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| author | Roger Frank <rfrank@pglaf.org> | 2025-10-15 04:35:38 -0700 |
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| committer | Roger Frank <rfrank@pglaf.org> | 2025-10-15 04:35:38 -0700 |
| commit | faf99bd3325a43206bdf1394588b2b4e10a91601 (patch) | |
| tree | bb30ba848e1b93d9e56ed16782fb8c2cca3f263b /10944-h | |
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diff --git a/10944-h/10944-h.htm b/10944-h/10944-h.htm new file mode 100644 index 0000000..1fee53e --- /dev/null +++ b/10944-h/10944-h.htm @@ -0,0 +1,10249 @@ +<?xml version="1.0" encoding="UTF-8"?> + +<!DOCTYPE html + PUBLIC "-//W3C//DTD XHTML 1.0 Strict//EN" + "http://www.w3.org/TR/xhtml1/DTD/xhtml1-strict.dtd" > + +<html xmlns="http://www.w3.org/1999/xhtml" lang="en"> + <head> + <title>From a Bench in Our Square, by Samuel Hopkins Adams</title> + <meta content="pg2html (binary v0.17)" /> + <style type="text/css" xml:space="preserve"> + body { margin:5%; background:#faebd0; text-align:justify} + P { text-indent: 1em; margin-top: .75em; margin-bottom: .75em; } + H1,H2,H3,H4,H5,H6 { text-align: center; margin-left: 15%; margin-right: 15%; } + hr { width: 50%; text-align: center;} + .foot { margin-left: 5%; margin-right: 5%; text-align: justify; font-size: 80%; font-style: italic;} + blockquote {font-size: 97%; font-style: italic; margin-left: 10%; margin-right: 10%;} + .mynote {background-color: #DDE; color: #000; padding: .5em; margin-left: 10%; margin-right: 10%; font-family: sans-serif; font-size: 95%;} + .toc { margin-left: 10%; margin-bottom: .75em;} + .toc2 { margin-left: 20%;} + .xx-small {font-size: 60%;} + .x-small {font-size: 75%;} + .small {font-size: 85%;} + .large {font-size: 115%;} + .x-large {font-size: 130%;} + .indent5 { margin-left: 5%;} + .indent10 { margin-left: 10%;} + .indent15 { margin-left: 15%;} + .indent20 { margin-left: 20%;} + .indent25 { margin-left: 25%;} + .indent30 { margin-left: 30%;} + .indent35 { margin-left: 35%;} + .indent40 { margin-left: 40%;} + div.fig { display:block; margin:0 auto; text-align:center; } + div.middle { margin-left: 20%; margin-right: 20%; text-align: justify; } + .figleft {float: left; margin-left: 0%; margin-right: 1%;} + .figright {float: right; margin-right: 0%; margin-left: 1%;} + .pagenum {position: absolute; right: 1%; font-size: 0.6em; + font-variant: normal; font-style: normal; + text-align: right; background-color: #FFFACD; + border: 1px solid; padding: 0.3em;text-indent: 0em;} + .side { float: left; font-size: 75%; width: 15%; padding-left: 0.8em; + border-left: dashed thin; text-align: left; + text-indent: 0; font-weight: bold; font-style: italic; + font-weight: bold; color: black; background: #eeeeee; border: solid 1px;} + .head { float: left; font-size: 90%; width: 98%; padding-left: 0.8em; + border-left: dashed thin; text-align: center; + text-indent: 0; font-weight: bold; font-style: italic; + font-weight: bold; color: black; background: #eeeeee; border: solid 1px;} + p.pfirst, p.noindent {text-indent: 0} + span.dropcap { float: left; margin: 0 0.1em 0 0; line-height: 0.8 } + pre { font-style: italic; font-size: 90%; margin-left: 10%;} +</style> + </head> + <body> +<div>*** START OF THE PROJECT GUTENBERG EBOOK 10944 ***</div> + + <div style="height: 8em;"> + <br /><br /><br /><br /><br /><br /><br /><br /> + </div> + <h1> + FROM A BENCH IN OUR SQUARE + </h1> + <h2> + By Samuel Hopkins Adams + </h2> + <h3> + 1922 + </h3> + <p> + <br /><br /> + </p> + <hr /> + <p> + <br /><br /> + </p> + <p> + <b>CONTENTS</b> + </p> + <p class="toc"> + <a href="#link2H_4_0002"> <b>FROM A BENCH IN OUR SQUARE</b> </a> + </p> + <p class="toc"> + <a href="#link2H_4_0003"> A PATRONESS OF ART </a> + </p> + <p class="toc"> + <a href="#link2H_4_0004"> THE HOUSE OF SILVERY VOICES </a> + </p> + <p class="toc"> + <a href="#link2H_4_0005"> HOME-SEEKERS’ GOAL </a> + </p> + <p class="toc"> + <a href="#link2H_4_0006"> THE GUARDIAN OF GOD’S ACRE </a> + </p> + <p class="toc"> + <a href="#link2H_4_0007"> FOR MAYME, READ MARY </a> + </p> + <p class="toc"> + <a href="#link2H_4_0008"> BARBRAN </a> + </p> + <p