Old Valentines Part 8

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 suns.h.i.+ny 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 a.s.sured 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."

Mrs. Farquharson mused over her memories

"Your father was her first love-affair," she resumed. "She was wrapped up in her acting till she met him. Her mother and father were both on the stage. Did you know that? Yes, my deary dear, she told me a costume-trunk was her cradle, and a dressing-room the only nursery that ever she knew. She hated to give it all up, but she did; your mother loved your father beyond all that ever I saw or heard of, and he wors.h.i.+ped the ground she walked on. Strong words, my dear, but true as true."

It was midnight before they knew it. The dark circles under her darling's eyes gave Mrs. Farquharson occasion for concern. Genevieve had visited the bedroom with clean linen in her arms.

"I will take a short walk," whispered John to Phyllis.

Poor Phyllis. She needed her old nurse; the excitement and fatigue had exhausted her completely.

Standing in the square, looking upward at the stars, a white-faced poet, his thoughts unutterable, at last saw the lights in her windows grow dim and disappear.

On the stairs he met Mrs. Farquharson. Her voice was anxious as she bade him good night.

From the little sitting-room John could see into the bedroom. The light shone on the face of Phyllis asleep.

He sat watching the dying fire for a long while. Finally he rose, slowly wound up his watch, turned out the gas, and lay down on the sofa. He soon slumbered peacefully.

In the gray dawn Phyllis awakened. Recollections slowly crowded upon her consciousness. She rose and stood by the window, looking out on the quiet square, and at the houses, opposite, emerging from obscurity with the growing light. She stepped to the door and peeped into the other room. John lay on the sofa, sleeping soundly, one arm flung boyishly over his head.

The rooms were very cold. She took the coverlet from her bed and spread it over him.

He stirred a little. "Thanks, old chap," he murmured sleepily.

Phyllis tiptoed back to bed.

VII

Within a fortnight their rooms were transformed. Mrs. Farquharson declared she would not have known them herself.

John's old room, dismantled, yielded his bookshelves and his books; his father's old desk, a Sheraton, and therefore a beauty and joy forever; and his armchair, which took its place in a corner of the cheery sitting-room and seemed to say--"Come, sit here, and be comfortable," as naturally as though it had been established there for years. Certainly it had this advantage over the other chairs; it was so roomy John and Phyllis could sit in it together; and often did.

There were photographs of his father as a young man; and of his mother, a flower-like creature, who had faded like a flower, leaving a fragrant memory. Phyllis gazed at her picture with wistful eyes; and once, when John was absent, held it to her lips.

But Phyllis's old valentines gave the rooms their charm. A dozen or more, framed in dull gold, hung on the walls, their delicate coloring softened by the pa.s.sing of many years; their sentiment as fresh and gentle as of yesterday.

On the day after her marriage, Phyllis had written this letter:--

DEAR UNCLE PETER:--

John Landless and I were married yesterday. We have found a pleasant place to live, with Farquharson, my old nurse. I hope you will try to think of me as kindly as you can, and kindly, too, of John, whose heart is pure gold, and all mine, as mine is his. I want you to know I am sorry, even when I am happiest,--and, indeed, Uncle Peter, I am happy,--sorry for the pain my thoughtlessness gave you? sorry for the mischief that was done, unconsciously, because I did not tell you, long ago, that I was learning to love him. It would have been far, far better to have told you? I am truly, truly sorry. Some day, when you want me to, I hope to tell you all this much better than I can write it.

I have a favor to ask of you, Uncle Peter. I want my valentines.

Could Burbage put them all in the leather cases, and send them, by Thompson, to Saint Ruth's? And, please, I ask you to send nothing else? just the valentines, please, Uncle Peter.

Always lovingly, PHYLLIS.

On the following afternoon, John went to Saint Ruth's to tell the news, and announce his unavoidable absence from the Settlement for the month to be devoted to his book.

"And to you," he said, as he kissed Phyllis good-bye.

"Tell Mrs. Thorpe we shall both be back in a month, eager to do more than ever," was her reply to this. "Tell her, please, not to think we are selfish; but the little book is so important just now."

Phyllis listened, smilingly, to Mrs. Farquharson's gossip about her lodgers.

"'Never again,' he says to me solemnly, and pointing at me with his long finger. 'The keys I shall leave in the cases as I ever have, but never again touch dust-cloth to my fans and patch-boxes!' And never have I since that day, which is seven years if it's a minute. He dusts them himself of a Sunday morning. I've caught him at it!" Mrs. Farquharson picked a thread from her skirt, and carefully wound it around her finger.

"Speaking of catching him at it reminds me of that Mrs. Burbage," she continued. She never referred to her save as "that" Mrs. Burbage; the designation expressed anathema. "I have wondered, did ever it occur to you whether Sir Peter asked that Mrs. Burbage to take the advertis.e.m.e.nts to the papers; it being my belief that if he ever did she never did. And consequently, however could I see them, and know my deary dear wanted her old nurse?"

The whir of a motor, immediately below the windows, caused Mrs.

Farquharson to look out.

"Whoever is that now? A man in leggings and a middle-aged woman in spectacles. I never set eyes on her before. He's beginning to take the little leather trunks out. Whatever is--"

Phyllis's intuition was swift as light. A glimpse from another window, and--

"It is Uncle Peter's car, Farquharson," she exclaimed. "The boxes are the old Valentines you remember so well--that I sent for yesterday. The woman is----"

"That Mrs. Burbage, of course. She found me quick enough when she wanted to!"

Phyllis was in flight down the stairs. Mrs. Farquharson smoothed her hair, and followed majestically. They met in the hall. While Thompson carried the boxes up, Phyllis introduced the rivals. They talked for a few moments constrainedly, surveying each other as though watchful for an opening. When the last of the cases had gone up Phyllis said:--

"I want to hear news of my uncle, and show Burbage our pretty rooms. You will excuse us, Farquharson, won't you?"

"Certainly, my dear," she replied; then, addressing Mrs. Burbage--"Shall I light the gas for you, ma'am? I see your age is beginning to tell on your eyes."

"Oh, no, thank you, ma'am," replied Burbage. "I can see perfectly.

Though your hall _is_ uncommonly dark."

Both shots told. Phyllis hurried Burbage upstairs.

There was little to learn. Sir Peter had not spoken her name since she had left. He had given her note to Burbage.