Was it Dr. Johnson who remarked that one great charm of London is that you may walk in a crowded street, eating a twopenny bun, without attracting a second glance? Or was it Benjamin Franklin? Not that it matters.
On a wintry morning, in a public conveyance a hatless and coatless young woman of unusual beauty, and a very self-conscious young man, sitting beside her, were not annoyed by more than a curious stare or two.
John had suggested a cab.
"We must economize from the very beginning," said Phyllis, with a wan smile.
She blushed deliciously when John handed her money, and she hurried into a shop. Such a simple, brown hat she found, a little shopworn; the long, warm coat she bought matched perfectly. Standing at the street corner, waiting for her, John counted the money in his pockets; enough for luncheon, fares, and even contingencies, he was glad to find. But he thought with satisfaction of the full quarter's income at his lodgings. When she rejoined him, John looked her over critically.
"I suppose that is a terribly cheap coat," he said, trying to remember other coats he had seen on her pretty figure.
"It is a lovely coat. I like it very much," replied Phyllis, stroking the flaps of the pockets.
"Well, it really is becoming," John assured her. "So is the hat."
"I think so, too," said Phyllis. "And I am particular about hats."
"I would be willing to wager five shillings you never had such an inexpensive one before," said John. Phyllis didn't answer that; and John added, "Your uncle will send your pretty clothes to—to—wherever you go," he ended lamely.
Phyllis held up two slender fingers.
"Two things I didn't like in one sentence" she admonished him. "First, Uncle Peter will send me nothing. Oh, John, I couldn't, couldn't take anything from him now. I really could not." She stopped suddenly "I must have my valentines, though. They were my mother's. They will go with me wherever—That reminds me of the second thing you said I didn't like. You should not have said—'Wherever you go,' but 'Wherever we go'!"
She smiled at him bravely.
"Well, we will go to lunch now," said John, smiling, too, and making the most of the pronoun. "It is early, but we can sit and talk it all over."
"Where?" she asked, almost gayly. Her heart was bruised, but she meant to forget all that, and the thought of a lunch with John was a very good place to begin.
John took his bearings as to restaurants.
"If you could walk a short distance, there is Mildmay's," he suggested.
"I can walk miles," she answered; but she thought ruefully of her thin soles.
A white table between them, a waitress with rolls, and something hot in prospect; John thought the time had come.
"But, seriously, my darling, what shall we do? What is the best for you? Shall I take you to the Nevilles'?"
Phyllis looked blank.
"To be sent home in their car, bound hand and foot, and lectured besides!" she remonstrated.
"Well, Mrs. Thorpe could certainly put you up for the night. Odd I didn't think of her first."
"John, dear," began Phyllis, and then blushed, for the word had popped out of itself. However, after a moment she went on courageously—"Did you hear me say 'we,' a little while ago? We are going together wherever we go." She hesitated. "Don't you want me, John?" A swift look at his face, and hers glowed.
"My dearest, dearest girl." John's voice expressed his earnest sincerity. "I won't pretend to misunderstand your meaning, and I do so long to believe it possible that my head swims. But—"
"I perfectly hate 'buts,'" she interrupted She put her elbows on the table, and flashed a smile at him, through her arched fingers.
"But, dearest, you must consider this seriously I want you to think for a moment. Need I tell you I love you more than life! Only yesterday I scarcely dared hope that you might be willing to wait years for me to—to earn enough with my pen to ask you to share my lot. To-day—the doors of Paradise are opened wide. Ah! my dear, my dear, I am eager to enter, but I fear for you. I should be taking advantage of your helplessness——"
"Listen, John," said Phyllis. "I am not the least bit helpless. There are dozens of houses to which I can go and dozens of friends who would be glad to have me come to them. But at every open door there is also a finger pointing inevitably back to Uncle Peter's house. And there I shall never, never go. So far as your lot is concerned—it is mine. For better or for worse John, dear. But I trust you, and believe in you, and think perhaps there is a high destiny for you. I want to share in that, too, if you will let me, please. And I can't do so fully unless we go, hand in hand, all the way, together. I am not dismayed by the thought of doing without a great many unnecessary things. And the really vital things I hope to have more of than ever—with you. And so, John, if you don't mind, please, we will eat our lunch like sensible young people, and afterward—and afterward—Now, John, I simply cannot say that. You must say that, you know. I haven't left much of it for you to say, but that little I insist upon your saying for yourself."
Ah! Valentine Germain! pretty, dead Valentine Germain! your daughter is wonderfully like you now.
John looked steadily into her trustful eyes; a long, long look.
"Then I ask you to marry me this afternoon my dearest," he said solemnly. "And—oh! Phyllis, I pray God you may never reproach me."
"I never shall, John," she answered. "For I honestly believe I am to be the happiest and the proudest girl in England."
"Wich of you gets the chocolate, and wich the tea?" asked the waitress.
