There was a motor-car in front of the house; its blinding lights illuminated the windows at the other end of the square.
Mrs. Farquharson met them at the door.
"He's upstairs in your room. Sir Peter Oglebay—your uncle," she said, in an excited whisper. "Three times he has called this day; once at eleven, once at two; and now again at six. 'Sit down and wait,' I says to him, the last time; 'they will surely be home for dinner; never have they missed since first they came,' says I; and sit down he did—and there he sits; and doesn't he look noble, sitting there! Genevieve's that nervous she drops everything she touches."
John and Phyllis exchanged looks. He smiled as easily as he could.
"Would you like it if I walked about a bit—or dropped in on old Rowlandson, while you talk with your uncle?" he asked.
"I want you with me, John. I need you," said Phyllis.
"Together's the word," he replied, and they mounted the stairs.
So far as Phyllis was concerned, it was all over in a moment.
Sir Peter rose when they entered. She gave one look at his sad, white face, and drawn mouth.
"Oh, Uncle Peter!" she cried; and was in his arms.
He tried to say the words he had humbly learned.
"I have your pardon to ask, my dear—"
That was as far as he got. She put both hands over his mouth; and withdrew them only to kiss him and whispered—
"It is I who should ask your pardon, Uncle Peter. I have been very, very naughty, And I am very, very sorry."
Now, when Sir Peter heard that childish formula, he seemed to hold in his arms the little girl who had repeated it, many times, under the instructions of Mrs. Burbage. The years slipped away. He held her close; the wounds were healed.
When two men have a disagreeable interview before them, each maneuvers for position. The one who gets the fireplace back of him has an advantage. It isn't impregnable, but the other fellow must force the fighting. The place may be carried by storm; but it takes a spirited action. John executed a flank movement, while his ally engaged the enemy. He got the fireplace; it was a small one, but it was his own.
One wishes John well out of this scene; our hopes are high for him; but he is a queer chap; you never know how to take him, nor what he will say, or do. We can only wish him well; and observe that he carries his chin high.
Sir Peter released Phyllis, and then turned to John.
"I wish to apologize to you, Landless," said Sir Peter, and crossed the room; he offered his hand; John took it and they stood for a moment so, neither speaking.
"I hope you can forgive what I said," Sir Peter concluded.
"I did that before we left your house—that morning," said John. "Don't say anything more about it, sir, please. I should have been as angry as you were—under the same circumstances. I am sure there is need of forbearance on both sides."
Sir Peter dropped John's hand, and strode to the window. In a moment he faced about again.
"I can't have it that way," said he. "It was unspeakable——"
John stopped him.
"I beg you to say no more, sir. I assure you there is not an unkind thought in my heart. Let the dead past bury its dead." John hesitated; then stammered out—"Fine weather we are having, sir."
Sir Peter offered his hand again; their grasp was cordial. Each looked straight into the other's eyes.
"Oh, dear," said Phyllis, pushing the big armchair nearer the fire. "Isn't everything lovely!"
She coaxed her uncle into the chair with a pretty gesture, and seated herself in a smaller one, with a happy little sigh.
There was a tap at the door.
John opened to Mrs. Farquharson; she curtseyed.
"You were wishful to see me, my d——ma'am?" she asked.
Phyllis laughed gayly. "You are wonderful, Farquharson," she said. "I have been thinking for five minutes how nice it would be if my uncle dined with us; if it were quite convenient for you."
"As ever could be," said Mrs. Farquharson. "I sent Genevieve for another chicken as soon as ever he was in this room. You never saw a plumper."
"Isn't she wonderful?" Phyllis turned to her uncle. "Uncle Peter, you must be formally presented to my dear Farquharson, my old nurse. Farquharson—Sir Peter Oglebay, my uncle."
Mrs. Farquharson curtseyed again; Sir Peter rose and bowed gravely.
"A great many years ago I heard how wonderful you were, Farquharson," he said, "from a little girl, who is now grown,—and married,—but is of the same opinion still. It was a piece of good fortune, indeed that brought these children of mine to your house."
"Thank you, sir. Thank you, Sir Peter," replied Mrs. Farquharson, her gray eyes very large. "I should have made your acquaintance years ago if that Mrs.—Well, least said, soonest mended. But sorry I am that never did those advertisements meet my eye if ever they were printed. The expense of them, too, sir, in every paper in London, every day for three months. Not that you minded that!" Mrs. Farquharson had told the story to the first-floor front; the first-floor front who had been in stocks—and seen better days; it had not lost in the telling.
"If you are certain—" said Sir Peter to Mrs. Farquharson. "Very well, I shall be glad to dine."
