IV
Sir Peter was gruff at the breakfast table. The hurriedly writtentelegram, or his hasty reading of it, had led him a wild-goose chase. Tofind your host concealing surprise as he shakes hands, and to learn, atthe end of ten minutes of feverish cordiality, that you were invited todine the following night, is never comfortable, even at the home of anold friend. When two hours on a train each way are involved, and loss ofone's sleep as well----! A bleak east wind, this morning, too, and SirPeter was Jarndyced as to that quarter.
Worst of all, Phyllis looked like her mother, with her hair over herears, like that; the likeness always irritated Sir Peter, but thismorning it was particularly striking.
He accepted her morning endearments graciously, but Phyllis was glad thetoast wasn't cold. She recognized unpropitious portents.
John was shown into the library at ten, sharp; his chin had come to hisrescue. He gave Phyllis a bright look, and led up to the business inhand promptly.
Sir Peter, savoring his cigar, "The Times" spread over his knees,invited the young man to be seated; the young man preferred to stand,and did, very straight, his back to the fireplace. His eyes were largeand serious his color high; his hands were behind him and the nervousfingers couldn't be seen. Phyllis viewed her champion with approvingeyes, and sat on the edge of her chair.
"I am afraid my errand won't be an agreeable one to you, sir," Johnbegan. "I am sure it wouldn't be to me if--if I were you. But I musttell you my story from the beginning, if you are willing. You knew myfather and something of my family. The people of his parish weretremendously fond of him. He gave them all of himself. He died poor, ofcourse, and left me a good name and two hundred pounds a year. Thecountryside came to his funeral. The faces of the men were streaked withtears, as they stood by his grave, and women wept openly. I had lettersof sympathy from every county in England, from Canada, and from far-awayIndia. His spirit was as gentle as a child's; but he welded men andwomen to him as with bonds of steel. Yet he had never tried a cause, norbuilt a bridge, nor saved a life as a physician, nor laid one down as asoldier. He hasn't even left a sermon in print, for he never wrote one."
John hesitated. Sir Peter rustled "The Times" uneasily. Phyllis satperfectly still, waiting.
"My father taught me more than I learned at Magdalene, and he gave me myideals. Perhaps they are unusual, but I believe they are true. They maybe told in a few words,--to face life fearlessly, live it cleanly andfully, and use it to what end one's conscience and one's talents directwithout too much regard for the careless opinion of the world. I haven'tanything behind me that I am ashamed of. I am far from being ashamed ofmy profession though I admit it has seemed to require defense ratheroften since I came to London. My father encouraged me to adopt it when Isuggested the idea to him. I will tell you what he said to me. It wasthis: 'All work is fine. Of course, I think labor in the Church of Godis the finest. But every profession offers opportunities for usefulservice; and trade is honorable to honorable men. But, John,' said he,'one imperishable poem is worth more to mankind than all the gold andsilver stored in the stronghold of the Bank of England. You may neverwrite one, but a lifetime devoted to trying will not be wasted.' Thatwas what my father said, sir."
"That would be like him as I recall him," said Sir Peter shortly. He hadno inkling yet of John's errand. He was disposed to be generous to thisquixotic young man for his father's sake.
Phyllis wondered how any one could look at John or hear him speak, andnot love him; but she had momentary pangs of foreboding; a vaguepresentiment of impending unhappiness.
"I settled his few affairs,--he did not owe a penny,--and I came toLondon. There had been some correspondence between Dr. Thorpe and myfather, and I called at Saint Ruth's. I thought I saw a chance oftouching a larger life and of doing a little good; I have given some ofmy afternoons and all of my evenings there ever since. Dr. Thorpe is abrick, as you know, sir; he and his wife have been very kind to me. Iwas rather lonely at first, and--all that. My mornings I devote to myprofession. I think I have made some progress, if only in finding thewrong ways of putting words together." John smiled. "There are a greatmany wrong ways and I am finding them all, one by one."
Sir Peter concealed his impatience; the dull ache in Phyllis's heartcontinued, she knew not why.
"I met Miss Oglebay at Saint Ruth's some months ago. I think I must tellyou, sir, that from the very first moment I loved her."
Sir Peter half rose from his chair, in his sudden astonishment.
"The devil you say!" he gasped. "Upon my word, this is effrontery. Youamaze me, Landless. You must have lost your senses. My niece"--he turnedto Phyllis. Something he saw in her face diverted the torrent "HasLandless spoken of this to you?" he asked grimly.
