# Old Valentines/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.
"Why, yes; if you wish—and if you think you ought, you know."
"Well, then,—Phyllis. Your name has become to me the one name worth saying in the world. Ever since I met you for the first time, four months ago, I have been saying it, Phyllis; but I wanted to say it to you. So with your face: I know every mood of you by the lights and shadows of it. I can see it in your absence, almost as well as when I am with you. Your dear, sweet face, Phyllis, and your crown of gold, and your loyal eyes, I know by heart, as well as your name. Dear Phyllis. And I know, too, your quick and beautiful mind; its clear, wise judgment of the true and the false. I know its freedom from selfishness, and all littleness. I know its purity and its steadfastness I know your capable hands, Phyllis, and your eager, pitying heart,—for I have seen them at work day after day, and week after week. I love you, my dearest, and I must tell you so. I think I have loved you longer than I have known you, but I know I have loved you as long. Perhaps you can care for me, and perhaps you can't. Sometimes I have dared to hope you might, but almost always I have known it was too high a hope. For I am only a poor poet, with nothing but faith in myself and love for you to offer. I know you have everything; a beautiful home, and beautiful clothes, and beautiful jewels, probably, though I haven't seen them. Every wish of yours is answered almost before you know it is yours. Life's promise to you is the earth and the fullness thereof; and I offer you only love. But in the end I shall win, Phyllis, I am perfectly certain of that. I shall never, never be rich; possibly never even well-to-do; but I love you, Phyllis; I love you. I want to ask you to wait for me—and be my wife."
With a pretty impulse she took one of his hands and raised it to her lips.
People were passing almost constantly. They were forced to separate, to pass a group of children, playing noisily on the pavement.
"I know I should have spoken to your uncle, first," he said, "but I knew he would say no, unless—unless you asked him, too."
"Ah! but I am so glad you told me to-day," said Phyllis. "I am so glad, so glad! Of all the days in the year I should have chosen to-day. You don't know why, do you? Because to-day is the fourteenth of February,—Saint Valentine's Day."
In a rush of words she told him of her mother's name, and of her mother, and of her valentines.
"You haven't told me you love me yet," said John.
"Can't you hear my heart singing it?" asked Phyllis.
"But I want to hear you say the words," he urged.
"I love you, John," said Phyllis softly.
"And you will promise to marry me—some day?" he asked.
"Yes—some day," she repeated shyly.
"And you are not afraid of the future?"
"Not a bit," said Phyllis. She smiled up at him. "You must take me home, now, and we will tell Uncle Peter."
They rode home on the top of a motor-bus. He tucked her hand into his greatcoat pocket, and held it there. Their mood was exalted. The streets were glorified; the gloomy buildings had become wonderful castles; their fellow-passengers were surrounded with the mystery of romance.
It grew colder rapidly; at the terminus they clambered down stiffly. Twilight had fallen when they reached the great gates of the park. John stopped and laid a detaining hand on Phyllis's arm. They kissed for the first time. Moment of ecstasy!
It is doubtful if they would ever have got past the park gates except for the warning whistle of a hurrying messenger boy, on a bicycle.
"My eye! What a smack!" he yelled, as he shot past. John glared, but Phyllis laughed happily.
He would have lingered as they walked down the long street to the house; but Phyllis had no doubt of the outcome; Sir Peter's frown was without terrors for her, but to John—how formidable. His footsteps lagged as they climbed the wide steps to the door.
"Sir Peter was called out of town by a telegram," said Burbage, in the hall. "He said he would be home by a late train. Thompson's to meet the twelve-thirty."
John clutched at this reprieve.
"I have a class at Saint Ruth's at seven," he said. "I must hurry away, Miss Oglebay." Burbage was helping Phyllis with her furs.
It was arranged he should call early the following morning. They exchanged significant looks, and he was gone. A ring, set with old-fashioned garnets, was left in the hand he had pressed; one of his mother's rings, worn on his watch-chain. Phyllis seized Burbage and danced her up and down the hall and back again, demoralizing the rugs. Then, having picked up her muff and thrown it at her, Phyllis raced up the stairs.