XII
Two happy, eventful years passed.
One evening, as they sat in the long library, John happened to mentionRosemary Sussex,--and the old parsonage, where his boyhood had beenspent, untenanted now--in disrepair. Sir Peter asked a casual questionor two. For the rest of the evening he schemed in silence.
Shortly thereafter his mysterious absences began. He required an earlierbreakfast on certain days; and John and Phyllis sometimes dined alone.
The new parsonage at Rosemary is nearer the church than the old,--butthe old parsonage has more land, and its garden slopes gently downwardto the little river, slipping murmurously away to the sea.
So long as Sir Peter tried to keep part of his plan a secret from thevestry, he had one failure after another for his pains. Time after timehe returned on the early evening train to London, growling into hiswhite mustache. They would not say no, and they did not say yes; he madeno progress. But when he pledged a discreet vestryman to confidence, andtold him he sought to buy the old parsonage for the son of its formeroccupant, the Reverend Hugh Landless, and for his wife, the ways weresmoothed at once. A morning came, at last, when he could tell them hehad a surprise in store for them, and could place the title-deed inPhyllis's hands.
"It is my belated wedding-gift," said Sir Peter.
Phyllis will never forget her first glimpse of the gray old house. Asthe motor-car neared the curve in the road which discloses the viewJohn knew and loved so well, he said to her:--
"Now, dearest; in just a moment. There!"
The house is screened from the road by an ivy-covered wall, great trees,and the shrubbery. But Phyllis caught the very view John wished her tohave,--a bit of the west gable, and the window from which his mother'shandkerchief had fluttered many gay farewells to him.
Sir Peter stood by the sun-dial, in the garden, and listened, wellpleased, to John's eager voice, as he pointed out the spots endeared tohim by memories of childhood. The sun-dial! How he had pondered over thequatrain, chiseled in the stone:--
"The Moving Finger writes; and having writ Moves on--nor all your Piety nor Wit Shall lure it back to cancel half a Line, Nor all your Tears wash out a Word of it."
"My father used to sit reading aloud to my mother, near that hawthorn,"said John, "and if she asked him for the time of day he was whimsicalenough to walk over here and consult the sun-dial, rather than hiswatch."
They loitered in the neglected, overgrown garden,--soon to be brightwith flowers again,--a trysting-place for birds.
"My mother planned her garden anew each winter," said John. "She couldhardly wait for the soft air of spring to carry out her plans. She lovedthe flowers. I remember her so clearly, working here, in a broad-brimmedhat, with a pair of my father's gloves on her hands, while I played nearby. I had desperate adventures in this garden, and my play often endedin my being half frightened--and seeking safety from imagined terrors,in the refuge of her lap."
They went into every room of the old house; sunny rooms; there was needof repairs, indeed, but Phyllis declared there should be no alteration.
"I want it to be just as it was," she said to Sir Peter.
And so, in June, they were at home there--and the garden was a riot ofcolor.
On a particular afternoon in June, Sir Peter, with his cigar, and John,in flannels, writing, at a table under the trees, both looked up to seePhyllis coming toward them, from the house, with her baby in her arms.
The garden was full of the perfume of roses. They blossomed everywhere.There was a pink bud in John's buttonhole, and a red one in Sir Peter's.Phyllis had a great bunch of white roses at her waist. Her gown waswhite, too: soft and lacy and clinging. That would have been John'sdescription of it; and he is a poet.
"Hullo, Phyllis," said John.
"S-h-h," said Phyllis.
"S-h-h, John," said Sir Peter.
Phyllis laid her precious burden in the perambulator, near Sir Peter'schair.
"Mark and Peggy will be here in half an hour," she announced. "Shetelephoned from Whinstead. Isn't it characteristic of Peggy?--amotor-car wedding-journey. They are having the most glorious time, shesaid. They can't stay, though; just a call."
"Whinstead, eh?" said John. "Well, if Mark is driving, he will cut thatthirty minutes to twenty. I shall barely finish this page before theyget here."
He was engaged upon the revision of "Old Valentines, and Other Poems,"for the second edition. The little book, bound in red, with goldencupids, lay open on the table.
"Uncle Peter, see how beautifully baby is sleeping," said Phyllis.
Sir Peter adjusted his eyeglass, and peeped under the parasol.
"I must speak to Burbage about tea," added Phyllis. "Just keep half aneye--"
"Both eyes, my dear," said Sir Peter. With his foot he drew theperambulator a little nearer to him.
John looked up from his writing.
"Give me a synonym for 'austerity,'" he commanded.
"'Sternness,'" suggested Phyllis.
"'Severity,'" said Sir Peter.