"Yes, Uncle Peter. He told me yesterday that he--he cared for me, and weboth hurried home to tell you, but you were----"
Sir Peter was out of his chair, and on his feet, now.
"You spoke to my niece before you came to me, Landless; knowing that Ihad met you--not more than three times, at most; that you had been in myhouse but once?" His voice was raised, his scowl threatening.
"I am sorry to have seen so little of you, sir," said John. "But I haveseen a great deal of Phyllis."
"Where, sir?" demanded Sir Peter.
"At Saint Ruth's, and in its neighborhood," John answered evenly. "Wehave worked there together."
"How long has this been going on?" Sir Peter had regained control ofhimself, but his fine face was distorted. Phyllis's hands were clenchedtightly in her lap. She was very pale.
"If you mean how long have we been meeting each other there, and goingabout in the neighborhood together----"
"I think my meaning is clear, sir."
"About four months, then. It seems a short time, but we have seen eachother almost every day."
"Landless, you are a sneak," said Sir Peter quietly. "You are a damnedsneak."
John's face flamed; he started as if struck by a whip.
"Oh, no! Uncle Peter!" cried Phyllis. "Oh, no, no! Uncle Peter."
"Leave the house, Landless."
"But Mr. Landless is my guest!" She was as pale as death, now, andbreathing hurriedly; her eyes were unnaturally large, and there was astricken look in them.
"You heard what I said, Landless." The voice was unyielding.
John moved toward the door, chin up and shoulders squared. Phyllisintercepted him swiftly, and put both hands appealingly on his arm.
"Wait a moment, John. Oh, wait a moment for my sake, John," she pleaded.
"I can't," said John. "You know that I can't."
"Ah, but you must, John, for my sake; for my sake."
She linked her hands closely about his arm and turned to her uncle.John, facing the door, moved slowly toward it, trying gently todisengage her hands, and forcing her to walk a step or two backward asshe spoke.
"I must ask you to apologize to Mr. Landless, Uncle Peter," she saidearnestly. "Whatever fault there has been, if there has been any, ismine. I have often spoken to you of meeting Mr.--of meeting John atSaint Ruth's. But I see now you didn't realize how often I went there,nor that I was with him so many of the times. I should have told you,Uncle Peter; the fault was mine, not John's. I am sorry, Uncle Peter,and I ask you to forgive me. But you must apologize to John." She lookedat the stern face entreatingly; the doorway was very near.
"Oh, John," she implored, "I beg you to wait a moment; just a tinysecond. Uncle Peter will tell you he didn't understand."
John stopped, and stood facing the doorway his back turned to Sir Peter.
They waited in silence; the slow ticking of the tall clock could beheard.
"I love him dearly, Uncle Peter," whispered Phyllis.
Ah! Valentine Germain; pretty, dead Valentine Germain; your daughter iswonderfully like you now.
"I ask you to wait, Landless," said Sir Peter.
His next words were calmly spoken; deliberate passionless; the moreawful for that.
"I have known
one reckless marriage, Landless, and one is enough for alifetime. There is a taint in all of this of which you know nothing.This unhappy child's father was a fool. Her mother was a shallow,soulless, shameless creature--and worse. Her----"
"It is a lie!" cried Phyllis. "A cruel, cruel lie! God pity you, UnclePeter, and forgive you. I am sorry for you; I am sorry for you. You havenursed those bitter, black thoughts in your heart for so many years thatthey have poisoned your life. But you have soiled my mother's memory forthe last time in my presence. Never, never again!" A great sob chokedher. "I am going to leave you, Uncle Peter. I am grateful to you formany years of generous, loving kindness. Indeed, I do not forget them;indeed, I am grateful. But I cannot stay here any longer. I should bemiserable--wretched if I stayed. I cannot breathe in this room--in thishouse." She rocked her body as if in pain. She would have said more,but----
"Go, then!" said Sir Peter, through set teeth.
Phyllis ran from the room and out of the house, bareheaded; Johnsnatched his hat and stick in the hall and overtook her as she fledthrough the iron grille. They ran together a short distance. ThenPhyllis slackened the pace to a rapid walk. She was breathless, herhands pressed to her heart; a maid distraught. Pitiful, inarticulatelittle cries escaped her from time to time. John walked beside her,silently. They passed through the gates of the park, and she walked moreslowly. Slowly, and still more slowly they wandered, aimlessly, underthe leafless trees. She turned to him at last, her lips blue with thecold.
"You must take care of me now, John. I have no one else," she saidquietly.