Two happy, eventful years passed.
One evening, as they sat in the long library, John happened to mention
Rosemary Sussex,--and the old parsonage, where his boyhood had been
spent, untenanted now--in disrepair. Sir Peter asked a casual question
or two. For the rest of the evening he schemed in silence.
Shortly thereafter his mysterious absences began. He required an earlier
breakfast on certain days; and John and Phyllis sometimes dined alone.
The new parsonage at Rosemary is nearer the church than the old,--but
the old parsonage has more land, and its garden slopes gently downward
to the little river, slipping murmurously away to the sea.
So long as Sir Peter tried to keep part of his plan a secret from the
vestry, he had one failure after another for his pains. Time after time
he returned on the early evening train to London, growling into his
white mustache. They would not say no, and they did not say yes; he made
no progress. But when he pledged a discreet vestryman to confidence, and
told him he sought to buy the old parsonage for the son of its former
occupant, the Reverend Hugh Landless, and for his wife, the ways were
smoothed at once. A morning came, at last, when he could tell them he
had a surprise in store for them, and could place the title-deed in
Phyllis's hands.
"It is my belated wedding-gift," said Sir Peter.
Phyllis will never forget her first glimpse of the gray old house. As
the motor-car neared the curve in the road which discloses the view
John 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 to
have,--a bit of the west gable, and the window from which his mother's
handkerchief had fluttered many gay farewells to him.
Sir Peter stood by the sun-dial, in the garden, and listened, well
pleased, to John's eager voice, as he pointed out the spots endeared to
him by memories of childhood. The sun-dial! How he had pondered over the
quatrain, 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 whimsical
enough to walk over here and consult the sun-dial, rather than his
watch."
They loitered in the neglected, overgrown garden,--soon to be bright
with flowers again,--a trysting-place for birds.
"My mother planned her garden anew each winter," said John. "She could
hardly wait for the soft air of spring to carry out her plans. She loved
the flowers. I remember her so clearly, working here, in a broad-brimmed
hat, with a pair of my father's gloves on her hands, while I played near
by. I had desperate adventures in this garden, and my play often ended
in 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 need
of 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 of
color.
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 see
Phyllis 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 was
white, too: soft and lacy and clinging. That would have been John's
description 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's
chair.
"Mark and Peggy will be here in half an hour," she announced. "She
telephoned from Whinstead. Isn't it characteristic of Peggy?--a
motor-car wedding-journey. They are having the most glorious time, she
said. They can't stay, though; just a call."
"Whinstead, eh?" said John. "Well, if Mark is driving, he will cut that
thirty minutes to twenty. I shall barely finish this page before they
get here."
He was engaged upon the revision of "Old Valentines, and Other Poems,"
for the second edition. The little book, bound in red, with golden
cupids, 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 an
eye--"
"Both eyes, my dear," said Sir Peter. With his foot he drew the
perambulator 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, you
will 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 of
belonging to the human family."
She walked toward the house, intent on arrangements. At the door she
glanced over her shoulder.
"Uncle Peter," she called to him, "you were pushing the perambulator
forward 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; when
he thought the coast was clear he gently pushed the perambulator forward
and backward with his foot.
Twenty minutes later a big gray car deposited three dusty persons on the
little porch. Peggy and Phyllis cooed over each other. Mark pointed to
Mrs. Farquharson.
"We picked her up," he said. "She had started to walk from the railway
station."
Mrs. Farquharson surveyed him with an austerity that required no
synonym.
"Never again," said she. "Pony-cart or no pony-cart. A hundred miles an
hour, my dear, if ever he went one."
She retired to the rear, where Burbage could be found, with whom she had
come to take tea and pass the afternoon.
"Lead me to the infant!" demanded Peggy. "I haven't seen him for so long
I 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 in
experience. We have had tire trouble--"
"Oh, cut that, Peg," suggested Mark.
"I will not," retorted Peggy. "We have paid enough for new tires since
we started to endow Saint Ruth's. Each time our troubles have occurred
in the exact center of population. I have been stared at from front and
rear by the entire British people. And Mark has given the recording
angel the time of his life. Everything has happened that could wreck our
married happiness, but we are now armor-clad against infelicity. We have
really had the most beau-ti-ful time! We haven't eaten a meal in an inn
except breakfast. Simple life by the wayside for us! Two alcohol
stoves--I am starved now, though! Perhaps we had better have tea before
I see the baby--I might be tempted beyond my strength."
"And you are well, Mark?" asked Phyllis.
"Finer than a new crank-shaft," he replied, grinning. "I am also in the
breadline though."
"One result of our difficulties was the development of Mark's
conversational powers," whispered Peggy to Phyllis. "He is almost a
self-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's
express benefit. He spluttered and gurgled, and made queer faces in his
charming way, selecting Peggy for the most fascinating attentions After
tea, 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 would
not and could not be made to talk. They were at their wit's end when
Phyllis and Peggy rejoined them, and Phyllis took Mark off to the
garden.