class="toc"> + <a href="#link2H_4_0009"> PLOOIE OF OUR SQUARE </a> + </p> + <p class="toc"> + <a href="#link2H_4_0010"> TRIUMPH </a> + </p> + <p> + <br /><br /> + </p> + <hr /> + <p> + <a name="link2H_4_0002" id="link2H_4_0002"> </a> + </p> + <div style="height: 4em;"> + <br /><br /><br /><br /> + </div> + <h1> + FROM A BENCH IN OUR SQUARE + </h1> + <p> + <br /><br /> + </p> + <hr /> + <p> + <a name="link2H_4_0003" id="link2H_4_0003"> </a> + </p> + <div style="height: 4em;"> + <br /><br /><br /><br /> + </div> + <h2> + A PATRONESS OF ART + </h2> + <h3> + I + </h3> + <p> + Peter (flourish-in-red) Quick (flourish-in-green) Banta (period-in-blue) + is the style whereby he is known to Our Square. + </p> + <p> + Summertimes he is a prop and ornament of Coney, that isle of the blest, + whose sands he models into gracious forms and noble sentiments, in + anticipation of the casual dime or the munificent quarter, wherewith, if + you have low, Philistine tastes or a kind heart, you have perhaps + aforetime rewarded him. In the off-season the thwarted passion of color + possesses him; and upon the flagstones before Thornsen’s Élite + Restaurant, which constitutes his canvas, he will limn you a full-rigged + ship in two colors, a portrait of the heavyweight champion in three, or, + if financially encouraged, the Statue of Liberty in four. These be, + however, concessions to popular taste. His own predilection is for chaste + floral designs of a symbolic character borne out and expounded by + appropriate legends. Peter Quick Banta is a devotee of his art. + </p> + <p> + Giving full run to his loftier aspirations, he was engaged, one April day, + upon a carefully represented lilac with a butterfly about to light on it, + when he became cognizant of a ragged rogue of an urchin regarding him with + a grin. Peter Quick Banta misinterpreted this sign of interest. + </p> + <p> + “What d’ye think of <i>that</i>?” he said triumphantly, + as he sketched in a set of side-whiskers (presumably intended for + antennae) upon the butterfly. + </p> + <p> + “Rotten,” was the prompt response. + </p> + <p> + “<i>What</i>!” said the astounded artist, rising from his + knees. + </p> + <p> + “Punk.” + </p> + <p> + Peter Quick Banta applied the higher criticism to the urchin’s + nearest ear. It was now that connoisseur’s turn to be affronted. + Picking himself out of the gutter, he placed his thumb to his nose, and + wiggled his finger in active and reprehensible symbolism, whilst enlarging + upon his original critique, in a series of shrill roars: + </p> + <p> + “Rotten! Punk! No good! Swash! Flubdub! Sacré tas de—de—piffle!” + Already his vocabulary was rich and plenteous, though, in those days, + tainted by his French origin. + </p> + <p> + He then, I regret to say, spat upon the purple whiskers of the butterfly + and took refuge in flight. The long stride of Peter Quick Banta soon + overtook him. Silently struggling he was haled back to the profaned temple + of Art. + </p> + <p> + “Now, young feller,” said Peter Quick Banta. “Maybe you + think you could do it better.” The world-old retort of the creative + artist to his critic! + </p> + <p> + “Any fool could,” retorted the boy, which, in various forms, + is almost as time-honored as the challenge. + </p> + <p> + Suspecting that only tactful intervention would forestall possible murder, + I sauntered over from my bench. But the decorator of sidewalks had himself + under control. + </p> + <p> + “Try it,” he said grimly. + </p> + <p> + The boy avidly seized the crayons extended to him. + </p> + <p> + “You want me to draw a picture? There?” + </p> + <p> + “If you don’t, I’ll break every bone in your body.” + </p> + <p> + The threat left its object quite unmoved. He pointed a crayon at Peter + Quick Banta’s creation. + </p> + <p> + “What is that? A bool-rush?” + </p> + <p> + “It’s a laylock; that’s what it is.” + </p> + <p> + “And the little bird that goes to light—” + </p> + <p> + “That ain’t a bird and you know it.” Peter Quick Banta + breathed hard. “That’s a butterfly.” + </p> + <p> + “I see. But the lie-lawc, it drop—so!” The