were thefirst of their Lares and Penates; the first of the pretty things thatmade a home of lodgings.
"Ah, John, you have no idea how I love my old valentines," said Phyllisthat evening, as they looked around the rooms. "I love them dearly forthemselves--as well as for their association with my mother. Aren't theysweet 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, therooms 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 JohnLandless; that is the disadvantage under which this story labors. Youknow, beforehand, that the little book won instant hearing; you knowthat "Lyrics" quickly followed, and the favorable verdict of the criticswhose good opinion was most worth having. When that wonderfulepic--"London: A Poem"--made its appearance, our poet was fairly on theroyal 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 knownothing of the rosy glow on the peaks of Parnassus, so that you maystruggle with John and Phyllis up the first, heart-breaking, storm-sweptsteeps.
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 workedsteadily at his desk; Phyllis sewed. Poetry reads very smoothly on aprinted page; but Phyllis had not realized that ten satisfying lines isa fair morning's stint; nor that a little book of synonyms is first aidin emergency cases; nor that one may talk as much as one pleases attimes, but must be quiet as a mouse when the pen is scratching away sobusily; she had to learn that when John's eyes were full of anguish hewas 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 slowprogress. Phyllis rocked happily. When the pen paused again, she watchedhis 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 verseshave merit; they
all regret the public taste; but--in short, business isbusiness."
Phyllis bit her thread in two. John continued
"If I could get the first little book out,--and reviewed in the papersthat count,--I have enough verses for a second, to follow at once, andcatch the favoring breeze;--but if there is no first, how can there be asecond?"
Phyllis shook her head. The idiosyncrasies of the publishing trade werebeyond her comprehension. How they could refuse such beautiful--Well!
"I had a proposal from Kendall, Ransome & Company yesterday afternoonthat I meant to have told you about--only Miss Neville's and MarkHolroyd'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? Whatwas the proposal, John? Any proposal is encouraging isn't it?" askedPhyllis.
"I suppose so," John answered, running his hand through his hair. "Butthis one couldn't be accepted under the circumstances They offered topublish the book if I would pay the cost of printing and relinquishcopyright."
"The idea!" exclaimed Phyllis.
"I laughed at it myself," replied John. "I had another reason forlaughing than the one they knew, though. For, really, I am so sure of mylittle 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 smalledition. 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 werefilled 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 totell it. When her troubled heart was comforted, he returned to his desk.
"However, I have been the rounds of the publishers now. I started withthe 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. Samestory everywhere. 'Marked ability, but we regret.'"
"If you had friends with influence----" Phyllis began, but Johninterrupted her.
"I wouldn't if I could, and I haven't if I would," said he. "But thefact is there's less of that than you think. 'Pull' isn't required; Ican say that even when I am at the end of my rope. Books are publishedhonestly, on their quality; mine simply hasn't the quality the publiclikes. It may be Art--but will it sell? That's the question."
Having plumbed the depths, John took up his pen again; his chin resoluteas ever.
That evening when Mrs. Farquharson tapped at the door, John was teachingPhyllis chess.
"Just in time, Farquharson," said Phyllis. "I am routed horse andfoot--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 thebell to watch. No, I just dropped in to say that Mr. Rowlandson--therooms over yours, Mr. Landless--Mr. Rowlandson says, 'Tell the younglady she may like to go up to my rooms some morning when I am not thereto bother her,' he says, 'and look at my fans and patch-boxes. They'repretty, 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 allabout your valentines. He bought them for your uncle, at your father'ssale, and a pretty penny they cost. More than two hundred pounds. Itseems 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 amsure. 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 wantmore 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-yearprobationary period. She could hardly wait to tell me. The darling! Thatwas why she was so anxious to help me unwrap the rug in the littleroom."
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 coffeepercolator.
Phyllis sighed.
"She will have a beautiful wedding," she said softly. "Ah, John, youdon'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 wasfastened to the rug with a bit of ribbon--and on it was written---'Withlove and sympathy.' When Peggy saw it she shrieked. 'Oh, Phyllis!' shesaid, 'mother's cousin, Caroline Molesworth, has been at the hospitalfor a week; day before yesterday she had her surgical operation, andyesterday I sent flowers. I wrote the cards at home,--and they gotmixed. On hers is written--"May all your days be as full of joy as theselast few days have been!"'"
* * * * *
In the night Phyllis found herself wide awake. She lay quietlyconsidering a new thought that had come to her, somehow, while sheslept. If she only dared! Oh, no, no! She couldn't ask him. Andyet--She fell asleep again wondering whether--perhaps, justpossibly--she could do it, if she kept her mind firmly fixed on John'sbook.
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