On the way to the lower regions, Mrs. Farquharson dropped in on the first floor.
"Sir Peter Oglebay's dining with us tonight," she said. "I was frightened of him at first, but, pooh! he's as easy as an old shoe."
John still held the fireplace; he knew the worst was yet to come.
"There are great preparations at home, my dear," said Sir Peter to Phyllis. "Your little study-room has been polished till it shines, and the two adjoining rooms have been rearranged three times since this morning." He looked at John. "Burbage has been told that I hope to have both of you home again. Her efforts are Herculean to anticipate every wish Phyllis may have."
"I hope you won't be hurt, sir," said John, "but I fear that is out of the question I ask you to believe there isn't an iota of unfriendliness in it, but—you see, sir, Phyllis and I must live within our own income; and independence is as necessary to me as air. I am sorry if you are disappointed."
"I appreciate your point of view perfectly," said Sir Peter. "I am coming to that. But first I ask you to sympathize with mine, a little. My house is so large that I am lost in it, unless there are others there. And as one grows older there are so few who care to come. The old friends have new interests; children about them; and the wider circle that means. The house has never seemed so large and so lonely as during the past month. For many years my brother Robert, Phyllis's father, lived with me there. It will be hard for you to believe I was ever gay, but it was really a gay house then. His friends were a light-hearted lot, and they were as welcome there as my own; mine were few by comparison. We talked pictures most of the time; his friends were painters. What dreams for the future I heard from them! The best of them loved Robert—and believed in him. No one could help loving him. I remember a remark Thorburg, the sculptor, made one night, at a dinner in his honor. Thorburg had just done some extraordinary thing—I have forgotten what; his 'Grief,' perhaps. 'Oglebay,' said he to Robert, 'there isn't a man in this room who doesn't envy you. We all have talent; but yours touches the highest mark. I will not say it is genius, but it is near it; we shall bare our heads before one of your pictures, some day.' Little Singleton spoke up then. 'The great god Thor hath said it, Oglebay, but we all think it.' They were all there that night; there must have been twenty of us at the table. I can see their faces now, clearly, and hear little Singleton's piping voice. Singleton, Knowles, and Leonard—the inseparable trio, they called them."
Sir Peter paused.
"As I said, the house was gay then. The Oglebay Prize was the result of just such a dinner. Robert suggested it. Thorburg was one of the trustees until he died; it has helped many a lad through his days in the Latin Quarter. I have had some fine letters from those lads. One or two of them have turned out really good work; good enough to have satisfied Robert that the prize was worth while. Yes,—the Oglebay Prize is one of the few things I look back upon with unalloyed pleasure; my bridge in Natal is another."
Phyllis had moved her chair nearer to her uncle; while he spoke of her father, he held her hand, on the arm of his chair. Now she spoke quickly, with that pretty catch in her breath.
"Oh, Uncle Peter. Tell John about the Natal bridge. It is more interesting and more exciting than the best novel you ever read."
"I should like to hear the story, sir," said John; it was pleasant to see the sincerity of his interest.
"I will tell it to you some day, John," replied Sir Peter. He smiled. "You will probably hear it a great many times. We all have our failings; that story is mine. My cronies at the club tell me I lead up to it so skillfully they cannot always stop me in time."
"Do tell it, Uncle Peter," said Phyllis.
Sir Peter thought for a moment.
"Some time I will, my dear," he said. "But not now. My mind is on something else." He addressed his remarks to John again. "We were talking about the days when there was overflowing life in my old house."
John stood with his back to the fire; his face was attentive, serious, considering; but every line in it expressed determination.
"Those days ended when Robert married," Sir Peter continued. "I quarreled with him and we parted. I never saw him again. And for ten years my house was a mausoleum, haunted by memories; a torture-house of vain regrets and useless longings."
His voice broke; he rose suddenly and walked to the window again. They were silent until he returned to his chair. Phyllis seated herself on the broad arm of it, and laid a caressing hand on his shoulder. He took the hand and held it.
"Then came the news from the North—that my little girl was motherless—and fatherless; and then came my little girl herself. She was a very little girl then; a sad and lonely little girl; but"—Sir Peter cleared his throat, and spoke huskily and slowly—"but she brought comfort to me. There was something in life for me again—besides my work. My work I always had. I thanked God for that. I need not tell you, John, how this little girl crept into my heart, nor how her small fingers smoothed away the wrinkles from my gloomy old face." Sir Peter looked up at her and pressed the hand he held. "And so the years rolled on—and she grew, and grew, and grew, until she became a young woman. A—a passably good-looking young woman—eh, John? Wouldn't you say so—passably good-looking?"
John smiled.