Peggy sat with the men, chatting volubly. John's eyes followed Mark and
Phyllis. When he could do so unobserved, he touched Sir Peter's arm
quietly, and directed his attention to them. Mark was talking at full
speed; Phyllis was listening, and cutting roses into a basket.
"Yes," said Peggy, "we have had some ripping times. The most ripping was
yesterday. We almost robbed England of her greatest living poet, by
nearly running Mr. Kipling down, near Pevensey. It was in a narrow lane
and 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; he
wasn't even grazed. And he took it as coolly as you please. John, if we
had hit him, would you be next in line for laureate?"
"I hope he was thinking out a sequel to 'Kim,'" said Sir Peter. "I
picked that book up in the club library one day when I had a quarter of
an hour to kill. I sat there all the afternoon. I have read it three
times, 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, and
turned the leaves, idly.
"Oh, jinglewise," answered John.
"My word! Listen to this," exclaimed Peggy; and then read--"'We should
hesitate to say that Mr. Landless's name will stand higher than the
second rank of poets. But so much praise he has fairly wrested from even
the most captious reviewer. Indeed his "Lyrics" invite one to the
dangerous pastime of prophecy; and prophecy of a bright future for this
newest of our versifiers. Certainly, if the more serious work we are
promised in "London: A Poem" (which is announced for the autumn) exceeds
in dignity and restraint the best of his "Lyrics," we shall throw
caution to the winds and predict great things for him. We observe two
typographical errors on page--' Oh! who cares about the old
typographical errors! Well, well, John. Isn't that splendid! What a
happy girl Phil must be!"
"We are all very happy, Margaret," said Sir Peter. "And very proud to be
related to him--even by marriage."
"And Phil tells me you have turned author, too," said Peggy to Sir
Peter. "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 I
first remember you, very red and wrinkled."
Mark's and Peggy's stay was short--all too short. Mark settled down
behind the wheel. "London, next," said he. Peggy's face was buried in
roses as they drove off.
When they were seated again, under the trees, Phyllis regarding the baby
with rapt eyes, John's curiosity suggested a question.
"Phyllis, please tell us what you set Mark to talking about. We tried
everything."
"Why, about Peggy, of course," said Phyllis. "Silly! Couldn't you think
of that?"
Mrs. Farquharson had awaited the departure of the Holroyds, and now, in
her best black silk, came out to see the baby, and remained to chat for
a few minutes. Her great news was that the first-floor front was in
stocks 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 little
childish, I think. The other night he told me the greatest rigmarole
about some collector or other in Birmingham. He collected weapons, of
all things! He had Mr. Rowlandson buy him swords, and daggers, and
spears, and even bows and arrows from America, until his house fairly
rattled with them. Finally, says Mr. Rowlandson, he got him the stone
that David flung at Goliath, and the jawbone that Samson smote the
Philistines with. 'Now,' says he, 'I am looking for the club that Cain
slew Abel with, and then he will be complete.' Did ever you hear such a
farrago? And his eyes twinkling all the time as though he was as
sensible as ever could be! Yesterday I told him I was coming down here
to take tea with Mrs. Burbage. 'With Mrs. Burbage!' says he. 'Well, what
next?' 'Now, heed my words,' says I. 'That woman is not as black as
she's been painted.' And then he laughs. Childish, I say. But he's
terrible down on you, Mr. Landless, because the baby's a boy. 'Mr.
Landless has disappointed me,' says he. 'He knows her name should be
Valentine.' 'But, Mrs. Landless wanted a boy,' says I, 'to call him
Peter'; as she has, bless his darling little heart, that knows his old
Farquharson! 'Well,' says he, 'Mr. Landless put her up to it.'"
When she had returned to Burbage, John and Sir Peter began work on the
proofs of "Recollections of an Engineer." The publishers had wished to
call it "Recollections of a Great Engineer." Sir Peter told them quietly
there would be no recollections if they insisted on the word.
The story of the Natal bridge would have been the making of this twelfth
chapter. But the Natal story has a chapter of its own in the
"Recollections" (chapter XXII--p. 227), and as the copyright
restrictions 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 having
the red rose from Sir Peter's buttonhole. Sir Peter cut the thorns from
its stem before he gave it into the tiny fingers.
[Illustration: SIR PETER GAVE IT INTO THE TINY FINGERS]
Burbage and Farquharson stood by the garden-gate, looking in. The golden
glow of late afternoon was over all. The roses nodded their heavy heads
all about them. The gentle murmur of the flowing river, lapping the old
stairs at the end of the garden, could be faintly heard.
Sir Peter cut the thorns from the rose, and gave it to the baby, leaning
forward 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.