"'Severity' introduces a rhyme, which won't do at all; 'sternness'doesn't convey asceticism, as 'austerity' does. Give me others."
"'Gravity,'" said Phyllis. "Or seriousness.'"
"'Asperity,'" suggested Sir Peter.
"I have it!" said John. "'His stern simplicity.'"
"Why didn't you say we could have two words?" asked Sir Peter.
John's pen was busy; obviously he did not hear.
"Burbage will serve tea here, Uncle Peter," said Phyllis. "John, youwill try to make Mark talk, won't you? He is so shy."
John gazed at nothing, with vacant eyes. Phyllis looked at her uncle,comically.
"Uncle Peter, you tell him about Mark the next time he gives evidence ofbelonging to the human family."
She walked toward the house, intent on arrangements. At the door sheglanced over her shoulder.
"Uncle Peter," she called to him, "you were pushing the perambulatorforward and backward with your foot. It isn't allowed."
"They always did it in my day," said Sir Peter.
"Well, they don't now," replied Phyllis.
"Very well, my dear," said Sir Peter meekly.
Phyllis went into the house. Sir Peter observed the windows keenly; whenhe thought the coast was clear he gently pushed the perambulator forwardand backward with his foot.
Twenty minutes later a big gray car deposited three dusty persons on thelittle porch. Peggy and Phyllis cooed over each other. Mark pointed toMrs. Farquharson.
"We picked her up," he said. "She had started to walk from the railwaystation."
Mrs. Farquharson surveyed him with an austerity that required nosynonym.
"Never again," said she. "Pony-cart or no pony-cart. A hundred miles anhour, my dear, if ever he went one."
She retired to the rear, where Burbage could be found, with whom she hadcome to take tea and pass the afternoon.
"Lead me to the infant!" demanded Peggy. "I haven't seen him for so longI am prepared to find him in knickerbockers, smoking a cigarette."
"Peggy! only two weeks," exclaimed Phyllis.
"Two weeks!" rejoined Peggy. "Oh, in time, of course; but aeons inexperience. We have had tire trouble--"
"Oh, cut that, Peg," suggested Mark.
"I will not," retorted Peggy. "We have paid enough for new tires sincewe started to endow Saint Ruth's. Each time our troubles have occurredin the exact center of population. I have been stared at from front andrear by the entire British people. And Mark has given the recordingangel the time of his life. Everything has happened that could wreck ourmarried happiness, but we are now armor-clad against infelicity. We havereally had the most beau-ti-ful time! We haven't eaten a meal in an innexcept breakfast. Simple life by the wayside for us! Two alcoholstoves--I am starved now, though! Perhaps we had better have tea beforeI see the baby--I might be tempted beyond my strength."
"And you are well, Mark?" asked Phyllis.
"Finer than a new c
rank-shaft," he replied, grinning. "I am also in thebreadline though."
"One result of our difficulties was the development of Mark'sconversational powers," whispered Peggy to Phyllis. "He is almost aself-starter now."
"How well you both look, brown as--"
"Don't say gypsies!" urged Peggy. "We have heard it everywhere."
"Indians, then," said Phyllis.
Tea was served under the trees. The baby awakened as though for Peggy'sexpress benefit. He spluttered and gurgled, and made queer faces in hischarming way, selecting Peggy for the most fascinating attentions Aftertea, Phyllis and Peggy went into the house to exchange confidences.Peggy carried the baby.
Sir Peter and John did their utmost with Mark. Motoring, cricket,tennis, golf--all had their turn. He was amiability itself, but he wouldnot and could not be made to talk. They were at their wit's end whenPhyllis and Peggy rejoined them, and Phyllis took Mark off to thegarden.
Peggy sat with the men, chatting volubly. John's eyes followed Mark andPhyllis. When he could do so unobserved, he touched Sir Peter's armquietly, and directed his attention to them. Mark was talking at fullspeed; Phyllis was listening, and cutting roses into a basket.
"Yes," said Peggy, "we have had some ripping times. The most ripping wasyesterday. We almost robbed England of her greatest living poet, bynearly running Mr. Kipling down, near Pevensey. It was in a narrow laneand he was walking with his chin on his chest. We supposed, of course,he heard us. Mark used the emergency brake; the car slewed around; hewasn't even grazed. And he took it as coolly as you please. John, if wehad hit him, would you be next in line for laureate?"
"I hope he was thinking out a sequel to 'Kim,'" said Sir Peter. "Ipicked that book up in the club library one day when I had a quarter ofan hour to kill. I sat there all the afternoon. I have read it threetimes, since."