gesture was + inimitable. “And the butterfly, she do not come down, plop! She + float—so!” The grimy hands fluttered and sank. + </p> + <p> + “They do, do they? Well, you put it down on the sidewalk.” + </p> + <p> + From that moment the outside world ceased to exist for the urchin. He fell + to with concentrated fervor, while Peter Quick Banta and I diverted the + traffic. Only once did he speak: + </p> + <p> + “Yellow,” he said, reaching, but not looking up. + </p> + <p> + Silently the elder artist put the desired crayon in his hand. When the + last touches were done, the boy looked up at us, not boastfully, but with + supreme confidence. + </p> + <p> + “There!” said he. + </p> + <p> + It was crude. It was ill-proportioned. The colors were raw. The + arrangements were false. + </p> + <p> + <i>But</i>—the lilac bloomed. <i>And</i>—the butterfly + hovered. The artist had spoken through his ordained medium and the + presentment of life stood forth. I hardly dared look at Peter Quick Banta. + But beneath his uncouth exterior there lay a great and magnanimous soul. + </p> + <p> + “Son,” said he, “you’re a wonder. Wanta keep them + crayons?” + </p> + <p> + Unable to speak for the moment, the boy took off his ragged cap in one of + the most gracious gestures I have ever witnessed, raising dog-like eyes of + gratitude to his benefactor. Tactfully, Peter Quick Banta proceeded to + expound for my benefit the technique of the drawing, giving the youngster + time to recover before the inevitable questioning began. + </p> + <p> + “Where did you learn that?” + </p> + <p> + “Nowhere. Had a few drawing lessons at No. 19.” + </p> + <p> + “Would you like to work for me?” + </p> + <p> + “How?” + </p> + <p> + Peter Quick Banta pointed to the sidewalk. + </p> + <p> + “That?” The boy laughed happily. “That ain’t work. + That’s fun.” + </p> + <p> + So the partnership was begun, the boy, whose name was Julien Tennier (soon + simplified into Tenney for local use), sharing Peter Quick Banta’s + roomy garret. Success, modest but unfailing, attended it from the first + appearance of the junior member of the firm at Coney Island, where, as the + local cognoscenti still maintain, he revolutionized the art and practice + of the “sand-dabs.” Out of the joint takings grew a bank + account. Eventually Peter Quick Banta came to me about the boy’s + education. + </p> + <p> + “He’s a swell,” said Peter Quick Banta. “Look at + that face! I don’t care if he did crawl outa the gutter. I’m + an artist and I reco’nize aristocracy when I see it. And I want him + brung up accordin’.” + </p> + <p> + So I inducted the youngster into such modest groves of learning as an old, + half-shelved pedagogue has access to, and when the Bonnie Lassie came to + Our Square to make herself and us famous with her tiny bronzes (this was + before she had captured, reformed, and married Cyrus the Gaunt), I took + him to her and he fell boyishly and violently in love with her beauty and + her genius alike, all of which was good for his developing soul. She + arranged for his art training. + </p> + <p> + “But you know, Dominie,” she used to say, wagging her head + like a profound and thoughtful bird; “this is all very foolish and + shortsighted on my part. Five years from now that gutter-godling of yours + will be doing work that will make people forget poor little me and my poor + little figurines.” + </p> + <p> + To which I replied that even if it were true, instead of the veriest + nonsense, about Julien Tenney or any one else ever eclipsing her, she + would help him just the same! + </p> + <p> + But five years from then Julien had gone over to the Philistines. + </p> + <h3> + II + </h3> + <p> + Justly catalogued, Roberta Holland belonged to the idle rich. She would + have objected to the latter classification, averring that, with the rising + cost of furs and automobile upkeep, she had barely enough to keep her head + above the high tide of Fifth Avenue prices. As to idleness, she scorned + the charge. Had she not, throughout the war, performed prodigious feats of + committee work, all of it meritorious and some of it