SHE WAS YOUR MAMMA, TOO, WASN'T SHE?
His bookseller bought in the valentines for Sir Peter.
"God bless my soul!" exclaimed Mr. Rowlandson, when he read the order.
The sale catalogue described it as one of the most remarkable collections ever brought together, and intimated that the Museum should take advantage of a rare opportunity.
Another dealer was commissioned to buy one of Robert's pictures.
"Any one,—the best. Use your own judgment," said Sir Peter.
It was a charming study, unfinished, of course, that came the next afternoon: a boat, rolling heavily in gray water; and seen through mist, the great brown sail, looming, shadowy; one sailor, in a red jersey, at the tiller. In the corner Robert had scrawled his careless signature and the words,—"Valfjeldet, Norway, 1897." Sir Peter gently laid the picture upon the glowing coals of the grate.
"There are six boxes come from Mr. Rowlandson's shop, sir," said his housekeeper standing quietly behind him.
"Have the screws removed and send them up to Miss Phyllis's room," he replied. "They are old valentines, Burbage, old valentines that belonged to her m——for which she has a childish fondness."
II
"Doesn't it seem to you that the windows let in more sunlight of late, ma'am?" asked a housemaid. She had just finished cleaning those in the octagonal dining-room. Burbage inspected the windows.
"There is no change in the windows that I can see," she replied. "But there's more sunlight in the house than in many a year."
This comment of his old housekeeper, six weeks after Sir Peter brought Phyllis home, might be accepted as the epitome of her life there for ten long years. Sir Peter was as grim as ever to the servants; but, bless your heart, hadn't they caught him at his pranks on the floor? Hadn't they seen his haggard face when the doctor pronounced it diphtheria? Hadn't they seen him carry her downstairs in his own arms on the first day it was allowed? Hadn't they seen him helping her with her lessons, at night,—solving her complex problems in his head while she struggled over columns of figures, and waiting at the end of that tortuous road with a smile on his gaunt face, and the right answer, to prove hers right or wrong? But in languages, Sir Peter was left at the post. Her master in French was astonished until he learned her mother's name,—by accident, for it was rarely spoken in that house. The dead languages were alive to her, too. The shelves in her study-room, upstairs, contained Sir Peter's old "classics," prettily rebound. The commission went to Mr. Rowlandson; the execution was Rivière's. Sir Peter had scarcely looked into them since the old days at Cambridge.
Sunlight in the house, indeed. Her sweet voice, in sudden song, might be heard at any moment of the day; or the ripple of her piano; or her gay laughter, musical as the joyous notes of a bird.
She had her intent of them all. Even the determined mind of Burbage, stern-featured and steel-spectacled, she moulded to a plastic acquiescence with her own sweet will. In extreme urgency, when Burbage was very firm, indeed, Phyllis had a way of referring to dear Farquharson. Burbage learned to anticipate this by yielding in the nick of time.
By the way, they had not found a trace of Farquharson.
Several short, sharp battles she had with Sir Peter; the cause, in each instance, the same. He did not try to disguise his desire that she should forget her mother. The first encounter between them took place within a year of her home-coming.
"If I cannot remember my darling, darling mamma in your house, Uncle Peter, I shall not stay here," she declared. "I will go away and never, never come back any more. And then you would be sorry."
Sir Peter compromised with irrelevant sweets. But he saw she was terribly in earnest, for such a little girl.
From time to time a similar incident disturbed the loving relationship between them; a relationship that was perfect otherwise, in confidence, sincerity and affection.
When she was eighteen, some one told her she began to look like her mother.
"God forbid!" said Sir Peter, when she told him.
Phyllis went white.
"Uncle Peter, my mother was an angel. She was my father's——"
"Ruin," interposed Sir Peter, his brows darkening.
"She was his dream of Heaven. I heard him tell her so. She was a dear, sweet woman."
Sir Peter growled; but Phyllis always had the last word on these occasions.
"I love her memory and I always shall, as I should have dearly loved her if—if she could have stayed with me. You must never speak or even think unkindly of her if you want me to love you, or if you want me to live with you. She was my mother and——" Then she fled to her room. Burbage could have been heard murmuring, "There, there, my pretty."
It was true. As she grew older it became apparent she had inherited her mother's marvelous beauty. She was a tall girl; a mass of golden coils surmounted the proud head, set so well on her neck and shoulders; her eyes were the deepest blue; you might have thought her expression sad, but her sensitive mouth was mirthful as well as tender; in merriment her eyes danced. When she talked earnestly she caught her breath in the prettiest way; she had indescribable charm. Her hands were long and slender, unadorned with rings; she simply didn't care for them. She usually wore white, and the larger the hat the better she liked it.
