MR. MARLOWE HELPS MATTERS ALONG.
Phronsie passed slowly up the path to the little brown house door. The
last of the party of guests at “The Oaks” had just departed. She turned
the key in the lock and went in, picking up, on her way, the playthings
the children had left the afternoon before, strewn on the old kitchen
floor.
Phronsie sat down on a low seat, and leaned her head in Mamsie’s old
rocking-chair. Outside, a little gray squirrel ran up and down the
big apple-tree, and peered in the window chattering loudly; the china
basket of sweetbrier noiselessly dropped a petal now and then on the
old kitchen table, and the clock ticked away busily; and still Phronsie
did not move.
“Mamsie,” she was saying softly to herself, “is it very wicked for me
to _want_ to see Roslyn? I will stay with Grandpapa; but oh, I want so
to just see Roslyn.”
And after a long pause she said, “I could not ask Grace all she knows
about him--oh, to think that he is her cousin! because that would not
be right to Grandpapa, who did not want me to see him. But oh! I cannot
help thinking of him; and is it very wicked, Mamsie, just to think of
him?”
Still Phronsie did not move. When she did lift her head, there were no
traces of tears upon her cheek, only her hands were clasped upon her
knee, and a white line settled around the drooping mouth.
“Dear Grandpapa,” she said softly, “he has done everything for us, and
all his comfort is in us. He needs me; and I’ll try again not to think
of Roslyn. But oh, Mamsie!” She laid her head once more upon the old
cushion in the rocking-chair, and kept it there for a long time.
Old Mr. King had gone to town in the early morning train with Jasper.
Having not only a great delight in Mr. Marlowe, so that he seized every
possible opportunity to be with him, Mr. King had absorbed such a
violent pride in the whole publishing business as conducted by Marlowe
and King, that he had become a silent partner, and contributed such
a generous amount of funds as to make possible the great breadth and
extension that had been longed for by its founder.
[Illustration: Phronsie leaned her head upon Mamsie’s old
rocking-chair.]
“And I don’t want anything to say about the working of the capital,”
the old gentleman had cried. “Gracious, man alive,” to Mr. Marlowe,
“I don’t know anything about business; and I can trust you, who have
brought it up to this.”
So Mr. King resolutely kept away from all business conferences to which
he was always asked; and he pinched his lips under his white mustache
very tightly together whenever the fit seized him to give advice.
Whenever this was particularly strong upon him, he invariably kept away
from town, working it off by scolding at the editorials in the morning
paper. At other times he would sometimes take an early morning train
with Jasper, and spend hours in wandering over the big establishment,
in which he was a great favorite, and in reading and examining the
books and periodicals turned out; swelling with pride more and more at
the splendid character of the work he saw before him.
Sometimes Phronsie was with him, and often Polly came; and now and then
Elyot or King hung to his hand, and listened to his delighted praise of
the whole thing.
But this day he announced that he was going alone with Jasper. And when
they arrived at the publishing house, he said, in a very different tone
from that he had used on his first visit,--“And what a first-class fool
I was then, to be sure,” he reflected,--“Jasper, my boy, see if Mr.
Marlowe would like to talk with me now. If not, I’ll go up into the
bindery and see that new machine.”
Mr. Marlowe wasn’t ready to see him, being, as on the former occasion,
occupied with a gentleman who had made the appointment for that hour;
so Mr. King did go up into the bindery, whereat all the working-people
looked up with a smile, as the old gentleman made them his courtliest
bow.
“Father,” cried Jasper, springing up the stairs two at a time, “Mr.
Marlowe is ready now. He is dreadfully sorry to keep you waiting so
long, but it couldn’t be helped. Mr. Strong did not get through,
but lapped over on the agent of the new paper company, who had an
appointment.”
“Say no more, my boy,” cried his father. “I don’t mind waiting a
half-hour. I’ve nothing special to do, and it’s pleasant up here.”
“A half-hour?” repeated Jasper, taking out his watch. “You’ve been up
here just three hours, father!”
“To be sure,” cried the old gentleman, glancing at it, and then
whipping out his own, when he burst out laughing, and took Jasper’s
arm, and went down-stairs.
“I move that we all three go out to luncheon,” said Mr. Marlowe, as
they came into his small private office. “What do you say, Mr. King?”
“Yes, yes, to be sure; a good plan,” assented the old gentleman, who
always said “yes” nowadays to everything Mr. Marlowe proposed.
“And we can begin our talk there, and finish it here,” said the
publisher, putting down his desk-cover.
“Now, Jasper, my boy,” said old Mr. King, when the three were together
in a quiet corner at the restaurant, “I’m going to say something that
will perhaps make you feel badly a bit.”
Jasper put up his hand involuntarily.
“It won’t make a thing come a minute the sooner for talking of it,”
said the old gentleman cheerily; “but I’m not going to live forever,
and that’s a fact. I never should have lasted half so long if it hadn’t
been for you, my boy,” laying his hand across the little table on
Jasper’s, who grasped it eagerly, “and for those blessed Peppers. And,
dear me, I mean to go right straight on living a long while yet,” he
added, with a glance at Jasper’s pale face. “But I want a good talk
with both of you to-day. I don’t mind saying that a certain thing
troubles me, and I want to get it off my mind.”
Mr. Marlowe said nothing, his clear-cut face quietly turned to the old
gentleman, waiting for him to proceed.
“There’s no man living, Marlowe, that I’d ask advice from sooner than
you,” said Mr. King; “and that you know.”
