IV

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.

V

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 an _i_ was 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.