By the time Phyllis was twenty, she had read all that was good for her, and was ready to look at life itself with frankness, and judge it by standards of her own. The windows of the Carlton Club knew Sir Peter no more. She led him everywhere. You might have seen them at the Abbey one day; on another in the Temple Gardens or looking up at Dr. Johnson's house, in Gough Square. Sir Peter gloomed in the doorways of shops while she made leisurely purchases within. He pointed out the best pictures in the National Gallery; and could tell her why they were the best. They motored through England and France; Sir Peter absorbed in old fortifications, Phyllis regardful of the babies tumbling through cottage doorways. In London one often saw them walking in the park, her face aglow with animation, her movements as free from constraint as a young deer; her flow of conversation never failing. Sir Peter, keeping step, regarded her, idolatrous. Unconsciously she showed him her soul, and looking therein he found his eyes blurred with unexpected tears.
Soft but imperious Phyllis! The theater bored Sir Peter beyond expression. But on First Nights you might be certain he would have a box. Radiant Phyllis, in white silk, leaning forward eagerly to catch every word, was tremulous with excitement at the end of the play. During the drive homeward Sir Peter endeavored, artfully, to conceal that he had slept through half an act.
You may be sure that mothers with eligible sons invited him to dine; grumbling, but facing the inevitable, he accepted. His hawk's eyes glowered at the young men: from Cambridge and Oxford, but he invited them to his house. Coaxed by their mothers they called the first time, and thereafter were with difficulty restrained. Phyllis was kind to each, and interested in all; but Sir Peter observed with satisfaction that she was most pleased when they came in pairs. He chuckled over his magazine, under a reading-lamp, at the far end of the library many times, while Phyllis entertained her admirers; but at times he scowled. "Too fast, too fast, you young fool," he muttered to his white mustache.
They were thoroughly agreeable young men, and Phyllis enjoyed it all hugely. She approached the consideration of the sex from a perfectly fresh and candid point of view. Sir Peter had the benefit of her impressions each morning with his egg and toast and tea. "The Times" had long since been banished from breakfast.
One morning she was spiritless.
"Uncle Peter, I have something very, very important to tell you."
"I am listening most attentively, my dear."
"Uncle Peter, you know Mr. Holroyd,—Mr. Mark Holroyd, I mean, not his brother Dick."
"I can't say I know him very well, my dear. He has called several times, to be sure, and dined with us once. We have dined at General Holroyd's twice, I think, when Mark was present. I believe he has made three remarks to me: first, that Cambridge was slow; second, that he liked a Doherty racket best,—I think it was a Doherty he preferred; and third, that the Halls, this month, were—'rather.'"
Phyllis's smile comprehended and confirmed
"But he is very nice, Uncle Peter."
"I have no doubt of it," said Sir Peter. "His father is one of the finest men I have ever known; his mother was a Churchill. Is Mark to read for the Bar?"
"Y-e-es," said Phyllis doubtfully. "I hope so. Oh! Uncle Peter, last night, in the hall——"
"In the hall, eh?" interrupted Sir Peter.
"Yes, dear, in the hall. He—he proposed to me. I told him I had never thought of him in that way at all. And——"
"I should hope not," said Sir Peter. He liked Mark well enough, but there was plenty of time. And he made a mental memorandum to keep his eye on the hall thereafter.
"And, oh! Uncle Peter, he said the light had gone out of his life, and that he could never get over such a crushing blow, and that he wished he was—Uncle Peter, they—they always do get over it, don't they?"
"In no time at all," replied Sir Peter briskly, and helped himself to toast. There was a pause.
"Still, I doubt if Mr. Holroyd will get over it as quickly as that," said Phyllis thoughtfully.
"Haberdashers are a very present help in time of trouble," Sir Peter assured her. "They are a great comfort to young men in Mark's situation."
When she kissed him good-bye for the day, he said:—
"My little girl must wait a long while and meet many young men before she finally—er—finally—you know,—eh?"
But on that very afternoon she went with her friend, the Hon. 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.
"It will be a pleasure to show you through the house," said John. "I wish Dr. Thorpe, the warden, were here, though? you should meet him; he's great. That is Mrs. Thorpe—over there, talking to the woman who is crying. She will have her straightened out before you can say Jack Robinson,—and no nonsense either."
It took a little longer than that, but in a few minutes the woman went away smiling; and then Phyllis met Mrs. Thorpe, who won her at once.