A bright smile shot over the publisher’s face, lighting up the keen
gray eyes with a world of affection. “I know,” he said simply.
“It’s about Phronsie,” said old Mr. King brokenly, and his handsome
white head drooped.
“Don’t, father,” began Jasper, dreadfully distressed; “Phronsie
wouldn’t want you to feel badly.”
“I would let your father speak what is on his mind, Jasper,” said Mr.
Marlowe quietly.
“She--she--oh, you know it already,” said the old gentleman with
difficulty, “formed an attachment with a young sculptor when we were
last abroad. I introduced them myself. He’s General May’s nephew,
working in Rome; got a high degree of talent, and all that. But, oh,
Phronsie!”
Mr. Marlowe’s imperturbable countenance gave no hint to any onlooker
that anything but the most ordinary conversation was in progress; the
other two sitting with their faces to the wall.
“And now that precious child is really and absolutely in love with that
man,” said Mr. King in a subdued but dreadful voice. “I didn’t believe
it until I saw her face the other night when little Grace said he was
her cousin. Marlowe, what _can_ I do?” He grasped the strong right hand
lying on the table.
“Mr. King,” said the publisher, with a lightning-like gleam in the gray
eyes, “I can only tell you certain ways of looking at the matter that
seem right to me. You may not like what I say.”
“You will say it all the same,” said the old gentleman grimly.
“I shall say it all the same,” said Mr. Marlowe.
“That’s what I like you for,” broke in Mr. King. “Why, if I hadn’t
wanted the truth, I wouldn’t have come to you, man.” He leaned forward,
and gazed into the clear gray eyes.
“You approve of Roslyn May as a man?” asked Mr. Marlowe.
“Dear me, yes. Why, if I hadn’t, do you suppose I would have introduced
him to Phronsie,” cried the old gentleman, somewhat irately.
“Certainly not. Now, what is there that you disapprove of in him?”
asked the publisher.
“Nothing; that is, the young fellow is all right, I suppose, only--why
Phronsie is a mere child yet. She’s my little one!”
“Miss Phronsie is twenty years old,” said Mr. Marlowe.
“Bless me, why so she is!” exclaimed Mr. King. And then, as if a wholly
new idea had struck him, he kept repeating to himself at intervals
as the waiter brought the luncheon, “Phronsie is twenty years old.
Phronsie is twenty years old!”
“It doesn’t seem a day since that child sent me her gingerbread boy,”
he said aloud, when the meal was half over.
“I suppose so. That’s a way time has of treating us all,” said Mr.
Marlowe. “Well, I am glad you broached this subject, Mr. King; and now,
with your permission, we will finish it when we get back to my office.”
Jasper shot him a grateful glance; and quite easy in his mind about his
father, now that the ice was really broken, and the dreaded subject
open for future discussion, he gave a sigh of relief as he saw the
countenance of the old gentleman lighten.
“I take it, Mr. King,” observed Mr. Marlowe, when they were once more
in the little private office with orders for no callers to be admitted,
“that Phronsie’s welfare is what you are most concerned about?”
“Yes, yes,” cried the old gentleman; “it is, Marlowe.”
“Then, that is really the only thing for us to consider in this
conversation. You admit that you believe Phronsie to be deeply in love
with this young sculptor?”
Old Mr. King whirled abruptly around on Jasper, “What say you, Jasper?”
he cried. “Perhaps she isn’t,” with a sudden hope that Jasper might
confirm this. But Jasper looked him steadily in the eyes. “You are
right, father. Phronsie has loved him ever since you brought her home,
I believe.”
The old gentleman groaned aloud, and caught at the table for support.
“And it is only her love for you,” said Jasper, seeing in Mr.
Marlowe’s eyes the counsel that the whole of the truth had better be
spoken, “that has made her able not to show it.”
Old Mr. King got out of his chair, and took as many turns around the
small room as its space would allow, fuming like a caged animal.
“And what do you want me to do about it, Marlowe?” he demanded
presently, stopping short in front of that gentleman’s office-chair.
“I do not want, nor advise anything,” said Mr. Marlowe calmly.
“Well, what do you think I ought to do,” he fumed--“that’s the same
thing. Come, speak out and be done with it, man.”
For answer, Mr. Marlowe turned to his desk full of papers. “I’ve talked
enough,” he said with his bright smile. “Think it out for yourself,
King; you’ll do the right thing.” And he put out his strong hand
kindly. The old gentleman grasped it without a word, and hung to it a
moment, then clapped on his hat. “I won’t wait for you, Jasper,” he
said. “I’m going home.”
“Don’t you want me to go with you, father?” cried Jasper with a glance
at Mr. Marlowe.
“You can go just as well as not,” said that gentleman; “there is
nothing pressing this afternoon.”
“No, no,” said the old gentleman imperiously; “I’ll go by myself.
Good-day, Marlowe.”
“Jasper,” said his friend, as the tall, stately figure passed rapidly
out down the long salesroom, “don’t be troubled,” glancing into
Jasper’s overcast face; “it is better as it is. Let him think it out by
himself. And believe me, my boy, the greatest kindness one can do your
father, is to prevent him from being untrue to himself.”
“I know it,” said Jasper; “but, O Mr. Marlowe! you do know, because
you’ve seen it, how he just worships Phronsie. We all do for that
matter; but father--well, that’s different. She’s just everything to
him.”
“And that’s just the very reason he wants to show her that he is worthy
of it,” said the publisher gravely; “and no one must point it out to
him. He must travel that way alone, till he can think only of her good.
And he’ll do it.”