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 passing 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 advertisements
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!"