"I leave you in good hands, Miss Oglebay," she said, when she was called away. "You will hear Saint Ruth's praises sung. We shall hope to see you here often."
"I am so glad I came," said Phyllis, "and you are very kind, Mr. Landless, to explain things to me. Are you certain I am not taking too much of your time?"
"Oh, we will glance at my boys as we go along," replied John. "The afternoons are not especially busy. The evenings are full, though, with classes, and clubs, and games, and all that,—you know."
They walked through the rooms devoted to social amelioration; to the mental, physical and spiritual redemption of sordid lives. To these rooms men from the universities, impelled by a new conscience, bring their learning and their refinement. In these rooms men from the docks—the flotsam and jetsam of humanity—receive their first glimpse of
"Plato and the swing of Pleiades."
While John explained the theory and practice of such social settlements as Toynbee Hall, and Mansfield House, and Saint Ruth's, Phyllis found time to study his face. His black hair was cut short, but it curled for all that; his dark eyes were fine, the eyebrows very thick. His mouth closed tightly, a little too tightly, perhaps. But his chin! "He will have his way," thought Phyllis. She noticed that he stood very straight, that his shoulders were broad, and that his light gray suit became him well.
In the room to which the Hon. Margaret Neville consecrated ten hours a week were a number of very small girls, trying to use needles without pricking their fingers, and not succeeding very well. John and Phyllis stood just outside the door, waiting for the dismissal of the class.
Now, John Landless had a test for new acquaintances, a test evolved of trying experience If she laughed now!—or said, "How odd!"
"I find this work tremendously absorbing" said John, "and I hope I am helpful, a little, you know. But besides all that I think the work helps me in my profession."
"Your profession," repeated Phyllis, turning toward him the sweet, interested face he was watching so intently. "May I ask what is your profession?"
"I am a poet," said John simply, and awaited results.
"That is a noble profession," said Phyllis "I am glad you have chosen it. I hope you will succeed in it." She colored. "And I believe you will," she added. She was looking at his chin.
Then, for the first time, Phyllis saw John's smile. He had a wonderful smile; the most winning; he should have smiled oftener; but life is a serious business to poets, especially at twenty-four.
"It is good of you to say that," said John. "Almost every one roars. That is—the men. The girls giggle, or say, 'How curious!' I think you are the first girl who has ever taken it quite as a matter of course that a man might make poetry his profession. I am prepared to defend the profession of poetry against the world, if need be; but I don't like to be stared at while I am doing it."
"I understand," replied Phyllis warmly. "If you said the Army, or the Church, or Engineering, no one would be surprised or unsympathetic. But they think one should be a little ashamed of owning himself a poet. So much the worse for them," she concluded, nodding her pretty head and catching her breath in that quick way of hers.
"You're very kind to say so, but——" John was about to ask her if she was sure she meant it. Looking into Phyllis's candid eyes he thought better of it.
"Are any of your—that is—have you——?" she stammered, partly because the form of her question puzzled her; partly because she was aware of John's ardent eyes.
"Yes, I have been in the magazines three or four times," he replied. He knew that question. "But I hope to bring out a little book of poems in the spring."
"I shall be eager to see it," said Phyllis.
"Really?" asked John.
"Of course," she replied, coloring again. Mark Holroyd had looked at her like that; but how different it had been.
"You shall have one of the first copies off the press," said John, in a low voice, "because you were one of the first to encourage me in all this great London. And I shall write that in the book, if you will let me."
Phyllis looked at him earnestly.
"You must never be discouraged," she said slowly. "There will be difficulties, of course, and obstacles, and—and hard places to get over. All the poets I have read about had a hard time at first. But there will be friends to believe in you, many of them, who will wish you success in your profession."
"If I could know there was one, at least," said John, his dark eyes glowing.
Phyllis smiled at him. "There will be many," she repeated.
The Honorable Margaret joined them, having delivered her closing remarks to her class; remarks somewhat pointed on the subject of noses and handkerchiefs, but inclusive of cleanliness and godliness generally.
"Splendid place, isn't it, Phil?" she remarked with enthusiasm. "Did you see the dispensary, and the nursery, and the gymnasium and the laundry, and all around the shop?"
"Yes, I think we saw everything," replied Phyllis. "Mr. Landless has explained it all in the most interesting way."
"Will you come again?" asked John, as he stood at the curb, while they stepped into the Neville motor.
"She's sure to," replied the Honorable Margaret promptly. "Saint Ruth's eats 'em alive. I came to scoff and remained to thread needles myself. Phyllis will be minding the babies in a month,—eh, Phil?"
"I should love to come again," said Phyllis.
