Part 11 (1/2)

Allan, lying at the window of the sunny bedroom, and wondering if they had been having springs like this all the time he had lived in the city, heard a scuffle outside the door. His wife's voice inquired breathlessly of Wallis, ”Can Mr. Allan--see me?... Oh, gracious--_don't_, Foxy, you little black gargoyle! Open the door, or--shut it--quick, Wallis!”

But the door, owing to circ.u.mstances over which n.o.body but the black dog had any control, flew violently open here, and Allan had a flying vision of his wife, flushed, laughing, and badly mussed, being railroaded across the room by a prancingly exuberant French bull at the end of a leash.

”He's--he's a cheerful dog,” panted Phyllis, trying to bring Foxy to anchor near Allan, ”and I don't think he knows how to keep still long enough to pose across your feet--he wouldn't become them anyhow--he's a real man-dog, Allan, not an interior decoration.... Oh, Wallis, he has Mr. Allan's slipper! Foxy, you little fraud! Did him want a drink, angel-puppy?”

”Did you get him for me, Phyllis?” asked Allan when the tumult and the shouting had died, and the caracoling Foxy had buried his hideous little black pansy-face in a costly Belleek dish of water.

”Yes,” gasped Phyllis from her favorite seat, the floor; ”but you needn't keep him unless you want to. I can keep him where you'll never see him--can't I, honey-dog-gums? Only I thought he'd be company for you, and don't you think he seems--cheerful?”

Allan threw his picturesque head back on the cus.h.i.+ons, and laughed and laughed.

”Cheerful!” he said. ”Most a.s.suredly! Why--thank you, ever so much, Phyllis. You're an awfully thoughtful girl. I always did like bulls--had one in college, a Nelson. Come here, you little rascal!”

He whistled, and the puppy lifted its muzzle from the water, made a dripping dash to the couch, and scrambled up over Allan as if they had owned each other since birth. Never was a dog less weighed down by the glories of ancestry.

Allan pulled the flopping bat-ears with his most useful hand, and asked with interest, ”Why on earth did they call a French bull Foxy?”

”Yes, sir,” said Wallis. ”I understand, sir, that he was the most active and playful of the litter, and chewed up all his brothers' ears, sir.

And the kennel people thought it was so clever that they called him Foxy.”

”The best-tempered dog in the litter!” cried Phyllis, bursting into helpless laughter from the floor.

”That doesn't mean he's bad-tempered,” explained master and man eagerly together. Phyllis began to see that she had bought a family pet as much for Wallis as for Allan. She left them adoring the dog with that reverent emotion which only very ugly bull-dogs can wake in a man's breast, and flitted out, happy over the success of her new toy for Allan.

”Take him out when he gets too much for Mr. Allan,” she managed to say softly to Wallis as she pa.s.sed him. But, except for a run or so for his health, Wallis and Allan between them kept the dog in the bedroom most of the day. Phyllis, in one of her flying visits, found the little fellow, tired with play, dog-biscuits, and other attentions, snuggled down by his master, his little crumpled black muzzle on the pillow close to Allan's contented, sleeping face. She felt as if she wanted to cry.

The pathetic lack of interests which made the coming of a new little dog such an event!

Before she hung one more picture, before she set up even a book from the boxes which had been her father's, before she arranged one more article of furniture, she telephoned to the village for the regular delivery of four daily papers, and a half-dozen of the most masculine magazines she could think of on the library lists. She had never known of Allan's doing any reading. That he had cared for books before the accident, she knew. At any rate, she was resolved to leave no point uncovered that might, just possibly _might_, help her Allan just a little way to interest in life, which she felt to be the way to recovery. He liked being told stories to, any way.

”Do you think Mr. Allan will feel like coming into the living-room to-day?” she asked Wallis, meeting him in the hall about two o'clock.

”Why, he's dressed, ma'am,” was Wallis's astonis.h.i.+ng reply, ”and him and the pup is having a fine game of play. He's got more use of that hand an' arm, ma'am, than we thought.”

”Do you think he'd care to be wheeled into the living-room about four?”

asked Phyllis.

”For tea, ma'am?” inquired Wallis, beaming. ”I should think so, ma'am.

I'll ask, anyhow.”

Phyllis had not thought of tea--one does not stop for such leisurely amenities in a busy public library--but she saw the beauty of the idea, and saw to it that the tea was there. Lily-Anna was a jewel. She built the fire up to a bright flame, and brought in some daffodils from the garden without a word from her mistress. Phyllis herself saw that the victrola was in readiness, and cleared a s.p.a.ce for the couch near the fire. There was quite a festal feeling.

The talking-machine was also a surprise for Allan. Phyllis thought afterward that she should have saved it for another day, but the temptation to grace the occasion with it was too strong. She and Allan were as excited over it as a couple of children, and the only drawback to Allan's enjoyment was that he obviously wanted to take the records out of her unaccustomed fingers and adjust them himself. He knew how, it appeared, and Phyllis naturally didn't. However, she managed to follow his directions successfully. She had bought recklessly of rag-time discs, and provided a fair amount of opera selections. Allan seemed equally happy over both. After the thing had been playing for three-quarters of an hour, and most of the records were exhausted, Phyllis rang for tea. It was getting a little darker now, and the wood-fire cast fantastic red and black lights and shadows over the room.

It was very intimate and thrilling to Phyllis suddenly, the fire-lit room, with just their two selves there. Allan, on his couch before the fire, looked bright and contented. The adjustable couch-head had been braced to such a position that he was almost sitting up. The bull-dog, who had lately come back from a long walk with the gratified outdoor man, snored regularly on the rug near his master, wakening enough to bat his tail on the floor if he was referred to. The little tea-table was between Allan and Phyllis, crowned with a bunch of apple-blossoms, whose spring-like scent dominated the warm room. Phyllis, in her green gown, her cheeks pink with excitement, was waiting on her lord and master a little silently.

Allan watched her amusedly for awhile--she was as intent as a good child over her tea-ball and her lemon and her little cakes.

”Say something, Phyllis,” he suggested with the touch of mischief she was not yet used to, coming from him.