Old Valentines/X
As John lay between sleep and waking, the next morning, he was conscious that in a moment he would capture an elusive, happy thought.
He had it! The book could now be published!
While he dressed he sang an ancient ballad, at the top of his voice, to an air he improvised.
"Phillida was a fair maide
As fresh as any flower;
Whom Harpalus the herd-man praide
To be his paramoure.
"Harpalus and eke Corin,
Were herd-men both ysere;
And Phillida would twist and spinne,
And thereto sing ful clere.
"Phyllis!" cried John. "Can you hear in the bedroom? I sing of thee!"
"I thought her name was Phillida," said Phyllis, setting the bedroom door ajar.
"Phillida is Old English for Phyllis," he explained.
"Oh!" said Phyllis.
"But Phillida was al to coye,
For Harpalus to winne;
For Corin was her only joye,
Who forst her not a pinne.
"How often would she flowers twine!
How often garlants make
Of cowslips and of columbine;
And all for Corin's sake.
"Harpalus prevayled nought,
His labour all was lost;
For he was farthest from her thought,
And yet he loved her most.
"Phyllis! I say, Phyllis!" cried John, working his hairbrushes alternately. "I am Corin. Who was Harpalus?"
"You flatter yourself, sir," replied Phyllis "I am pining for Harpalus."
"Tell me his last name, then, that I may seek and slay him!" said John.
Between stanzas, John forgot the air, but he improvised anew, and sang on, regardless.
"'Oh, Harpalus!' thus would he say;
Unhappiest under sunne!
The cause of thine unhappy daye,
By love was first begunne.
"'But wel-a-way! that nature wrought
Thee, Phillida, so faire:
For I may say that I have bought
Thy beauty al to deare.'"
"Cheer up, Harpalus!" Phyllis waved her hand through the half-open doorway. "Faint heart never won fair lady!"
"He is too far gone," said John. "Besides, I, Corin, have nine-tenths of the law on him.
"'O Cupide, graunt this my request,
And do not stoppe thine eares.'"
The song ceased while John tugged at his collar. When the button finally slipped in, he muttered:—
"There is a musical line for you? 'And do not stoppe thine eares.' I would rather have written that line than take Quebec.
"'O Cupide, graunt this my request,
And do not stoppe thine eares,
That she may feel within her breste
The paines of my dispaire.'"
John ended upon a mournful quaver.
"Phillida has pangs of a different sort, thank you," said Phyllis, coming into the sitting-room. "Pangs of hunger. Good-morning, Genevieve. Is breakfast served? Yes, indeed, it is a beautiful morning."
"Heartless creature!" said John. He was putting on his coat now.
"Good-morning, fair Genevieve. Wags the world well with you? M-m-m. Doesn't the bacon smell good?"
"Poor Harpalus," said Phyllis, pouring tea. "I was very fond of Harpalus."
John's eyes were mischievous.
"Why didn't you propose to him, then?" he asked, accenting the second pronoun.
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.
John stuffed the manuscript into his greatcoat pocket.
"Oh, dear, if I could only wish myself invisible for an hour and go with you to the publishers," said Phyllis. "It doesn't seem possible to wait until afternoon to hear what they say."
John reflected.
"You were going to Saint Ruth's this morning, weren't you?" he asked.
"Yes, I shall be there the whole morning. I don't believe one of those blessed babies will remember me. I have a little shopping to do, too."
"Why not do your shopping about eleven; meet me at Mildmay's, for luncheon, at one; and we will 'bus over to Saint Ruth's together, and make an afternoon of it."
Phyllis kissed him.
"What a perfectly delightful plan!" she exclaimed. "How shall I find Mildmay's? Oh! John, dear; how much has happened since then."
"No regrets yet?" he asked, searching her eyes.
She put her hands on the lapels of his coat.
"Not even one tiny, little regret," said Phyllis.
As he ran down the stairs, however, she called after him.
"Oh, John! I forgot. I have one regret."
"What is it?" he asked.
"Harpalus"—whispered Phyllis, leaning over the banister; and kissed her hand to him.
Phyllis's truthful eyes had not hidden from John, this morning, or ever, that her heart was often saddened by thoughts of her uncle. She knew his way of life so well; could tell, at any hour, what he was probably doing. She could picture his lonely evenings. Alas, she knew his pride; and her own; John's, too. She often thought of her letter to him, with its hint of reconciliation; she wondered if she should have said more. Then his cruel words about her mother—As often she concluded she had said all there was to say. And she would turn her thoughts elsewhere, so that the bitter remembrance might not spoil the sweetness of these days.
John waited for her at the entrance to Mildmay's. The moment she saw him she knew all was well.
As they went in she nudged him.
"To the left, John. I want to sit at our little table."
The same waitress, too;—what smiles! Phyllis had chocolate because she liked chocolate; but John must have tea—because he had it before.
He told her of the interview with the publishers; the little book would appear in April; May at the latest.
The top of the motor-bus, of course.
From the crossing where they alighted one should take the street to the right to Saint Ruth's. John turned to the left, at once.
"I should never have forgiven you if you hadn't," said Phyllis, as they started eagerly down the mean street, in which noisy trams threatened the lives of ragged, venturesome children. Here was the very place! How slowly they had walked there, while he told her of his love. How long ago it seemed. Phyllis's hand found its way into John's pocket—and was welcomed there.
They got to Saint Ruth's, finally. Dr. Thorpe's greeting was cordial; Mrs. Thorpe kissed Phyllis affectionately. The men went to the warden's office; Mrs. Thorpe took Phyllis to her room. They had a long talk. Phyllis found Mrs. Thorpe could be plain-spoken as well as kind.