"To-morrow?" asked John.
"No," said the Honorable Margaret. "To-morrow's not my day. I come on Thursday next."
"I think it would be convenient for me to come to-morrow," said Phyllis. "Perhaps that nice Mrs. Thorpe, to whom you introduced me, could find something for me to do. I am afraid I shall have to be taught how myself first, though."
"Great Scott!" cried the Honorable Margaret, leaning back in the car. "Saint Ruth has made one mouthful of you."
"Good-bye, Mr. Landless. Thank you again," said Phyllis, extending a cordial hand.
"Until to-morrow," said John.
He stood at the curb watching the receding car. When he reëntered the house, his smile lighted his face wonderfully.
"What do you think, Phyllis!" whispered the Honorable Margaret, her eye on the chauffeur. "Mark Holroyd telephoned me at the Settlement. He told me he needed bucking up a bit, and was coming to me to be comforted. He's to be at the house at nine. Isn't he the dearest fellow?"
Phyllis opened her eyes wide; and then half closed them.
"He is one of the dearest, Peggy," she said softly.
III
"Lady Neville is a most estimable woman," observed Sir Peter, at breakfast the next morning, "and your friend Margaret is a very nice girl, as I have observed. But these places, my dear, these social settlements, as they call them, Saint Ruth's, and—er—the rest of them, are the breeding-places of discontent, of unrest hotbeds of socialism. I can't approve of your going there often."
"Well, of course, Uncle Peter, you know far more about it than I do. 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. But when they know that Lady Neville, and you, and other rich people care something for them,—enough to want to give them some happy hours; when they see Peggy Neville teaching their little girls to sew,—don't you think they may feel less like throwing a stone through the windows of her motor?"
"Perhaps, my dear child, perhaps. I do not say you are wrong. I am inclined to think, however, that they suppose these—er—social settlements are maintained by the County Council, and supported by the rates. And I rather think," added Sir Peter, lighting his cigar, "I rather think they believe they pay the rates themselves."
"Have you ever visited Saint Ruth's, Uncle Peter? But I am sure you haven't, or I should have known it. Now, how can you sit in your library here and analyze the thoughts and motives of those poor people? What must Saint Ruth's seem to them, compared with their miserable dwellings?"
"I can't say I have ever been there," owned Sir Peter, "but I am one of the Board of Trustees, in charge of the funds of several philanthropic institutions, and I hear these things discussed. But, my dear child, I do not wish to offer any objection to your going there if you are interested. Good idea; see the other side. Of course, you won't ever go alone, though. Those East End streets, you know—better take the car and have Thompson wait. I will make an inquiry or two of Sir Charles Anstruther at the Club; he takes a deep interest in—er—these social settlements,—Toynbee Hall and——Ten o'clock! I shall be late. Good-bye, my dear. Have a good time in your own way."
Phyllis may have confused inclination with duty a little; in any event, Mrs. Thorpe, whose kind face might have served for a likeness of Saint Ruth herself, found plenty of work for her. And Phyllis did love the babies; they did not all look alike to her, as they did to John. The Honorable Margaret found her quite at home when Thursday rolled around.
"Good for you, Phil!" was her salutation "My word! Don't they get dirty over-night!"
When a month had passed, it was Phyllis's custom to go to Saint Ruth's nearly every day. The work was engrossing; Dr. Thorpe warned her against overdoing it; his experience of volunteer workers was large.
"Oh! she will stay with us," laughed Mrs. Thorpe, to whom his misgivings were clear. "Miss Oglebay and I are to make calls in the neighborhood this afternoon."
"You will see sad sights," said the doctor; "but lots of funny ones, too."
To the Christmas ceremonies she brought Sir Peter, determined to be pleased, against his better judgment. He liked Dr. Thorpe at once; Sir Peter knew a man when he saw one. Mrs. Thorpe made him chuckle; so he liked her, too. The place was crowded; mostly with the very poor, in their best and at their best; but Sir Peter was surprised to meet a number of his acquaintances; not so surprised as they were, however.
There were two adjoining houses to be leased and connected with Saint Ruth's; a matter of arrangement was submitted by Dr. Thorpe. Sir Peter paced off the rooms for himself and gave his opinion. Dr. Thorpe consulted strangers on problems of obvious solution; the hard ones he and Mrs. Thorpe thought out after they went to bed.
They occupied front seats for the entertainment and Phyllis pointed people out to him.
"There is Father Carroll," she said, indicating direction with her programme. "Dr. Thorpe and Father Carroll and Mr. Landless are the committee. Father Carroll will give the address later; Mr. Landless arranged the songs. I helped him with that."
