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."