"I liked 'Stalky' best. How do the pretty little jingles go, John?"asked Peggy. She took a copy of "The Spectator" from the table, andturned the leaves, idly.
"Oh, jinglewise," answered John.
"My word! Listen to this," exclaimed Peggy; and then read--"'We shouldhesitate to say that Mr. Landless's name will stand higher than thesecond rank of poets. But so much praise he has fairly wrested from eventhe most captious reviewer. Indeed his "Lyrics" invite one to thedangerous pastime of prophecy; and prophecy of a bright future for thisnewest of our versifiers. Certainly, if the more serious work we arepromised in "London: A Poem" (which is announced for the autumn) exceedsin dignity and restraint the best of his "Lyrics," we shall throwcaution to the winds and predict great things for him. We observe twotypographical errors on page--' Oh! who cares about the oldtypographical errors! Well, well, John. Isn't that splendid! What ahappy girl Phil must be!"
"We are all very happy, Margaret," said Sir Peter. "And very proud to berelated to him--even by marriage."
"And Phil tells me you have turned author, too," said Peggy to SirPeter. "A young fellow like you to be writing your 'Recollections'!Think how much more you will have to recollect if you wait a few years."
Sir Peter shook his finger at her.
"If you are not careful, young woman, I will put you into them--as Ifirst remember you, very red and wrinkled."
Mark's and Peggy's stay was short--all too short. Mark settled downbehind the wheel. "London, next," said he. Peggy's face was buried inroses as they drove off.
When they were seated again, under the trees, Phyllis regarding the babywith rapt eyes, John's curiosity suggested a question.
"Phyllis, please tell us what you set Mark to talking about. We triedeverything."
"Why, about Peggy, of course," said Phyllis. "Silly! Couldn't you thinkof that?"
Mrs. Farquharson had awaited the departure of the Holroyds, and now, inher best black silk, came out to see the baby, and remained to chat fora few minutes. Her great news was that the first-floor front was instocks again--with a prospect of seeing better days.
"And how is Mr. Rowlandson?" asked Phyllis.
"Odder than ever," replied Mrs. Farquharson. "He is getting a littlechildish, I think. The other night he told me the greatest rigmaroleabout some collector or other in Birmingham. He collected weapons, ofall things! He had Mr. Rowlandson buy him swords, and daggers, andspears, and even bows and arrows from America, until his house fairlyrattled with them. Finally, says Mr. Rowlandson, he got him the stonethat David flung at Goliath, and the jawbone that Samson smote thePhilistines with. 'Now,' says he, 'I am looking for the club that Cainslew Abel with, and then he will be complete.' Did ever you hear such afarrago? And his eyes twinkling all the time as though he was assensible as ever could be! Yesterday I told him I was coming down hereto take tea with Mrs. Burbage. 'With Mrs. Burbage!' says he. 'Well, whatnext?' 'Now, heed my words,' says I. 'That woman is not as black asshe's been painted.' And then he laughs. Childish, I say. But he'sterrible down on you, Mr. Landless, because the baby's a boy. 'Mr.Landless has disappointed me,' says he. 'He knows her name should beValentine.' 'But, Mrs. Landless wanted a boy,' says I, 'to call himPeter'; as she has, bless his darling little heart, that knows his oldFarquharson! 'Well,' says he, 'Mr. Landless put her up to it.'"
When she had returned to Burbage, John and Sir Peter began work on theproofs of "Recollections of an Engineer." The publishers had wished tocall it "Recollections of a Great Engineer." Sir Peter told them quietlythere would be no recollections if they insisted on the word.
The story of the Natal bridge would have been the making of this twelfthchapter. But the Natal story has a chapter of its own in the"Recollections" (chapter XXII--p. 227), and as the copyrightrestrictions are in force you will have to look for it there. Mr.Rowlandson has the book for sale--if you don't find it elsewhere.
The work on the proofs was interrupted when the baby insisted on havingthe red rose from Sir Peter's buttonhole. Sir Peter cut the thorns fromits stem before he gave it into the tiny fingers.
SIR PETER GAVE IT INTO THE TINY FINGERS]
Burbage and Farquharson stood by the garden-gate, looking in. The goldenglow of late afternoon was over all. The roses nodded their heavy headsall about them. The gentle murmur of the flowing river, lapping the oldstairs at the end of the garden, could be faintly heard.
Sir Peter cut the thorns from the rose, and gave it to the baby, leaningforward in its young mother's arms.
"Isn't it a pretty sight?" whispered Burbage.
"The prettiest sight that ever was in the world," said Farquharson,fumbling for her handkerchief.
THE END
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Published by HOUGHTON MIFFLIN AND COMPANY
Old Valentines Page 12