The copper coffee percolator bubbled genially on the snowy dinner table.
John and Phyllis were seated. Mrs. Farquharson set the soup tureen
before him, and hovered near. In the small grate a fire blazed
cheerfully; the firelight gleamed on the fine mahogany and ivory inlay
of the Sheraton desk. There lay John's manuscript,--returned this
afternoon from Oxford, with the stereotyped politeness that was so
disheartening.
Phyllis's suppressed excitement gave her cheeks their color; John
feigned higher spirits than the occasion warranted; he made a point of
eating his soup; Phyllis tasted hers.
Mrs. Farquharson served the roast beef and Yorkshire pudding (her
specialty), received due plaudits, and withdrew. John attacked the
dinner; Phyllis's fork toyed with her greens. The all-important subject
was not mentioned until Genevieve had cleared the table. Phyllis passed
John a small cup of black coffee.
"Well, Phyllis," he said, "Byrne, the Dublin publisher, remains to us.
Oxford declines Cambridge verses."
Then Phyllis, blushing like a rose, laid in his hand the five ten-pound
notes. He looked at her with perplexed eyes.
"'"Old Valentines, and Other Poems," by John Landless, will appear
shortly,'" she fictitiously quoted. She had read such announcements
weekly, in his "Academy."
"Oh, John, those horrid publishers won't retract their offer, will
they?"
"My darling girl, where did you get this money?"
"I will tell you all about it, John, dear; but first answer my
question? There isn't any doubt, is there? The book can be published
now?"
"Why--no; or rather--yes," he said slowly. "If the money is really ours,
to do with as we please,--even to embark on so wild an adventure as a
book of poems. I can't conceive how you came by it, though, dearest."
John held the ten-pound notes in his hand; he looked at them now, as if
half surprised to find them still there.
Then Phyllis told him of her call at Mr. Rowlandson's shop; she
remembered every word of the conversation; and came out especially
strong on the rigid regularity of the transaction; the signed note, and
the five per cent, payable half-yearly, on the appointed day. John's
face was a study.
"Oh, Phyllis! Phyllis!" he said softly, when she had finished. "You
would have sold your valentines--that you love so dearly! the old
valentines that are entwined with your memories of your mother. You
would have sold them! For me!"
Phyllis smiled happily at him and gave him both of her hands, across the
little dinner table. When he could trust his voice, he said,--
"I am confident of my book. If I were not, of course, I couldn't let you
do this, darling; dear as it was of you to think of it,--and to execute
it so cleverly--so very cleverly. Old Rowlandson is a brick."
"He is a very shrewd man of business," said Phyllis, looking at John
with misgivings "He always has a sum of ready money laid by, for
perfectly businesslike investments."
"Of course," he reassured her.
He knew he could meet the interest on Phyllis's note. As to the
principal--well, if worst came to worst he would be justified in
breaking his promise to his father that he would never borrow on his
expectations. Justified! John could almost see his father's smile of
approval.
They sat in the big armchair together, and read the poems to be included
in the little book.
"If I succeed in my profession I shall owe it all to you," said John to
Phyllis; and, when she would have made remonstrance, he added,--"Ah, my
dear, I like to have it so."
* * * * *
At the same hour, that evening, Sir Peter sat before his library fire.
An open magazine lay on his knee, pages downward. He held an unlighted
cigar in his hand. He stared moodily into the glowing coals. There were
new, sad lines in his stern face.
Burbage entered. "Mr. Rowlandson to see you, sir. A very particular
matter, sir, he says."
Sir Peter rose slowly when Mr. Rowlandson was shown into the room. Under
his arm were three parcels.
"Glad to see you, Rowlandson," said Sir Peter. "How have you been since
we met last? H'm. It must be two years, or longer."
"Thank you. I have enjoyed very good health, Sir Peter. Yes, it is all
of two years. I hope you are quite well, sir."
"Fair; fair," said Sir Peter.
"We do not get younger as we grow older," observed Mr. Rowlandson. He
laid two of the parcels on the big table, under the reading-lamp, and
proceeded to untie the other.
A smile flickered across Sir Peter's face; he liked the old bookseller's
sturdy, independent ways. He had been dealing with him for a quarter of
a century.
"My lad failed me to-day," Mr. Rowlandson explained, "and as I had an
old print of Charterhouse to be delivered to a customer, not far from
here, I thought I would bring you something that came this morning--a
book. A book for which you have waited a long time."
Sir Peter drew his eyeglass from his pocket, and straightened the heavy,
black silk cord.
"Well, well!" said he, when Mr. Rowlandson handed him the book, opened
at the title-page, with a little air of triumph. "The 'Proceedings' for
1848. This volume completes my set. It has given you a good bit of
trouble, eh?" He leafed it through, and examined one of the plates with
interest.
"Oh, nothing to speak of," replied the bookseller, rubbing his hands
together with satisfaction, nevertheless.
Sir Peter drew a check-book from a drawer; the amount was named.
"Take a chair, Rowlandson," said Sir Peter. The check was written. Mr.
Rowlandson folded it precisely and put it into his pocketbook. They sat
for a moment or two without speaking. If the bookseller was expected to
take his departure, Sir Peter was too courteous to say so.
"Will you drink a glass of sherry?" he asked, and touched a button, near
the fireplace. The sherry was served. The old bookseller squinted
through his glass at the light.
"About the same date as the 'Proceedings,' or thereabouts?" he remarked
interrogatively.