"You did wrong, dear girl," she said, with her arms around her. "I know how hard it was to hear him utter those terrible untruths; but you should have been more patient. Nothing he said could injure any one—least of all your mother, who is now where there is no misunderstanding—and no pain. Your wounded heart impelled you to a mad act, dear girl; but your pride has kept you in the wrong. John Landless is a dear fellow—and Donald thinks he is a true poet. I have laughed at him until he is shy about mentioning his 'profession' to me. It is possible for you to be very happy. Soften your heart, dear girl, and you will find the truest happiness in the happiness of your uncle. Your mother would be the first to tell you to go to him and comfort his loneliness—if she could. The best joys of life come to us through self-surrender."
Phyllis laid her head in Mrs. Thorpe's lap and had a good cry; then she felt better.
"Promise?" asked Mrs. Thorpe, smiling.
"No, I won't promise," said Phyllis. "I couldn't promise now. But I will try."
"And now," said Mrs. Thorpe, "let's go and see the babies. There are some new ones since you were here; but one wee mite is gone, forever."
Phyllis sat on the floor among the babies, and played with them, until her cheeks were rosy and her golden hair disheveled. Between romps she told Mrs. Thorpe that John's book would soon be published.
"Well, that is good news!" exclaimed Mrs. Thorpe. "Donald will be so happy to hear of that. It is remarkable that he should have a book published so soon. Poems, too."
"Yes, it is remarkable," replied Phyllis demurely. "But then, John's talent is remarkable."
Meanwhile, in the warden's office, Dr. Thorpe sat at his desk and John sat on it, and swung his long legs. He told him about the book.
"By Jove! I congratulate you, with all my heart," said Dr. Thorpe warmly. "You will let me know the first day it is on sale. I shall wish to buy a copy."
"Buy a copy!" John demurred. "Well, upon my word! You and Mrs. Thorpe will receive a copy, affectionately inscribed by the author; the first copy off the press—the second, I should say."
Dr. Thorpe grinned.
"Let me buy it, John," he said. "I shall go from one bookshop to another, and in each I shall say,—'What! You haven't a copy of John Landless's book! The sensation of the hour! The book London is so eager to read that the presses can't turn them out fast enough! The book—'"
John threw his cap at him. They looked at each other in the abashed way of men between whom there is deep affection.
"Your publisher's telephone wires would be hot for an hour with orders," Dr. Thorpe concluded.
"You should be a man of business," said John. "If you were a publisher I should have had an easier time."
"Nonsense! You had little or no trouble—" began Dr. Thorpe.
"You are mistaken, Doctor," said John. "I had failed, and then Phyllis pulled the strings. I can't tell you how, though. That is a secret."
"I am prepared to believe anything of her. How buoyant and beautiful she is. By the way—anything from Sir Peter?"
"Not a word. She wrote him a note, asking for her collection of valentines. They were her mother's, and she wanted them. He sent the valentines, but no reply to her note."
"Poor old buffer," said Dr. Thorpe. "Of course, he misses her dreadfully."
"I should think he would; and she misses him, too. I would be glad to see them good friends again if—if I needn't be put in a false position. He is—disgustingly rich, you know." John hesitated. He looked at the floor, and traced the pattern of the carpet with his stick. "He called me a sneak—and ordered me out of the house. But I can afford to forgive that. It was horribly sudden for the poor old chap—and—all that."
Dr. Thorpe's eyes were moist.
"I meant to look into your spiritual state, later," he said. "But I see it isn't necessary."
When the four of them met, in the hall, it was understood that John and Phyllis would resume their work at Saint Ruth's.
"Nothing like it to keep your sense of relative values normal," said Dr. Thorpe to John.
Mrs. Thorpe stood with her arm around Phyllis.
"Saint Ruth's neighbors will be glad to see you again, dear girl. Did I tell you what old Mrs. Lester said to me? You remember her poor hands, all twisted with rheumatism and yet what beautiful needlework she does. She said, 'I should like to make her a pretty handkerchief, for a wedding gift. Do you think she would care for it?'"
Mrs. Thorpe had been looking through the open doorway.
"Here comes trouble, Donald," she said, in a low voice.
John and Phyllis glanced back as they walked out.
Dr. Thorpe was shaking hands, heartily, with a big, sodden fellow, in shabby clothes, his virile face marred by excesses; the frail little woman with him looked up at him with a world of anxious love in her eyes; and then Mrs. Thorpe led her away, talking cheerily.
All the way home John discoursed on Art. Phyllis drank it in. She thought him a wonderful being.
"The trouble with these literary chaps is that they revolve in a circle," he declared, posing securely on his new pedestal. "They have their writing rooms, all strewn with carefully disarranged paraphernalia; and they have their clubs, where they meet only each other and praise each other's work, and damn the work of the absent ones: and they go prowling about looking for a bohemia that never existed, and can never exist for them; for bohemia is simply youth and poverty and high aspirations, combined, and can't be found by search. If these literary chaps are exceptionally fortunate, they are invited to great houses, where they dine with stupid, overfed people who pretend they have read their books, though they haven't, unless they are unfit to read. And so they go on wearily turning that treadmill—and wonder why their work has lost freshness, and convince themselves it has gained style. I am not a literary chap, and I don't wish to be one. I am a poet. Poetry is my profession. And the only way I can succeed in it, the only way it is worth succeeding in, is to relate it to life, real life, the big, elemental struggle for existence that is going on, here in London, and everywhere; to wed Art to Reality, lest the jade saunter the streets, a light o' love, seeking to sell her soul."
As they walked past the bookshop, and through the little square, John said:—
"I should like to live in London eight months of the year, and give most of my time to Saint Ruth's. And the rest of the year I should like to live in a village, like Rosemary, Sussex, where I lived as a boy; on the outskirts of a little village, near the green country; and do my writing there, under the blue sky—with God looking over my shoulder, to see the work well done."