"I might say so to you, sir—privately," he admitted.
"And when she was certain of her conquest of me," continued Sir Peter, "she looked about, as it were, for other worlds to conquer. And along came a—er—h'm—along came a young prince. Precisely so—along came a young prince upon whom the fairies had bestowed marvelous gifts." Sir Peter fairly chuckled as he completed this unusual imaginative flight. "Marvelous gifts," he repeated. "Eh, Phyllis? Would you say he had marvelous gifts?"
"If we were quite alone, Uncle Peter, I might say so," confessed Phyllis.
"And this passably good-looking young woman and this prince of the marvelous gifts proceeded to fall in love with each other in the most natural way in the world," Sir Peter went on. "Precisely so. In the most natural way in the world; as any one but a grumpy old fellow would have foreseen they would. And having fallen in love with each other, what in the world was there for them to do but to be married at once—eh? And yet, will you believe it?—there was a grumpy old fellow who wished to prevent it. Now, what could you say to an old fellow as grumpy as that?" Sir Peter adjusted his eyeglass and looked first at John, and then at Phyllis, quizzically.
"I should say no one could blame him," said John promptly.
"I shouldn't say anything. I should just hug him," said Phyllis, and carried out the threat with spirit.
"And now we come to the point of this long story," resumed Sir Peter, readjusting his eyeglass, which had fallen during Phyllis's demonstration, "These two having married have no other duty before them than to—er—eh? Of course. Precisely! No other duty than to live happily ever afterward—eh? As they always do in stories. But the question is—where? Precisely! Where shall they live happily ever afterward? Shall they live all by themselves? Or shall they share their happiness—a little of it—with the grumpy old fellow aforesaid? He does not like to base his plea to them on his need of the little girl he has loved so many years; nor on his need of the marvelous gifts of the young prince, though they are especially needed just at this time, as I shall tell you. Now, John," said Sir Peter, in his most engaging way, "advise me about this. What ground should he base his petition upon in order to win his case? Because he is more anxious to win this case than he was to finish the Natal bridge,—and he was terribly anxious about that,—as you will hear, one of these days."
John glanced toward Phyllis; she instantly turned her head, and looked resolutely in the opposite direction. She felt that the answer to Sir Peter's question belonged to John. Sir Peter saw John waver; he caught his glance at Phyllis; and, like a good campaigner, followed up the attack.
"I need your assistance just now, John, very badly," said Sir Peter. "For years my friends in the British Engineering Society have been urging me to prepare and publish my recollections. Some of them went to Allan Robertson's Sons, the publishers, about it and they have given me no peace since I was weak enough to make a promise that they should have the book. 'Recollections of an Engineer, 1874-1910,' it is to be called. Now,—if you would help me I could do it easily. And we would have some good times over it, I hope."
John glanced at Phyllis again; but she would not look at him. It was very hard not to at the time; but Phyllis was so glad afterward that she didn't.
Sir Peter got up from his chair, and stood in front of John, both hands on his shoulders.
"Dear lad," he said. "In a few years you and Phyllis will have all that is mine in the world. You can't prevent that—with all your pride—for which I honor you. In a few years it will all be yours. For those few years will you not share it with me—and let them be peaceful and happy years?"
John turned his face away.
"Very well, sir," he said. "We will go to your home—to-morrow. That is—if Phyllis says so, too."
Phyllis flashed him a radiant look.
"But you must let me contribute my little pittance to the general fund," added John. "It isn't much—but it is all I have."
"With all my heart!" said Sir Peter.
The white tablecloth was laid; the coffee percolator hummed its contented little song. The broiled chicken was delicious; and the browned potatoes. There was a grape jelly; Sir Peter was helped twice to this.
"Do you make it yourself?" he asked Mrs. Farquharson.
"Whoever else?" she answered.
"But you should taste her marmalade at breakfast!" exclaimed John.
"I like a good marmalade; we have the 'Dundee'; which is yours?" asked Sir Peter. He fell into their informal ways so easily.
"We make our own," said Mrs. Farquharson proudly.
"Upon my word," said Sir Peter, as he stirred his coffee with a tiny spoon, and accepted a match for his cigar—"upon my word, I haven't eaten such a dinner in years. So—er—companionable—you know."
At eleven, when they went with him to the door, Mrs. Farquharson met them in the hall.
"Good-night, Farquharson," said Sir Peter.
"Good-night, sir," said Mrs. Farquharson, and handed him a parcel. "Would you please to slip these glasses into your greatcoat pocket: two of the jelly, and two of the marmalade. Here are the recipes, written on this paper; Genevieve has copied them out very plain and large. That Mrs. Burbage can read them—with her spectacles."