The entertainment was a success. Such proud mothers and fathers when the prizes were distributed! Every child had honorable mention, at least. Father Carroll told the funniest stories; how the crowd laughed. And when he talked seriously to them—you could have heard a pin drop.
When John was introduced to Sir Peter, he stood very straight; one stood at attention instinctively, before Sir Peter.
"Very pleased, indeed, to meet you, sir," said Sir Peter. "You don't happen to be of the Sussex Landlesses, do you; I knew a Hugh Landless at Cambridge."
"Yes, sir. They are my people. He was my father."
"Really. Let me see: he took orders, did he not? I hope I am not to infer——"
"He died last June, sir."
"I beg your pardon. I didn't know. I am sorry not to have seen more of him after he left the University. He was a most likeable fellow. We shall see more of you, I trust? Have you been long in London?"
"I came after—at once. There was nothing to keep me there, and I felt I must begin work in my profession immediately."
If John had been looking at Phyllis, he would have seen her face flush slightly; an anxious look came into her eyes. But he was looking at Sir Peter.
"What is it to be?" asked Sir Peter. "Not the Church?"
"No, sir." 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. He gave a short, hard laugh. "A pastime, perhaps; a recreation; but not a profession, Mr. Landless. But, pshaw! You don't expect me to take you seriously?"
There was an awkward moment. When Phyllis ventured a look at John, she was surprised to see him smiling.
"I assure you I am quite serious," he answered easily. "But I am accustomed to the other view. Thank you cordially for your willingness to see something of me. My father would have been pleased. When I was going through his papers I fancy I ran across your name in one of his old diaries. You won't think me disrespectful if I tell you that the diary spoke of you as 'Top' Oglebay."
"Good Gad!" said Sir Peter; "I have not heard that name in thirty years. Yes, I was 'Top' Oglebay."
Phyllis was glad to see Mark Holroyd and her dear Peggy Neville coming toward them. Mark was sheepish, at first, but Phyllis put him at his ease in no time. The Honorable Margaret and John Landless were sworn friends. John had applied the test to her. "Perfectly smashing!" was her expressed opinion of his profession; the foresight of Phyllis had smoothed the way.
"Well, well," said Sir Peter, as they drove homeward, "that was all very interesting and new. You will help me to remember to send a check to Thorpe in the morning, won't you, my dear?"
Phyllis, snuggled in furs, wondered if she dared to make a remark, ever so casually, about Mr. Landless; concluded she daren't, and resigned herself to think of him in silence.
A week later John presented himself, in evening dress. Sir Peter chatted with them for a while, and then buried himself in the "Engineering Review." Over this he nodded, oblivious, while John recited his verses to Phyllis at the other end of the long library. They were pretty verses; Phyllis thought them beautiful. You should have seen John's smile. He tried to screw his courage up to recite his "Lines to Phyllis," but at ten he hadn't, and Sir Peter awoke then, and reëntered the conversation.
John said good-night to Sir Peter in the library. 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. Sad memories and joyous ones! And one more lovely than all the rest.
There came a day when, long in advance of its arrival, there was a sudden hint of spring. Carrying a parcel, John walked beside Phyllis. The soft air was filled with magic. The mildness of it brought the tenement dwellers to windows and doors.
"Warm, isn't it?" remarked John, trying to fan himself with the parcel, and failing "Please don't walk so fast? I have something to tell you."
"Tell away, Mr. Landless, tell away," said Phyllis, gayly, and slackened her pace. "Is there good news of your book? Do the flinty-hearted publishers at last see their opportunity?"
"No, they don't," said John. "In fact—well, I am glad my opinion of my poetry isn't governed by theirs."
Phyllis stole a quick look at his face; but the chin was uplifted, confident as ever.
"Is the boys' club making progress?" she asked.
"Splendid! But I want to talk about you and me."
"You and me——" three little words. The subtle spring air wafted odors of Arcady.
For a few moments they walked on silently John was preparing his sentences, and he could never be hurried at that.
Phyllis knew what was coming; she knew, she knew! Ah! the rapture of it, the loveliness of it all! the poignant beauty of the still unspoken words. Phyllis was willing to wait; he had nothing to tell her she didn't know; but she wanted to hear it said, and remember each word to dream over afterward.
Slowly they walked, in the mean little street, past dark passages, leading into tenements; past knots of lounging men; little mothers with heavy babies struggling in their thin arms; rowdies with vacuous eyes; and girls flaunting cheap finery.
"May I call you Phyllis?" asked John, breaking the silence suddenly.
