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Old Valentines - A Love Story, a fiction by Munson Aldrich Havens |
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Chapter 6 |
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_ CHAPTER VI John stood staring. Finally, Mrs. Farquharson, tears streaming down her kindly face, held Phyllis away from her and looked at her long and lovingly. "My dear, my dear, my deary dear. How ever did you come to find me?" "I didn't," replied Phyllis. "John found you. He--we--we are looking for lodgings. We--we were married this afternoon. We have been hunting for rooms for hours--and this was the last place----" Phyllis faltered. She turned to John, and then to Mrs. Farquharson. "This is Mr. Landless, my--this is my dear, dear old Nurse Farquharson. She knew my mother and father, and she took care of me when I was a little, little girl. Oh, John, you cannot know how glad I am to see her!" They shook hands. "I told her she would like you," said John to Mrs. Farquharson. "And to think of her being married," said Mrs. Farquharson. "And coming to my house with her husband, looking for a place to live, and me with three rooms all ready for them as soon as ever I can get a fire laid in the grate." She turned to Phyllis again. "Just you sit down here in the warm hall a minute, my deary dear," she said, "while I get--though maybe you would like to look at them first. Yes, of course. Come straight upstairs, Miss--my dear. If you decide to stay--" "Oh, Farquharson! How can you suggest that we shouldn't stay!" said Phyllis. "Never would I hint such a thing," replied Mrs. Farquharson. "But, of course, there are only the three rooms, and one of them small, to be sure, and no others in the house unoccupied. This way,--these are the rooms, Miss--my dear. And as I says to the young gentleman--your husband, that is--the sitting-room is that cozy, with the fire, and the bedroom is airy. The view is something pretty, I do assure you. Oh! my deary dear, my deary dear! How ever did you come to find me?" It was hard to tell whether Mrs. Farquharson was laughing or crying. Phyllis sank into the easy-chair with a sigh. "I shall never get up again," she said to John. "Slippers," said Mrs. Farquharson, and vanished. John kissed Phyllis and tried, awkwardly, to take off her hat. He managed it finally, and a loose strand of beautiful hair fell over one of her ears. She tucked it away. "Isn't it too wonderful to be true!" she said. John's heart was too full for speech. He turned away to hide his working mouth. Mrs. Farquharson was on her knees before Phyllis a moment later. The slippers were too large, but how welcome to her aching feet. One of her shoes, upturned, caught Mrs. Farquharson's eye. She inspected John's handiwork; then gave Phyllis a startled look. "In February, my dear. And on your wedding day! How ever came it? With newspapers, all wadded in. Whatever's happened?" "It has all been very sudden, dear Farquharson" said Phyllis. "I will tell you all about it as soon as I have rested a little. Oh! It is good, good, to be with you. I am so glad, so glad. Aren't you glad, John? Just think--if you hadn't tried once more. If you hadn't asked at that little shop." "Shop?" inquired Mrs. Farquharson. "The little old bookshop, at the other aid of the square," explained John. "Oh, Mr. Rowlandson's. He sent you here. He would, to be sure. My oldest lodger, sir, and the easiest to do for--though odd. Here's Genevieve with the tea. Don't put the tray on the sofa, Genevieve On the table, of course. Whenever will you learn? Here, drink this, my deary dear. It will prepare your stomach for something more. I am getting your supper ready now downstairs, and the young gentleman's. There's a chop. Do drink a little of the tea, my dear, even if you don't want it. It's for your best. Do you like apricots as well as ever you did? Oh, whoever has had the bringing of you up, that I should have had! The many times I've thought. And your poor dear mother and father both taken at once, too." "I went to my Uncle Peter," said Phyllis "I have lived there ever since." "Sir Peter Oglebay--your father's brother I might have known." Mrs. Farquharson nodded her head vigorously. "Though he was terrible down on your--To think of that now! And so you have been here in London all these many years! And me never to know! Deary me!" "We--my uncle did everything to find you," Phyllis assured her. "He even advertised for you. I cried for you very often when I was little, dear Farquharson." "Did you, indeed, my dear?" asked Mrs. Farquharson, smiling, and wiping her eyes with her apron. "And advertised for me. In the papers. Reward offered and no questions asked. I've read them myself, but never did I think." "Oh, yes. I wanted you very badly," Phyllis assured her again. "I used to tease Burbage when I was naughty, by telling her you were never cross with me." "And who is Burbage?" asked Mrs. Farquharson. "She is my uncle's housekeeper. She was very good to me, too. But I missed you dreadfully. You know, John, my mother and father were away from home for weeks at a time, and Farquharson took such care of me." "Such games as we had," said Mrs. Farquharson reflectively; and then to John,--"She was everything whatever from Mary, Queen of Scots, to a dromedary, I've beheaded her many's the time, and her humps was the pillows off her little bed. If Genevieve hasn't burned those chops to a cinder, they must be ready, and why ever she doesn't bring them up I do not know." What a dainty supper! John did full justice to it. Mrs. Farquharson brooded over Phyllis; but she could eat nothing. The kind-hearted woman maintained a constant stream of talk, in which lodgers, rooms, chops, apricots, and toast, and the old times were inextricably intermingled. 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 sunshiny 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 assured 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 worshiped 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. _ |
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