Munson Aldrich Havens

“ Farquharson met them at the door.
"He's upstairs in your room. Sir Peter Oglebay—your uncle," she said, in an excited whisper. "Three times he has called this day; once at eleven, once at two; and now again at six. 'Sit down and wait,' I says to him, the last time; 'they will surely be home for dinner; never have they missed since first they came,' says I; and sit down he did—and there he sits; and doesn't he look noble, sitting there! Genevieve's that nervous she drops everything she touches."
John and Phyllis exchanged looks. He smiled as easily as he could. ”

“ He would have to Phyllis, also, but she went with him into the hall. Sir Peter followed them there, and said good-night again, in the friendliest way.
Phyllis called on Saint Ruth's neighbors often in the weeks that followed. Mindful of her uncle's command, she was never alone. Sometimes Mrs. Thorpe, at others Peggy Neville, and quite often John Landless went with her. The squalor and misery all about them was shocking to every sense; hideous at its worst; but the sharp, sweet, bitter-sweet memories of those winter afternoons will linger in Phyllis's mind as long as she lives. ”

“ But these newer books are the minority. The composed, brown calf bindings give the shop its tone,—and its faint odor, too; a cultivated taste, the liking for that odor of old books.
Mr. Rowlandson's desk is in the alcove at the back of the shop; and in its lowest drawer, oftener than elsewhere, his gray cat, Selima, stretches her lazy length.
On a bright, crisp morning, nearly a week after Phyllis had lain awake thinking, Mr. Rowlandson sat at this desk, looking through his post, which consisted chiefly of book-catalogues. Having laid these aside, he opened a bulky parcel the post had brought. ”

“ Margaret Neville, to visit Saint Ruth's Social Settlement, in Whitechapel. And there she met John Landless. The Honorable Margaret introduced them.
"Hullo, Mr. Landless—oh! Miss Oglebay—Mr. Landless. It's her first time here. Show her about a bit like a good chap, will you, while I look for to see what my angel children's sewing-class is doing so blithely, blithely?"
John Landless looked at Phyllis, and Phyllis looked at John. If there is ever love at first sight! Perhaps it never happens in this prosy old twentieth century. But, if it ever does, then—there you are. ”

“ 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! ”

“ John had suggested a cab.
"We must economize from the very beginning," said Phyllis, with a wan smile.
She blushed deliciously when John handed her money, and she hurried into a shop. Such a simple, brown hat she found, a little shopworn; the long, warm coat she bought matched perfectly. Standing at the street corner, waiting for her, John counted the money in his pockets; enough for luncheon, fares, and even contingencies, he was glad to find. But he thought with satisfaction of the full quarter's income at his lodgings. When she rejoined him, John looked her over critically. ”

“ John hesitated. Sir Peter rustled "The Times" uneasily. Phyllis sat perfectly still, waiting.
"My father taught me more than I learned at Magdalene, and he gave me my ideals. Perhaps they are unusual, but I believe they are true. They may be told in a few words,—to face life fearlessly, live it cleanly and fully, and use it to what end one's conscience and one's talents direct without too much regard for the careless opinion of the world. I haven't anything behind me that I am ashamed of. ”

“ Long before I was born, and long before they were married, my papa gave my mamma valentines, new ones and old ones too but mostly old ones. They were the prettiest. Some of them are a hundred years old. They are ever so pretty, Uncle Peter, and she let me play with them, whole boxes full of them. I loved them best of all my playthings. Sometimes my papa called me his little Valentine, but they named me Phyllis, after my grandmamma, my papa's mamma. Why, Uncle Peter, she was your mamma, too, wasn't she?" Phyllis, sitting on Sir Peter's lap, regarded him gravely, with new interest. ”

“ For I am only a poor poet, with nothing but faith in myself and love for you to offer. I know you have everything; a beautiful home, and beautiful clothes, and beautiful jewels, probably, though I haven't seen them. Every wish of yours is answered almost before you know it is yours. Life's promise to you is the earth and the fullness thereof; and I offer you only love. But in the end I shall win, Phyllis, I am perfectly certain of that. I shall never, never be rich; possibly never even well-to-do; but I love you, Phyllis ”