They were married before three; it was amazing how short, how simple, so marvelous an event could be. John spent ten minutes at the telephone. A quarter of an hour was passed in the coldly official precincts of Doctors' Commons. In the Faculty Office, through an open doorway, Phyllis caught glimpses of the formalities incident to securing a license. A clerk filled up a printed form; John made affidavit to the clerk's accuracy of transcription; a stamp was affixed; a document was blotted, examined; the dotting of an i was attended to, and the dot blotted; a bank-note changed hands. The license in his pocket, John rejoined her.
"We must hurry now, darling," said he.
"Oh, dear!" said Phyllis. "I am glad to hurry away from here. That clerk's face was so unsympathetic."
Half an hour after they entered the dark, quiet church, the clergyman, with a cold in his head, had pronounced them "bad ad wife."
They were on top of a motor-bus, jolting cityward, and John was gayly addressing her as Mrs. Landless, before Phyllis realized that it was really all over—that the irrevocable step was taken—that they were married. The whirl of her thoughts then!
At the terminus, John bought a newspaper and scanned its advertisements. They started on their search for lodgings. His room was in Whitechapel, near Saint Ruth's.
"It is up under the roof, and looks over the week's washing of the submerged tenth; it won't do at all!" he had declared.
The idea of a hotel impressed Phyllis unpleasantly.
"Well, then," said John, "we must look for a new tree in which to build our nest."
How many dissonant bells jangled to their touch; how many dreary hallways they entered and stood waiting in; how many steep staircases they climbed; how many rooms they peeped into—one look enough; how many others they viewed at greater length, but with no more satisfaction in the end; a few, John thought, had possibilities, but Phyllis could not bear the sight of them!
The curious questions they were asked; as though the lodgers instead of the lodgings were undergoing inspection. Most of the lodging-house keepers asked John where he was employed; some of them wanted to know if he could give references.
"How cime you to leave your last plice?" was one shrill question.
In utter weariness Phyllis at last consented to John's suggestion; he would make a preliminary survey and she should be called into counsel only in promising cases. They were few enough. She walked up and down monotonous streets while John was indoors; to be told, time after time, that was not the place they sought.
Even John might have been discouraged; on the contrary, that young man's chin rose to his difficulties. But Phyllis's eyes grew more and more troubled when darkness fell, and the lights in windows reminded them that they were still homeless.
Seeking new bills, "To Let," they found themselves in a small square, surrounded by houses; a fine neighborhood in its day.
"Oh dear, John, I fear I can walk no farther," said Phyllis. "We must go to a hotel after all, though I detest the idea. My shoes are worn through."
He led her to a bench in the little square, and kneeling before her took off one shoe, and then the other, and carefully fitted each with a new sole, made from a page of "The Daily Chronicle."
"If I fail as a poet I shall be a cobbler," he said to her brightly.
He sat down beside her. "My dearest, I am so sorry. I have blundered through this afternoon, horribly. Perhaps I should have taken you to my own room at once, poor as it is. Perhaps I should have sought advice from Mrs. Thorpe. Perhaps I should have insisted on a hotel, for a few days, until we could look about. At least, we might have had a cab. I have been most inconsiderate. I am so strong in the new hope and strength you have given me that I haven't thought enough for you. My poor, tired Phyllis."
He held her hands; his face contrite. She was too dispirited for words, but she patted his hand softly.
As they sat there, John saw a lighted shop-window, not fifty yards distant.
"Sit here and rest, darling, while I run over there and inquire for any lodgings in this vicinity. If there are none, I will call a cab and we will go to a hotel. Think of the beautiful dinner we shall have. Our wedding dinner, dearest! I warn you I mean to be extravagant." He leaned over her and kissed her, and then ran across the street.
Then she allowed herself to cry for the first time. Poor, sad, tired little bride, whose wedding day had been so different from all her girlish dreams of it. She cried quietly, on the bench, alone, in the darkness. She was cold and tired and lonely.
John came back on the run, from the opposite direction.
"I inquired at the bookseller's shop," said he. "He directed me to the house in which he lodges himself. He recommended it so highly I thought I would leave you alone for a few minutes longer and see the rooms. Phyllis, I really believe I have found what we want. There are three rooms, though one is very small. There is the coziest little sitting-room, with a fireplace and an easy-chair. Adjoining it is a smaller room. But the bedroom is large, and has two windows. The place is spotlessly clean. And the woman who lets the rooms is a wholesome, good-hearted soul; I am sure you will like her. The terms are a little—well, just a little higher; but the woman says, of course, that is to be expected—with the view of the square from our windows."
John looked at Phyllis doubtfully. "Do you think, dearest, that you could see these for yourself? It isn't far, and I will not ask you to look at another place if you don't like this one."
She drew new courage from his hopefulness They walked the length of the little square.
John rang. The door opened, and a motherly looking woman stood aside to let them enter. Phyllis stood directly below a flaring gas-jet, as she turned to wait for their conductress.
The woman screamed and her hands went to her heart.
"Valentine Oglebay!" she exclaimed.
"That was my mother's name," said Phyllis. She was too tired to be surprised, even. The woman took a step forward.
"Your mother! Then you must be little Phyllis. You don't remember—"
"Farquharson!" cried Phyllis. "Farquharson! Oh! dear, dear Farquharson."
They were crying in each other's arms, repeating names endearingly, incredulously.