“ 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. ”

“ John's chin was noticeable now. "I follow the profession of poetry."
"Upon my word!" exclaimed Sir Peter, and would have said more.
"Isn't it fine, Uncle Peter!" Phyllis interrupted, her cheeks rosy, and her eyes starry pleaders for a lost cause. "Mr. Landless means to be a poet. That is his chosen profession. Don't you think it fine to make such a choice,—when one has the talent, of course?" Her earnest voice fell before Sir Peter's stony gaze.
"But poetry isn't a profession," declared Sir Peter roundly. ”

“ Seeking new bills, "To Let," they found themselves in a small square, surrounded by houses; a fine neighborhood in its day.
"Oh dear, John, I fear I can walk no farther," said Phyllis. "We must go to a hotel after all, though I detest the idea. My shoes are worn through."
He led her to a bench in the little square, and kneeling before her took off one shoe, and then the other, and carefully fitted each with a new sole, made from a page of "The Daily Chronicle."
"If I fail as a poet I shall be a cobbler," he said to her brightly. ”

“ Charming were their afternoons among the curio shops, and their return, laden with loot too precious to wait over night for delivery. Glorious were their holidays in Paris and Vienna; wonderful nights in Venice! Always together! To their sudden migration to Egypt, whence he returned with a portfolio of exciting promise. Alas, the slender fulfilment! for then was the time for work,—the sobering thought of Baby Phyllis.
But to Valentine and Robert Oglebay, Baby Phyllis soon meant a new frolic. Nurse Farquharson's were the competent hands. Their life went on unchanged. ”

“ Phyllis threatened him with a buttered muffin.
"John Landless! I shall not speak to you again for—ten minutes."
It was the jolliest breakfast. Mrs. Farquharson's bacon was always crisp; she could tell a strictly fresh egg as far as she could see it; if you had tossed one of her muffins into the air it would have floated out of the open window. "Tell her I said so," said John to little Genevieve.
It is a pity we know so little of Genevieve. One has an uneasy sense of having neglected her. Well—her young man loved her; and that is enough for Genevieve. ”

“ Mr. Rowlandson held his wine-glass to the light again, and looked through it with half-closed eyes.
"Fifty pounds," he quietly repeated, "and took her note, with interest at five per cent. I could have made it six as well as not, she wanted the money so badly."
Sir Peter turned his back on the bookseller the pen busied itself with the check. A moment later it was offered to him.
"Thank you, Sir Peter. My interest in this transaction is not for sale." Mr. Rowlandson spoke in a low tone, firmly.
"But I say my niece shall not be indebted to you! Not one penny!" ”

“ To find your host concealing surprise as he shakes hands, and to learn, at the end of ten minutes of feverish cordiality, that you were invited to dine the following night, is never comfortable, even at the home of an old friend. When two hours on a train each way are involved, and loss of one's sleep as well——! A bleak east wind, this morning, too, and Sir Peter was Jarndyced as to that quarter.
Worst of all, Phyllis looked like her mother, with her hair over her ears, like that; the likeness always irritated Sir Peter, but this morning it was particularly striking. ”

“ Only yesterday I scarcely dared hope that you might be willing to wait years for me to—to earn enough with my pen to ask you to share my lot. To-day—the doors of Paradise are opened wide. Ah! my dear, my dear, I am eager to enter, but I fear for you. I should be taking advantage of your helplessness——"
"Listen, John," said Phyllis. "I am not the least bit helpless. There are dozens of houses to which I can go and dozens of friends who would be glad to have me come to them. But at every open door there is also a finger pointing inevitably back to Uncle Peter's house. ”

“ 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. ”

“ But I should think that Saint Ruth's would make the poor people more contented. If there were no such clean, bright, cheery places to go to, and to leave their babies in, and to hear music on summer nights, and see the motion-pictures which make them forget their hard, drudging, colorless lives for a little while,"—here Phyllis caught her breath in that fascinating way she has—"if there were no such helpful places, I should think they might be more hopeless and bitter. ”