useful? She had. It + had left her with a dangerous and destructive appetite for doing good to + people. Aside from this, Miss Roberta was a distracting young person. Few + looked at her once without wanting to look again, and not a few looked + again to their undoing. + </p> + <p> + Being-done-good-to is, I understand, much in vogue in the purlieus of + Fifth Avenue where it is practiced with skill and persistence by a large + and needy cult of grateful recipients. Our Square doesn’t take to + it. As recipients we are, I fear, grudgingly grateful. So when Miss + Holland transferred her enthusiasms and activities to our far-away corner + of the world she met with a lack of response which might have discouraged + one with a less new and superior sense of duty to the lower orders. She + came to us through the Bonnie Lassie, guardian of the gateway from the + upper strata to our humbler domain, who—Pagan that she is!—indiscriminately + accepts all things beautiful simply for their beauty. Having arrived, Miss + Holland proceeded to organize us with all the energy of high-blooded + sweet-and-twenty and all the imperiousness of confident wealth and beauty. + She organized an evening sewing-circle for women whose eyelids would not + stay open after their long day’s work. She formed cultural + improvement classes for such as Leon Coventry, the printer, who knows half + the literatures of the world, and MacLachan, the tailor, to whom Carlyle + is by way of being light reading. She delivered some edifying exhortations + upon the subject of Americanism to Polyglot Elsa, of the Élite Restaurant + (who had taken upon her sturdy young shoulders the support of an old + mother and a paralytic sister, so that her two brothers might enlist for + the war—a detail of patriotism which the dispenser of platitudes + might have learned by judicious inquiry). And so forth and so on. Miss + Roberta Holland meant well, but she had many things to learn and no master + to teach her. + </p> + <p> + Yet when the flu epidemic returned upon us, she stood by, efficient, deft, + and gallant, though still imperious, until the day when she clashed her + lath-and-tinsel sword of theory against the tempered steel of the Little + Red Doctor’s experience. Said the Little Red Doctor (who was pressed + for time at the moment): “Take orders. Or get out. Which?” + </p> + <p> + She straightened like a soldier. “Tell me what you want done.” + </p> + <p> + At the end of the onset, when he gave her her release from volunteer + service, she turned shining eyes upon him. “I’ve never been so + treated in my life! You’re a bully and a brute.” + </p> + <p> + “You’re a brick,” retorted the Little Red Doctor. + “I’ll send for you next time Our Square needs help.” + </p> + <p> + “I’ll come,” said she, and they shook hands solemnly. + </p> + <p> + Thereafter Our Square felt a little more lenient toward her ministrations, + and even those of us who least approved her activities felt the stir of + radiance and color which she brought with her. + </p> + <p> + On a day when the local philanthropy market was slack, and Miss Holland, + seated in the Bonnie Lassie’s front window, was maturing some new + and benign outrage upon our sensibilities, she called out to the + sculptress at work on a group: + </p> + <p> + “There’s a queer man making queer marks on your sidewalk.” + </p> + <p> + “That’s Peter Quick Banta. He’s a fellow artist.” + </p> + <p> + “And another man, young, with a big, maney head like an amiable + lion; quite a beautiful lion. He’s making more marks.” + </p> + <p> + “Let him make all he wants.” + </p> + <p> + “They’re waving their arms at each other. At least the queer + man is. I think they’re going to fight.” + </p> + <p> + “They won’t. It’s only an academic discussion on + technique.” + </p> + <p> + “Who is the young one?” + </p> + <p> + “He’s the ruin of what might have been a big artist.” + </p> + <p> + “No! Is he? What did it? Drink?” + </p> + <p> + “Does he look it?” + </p> + <p> + The window-gazer peered more intently at the debaters below. “It’s + a peculiar face. Awfully interesting, though. He’s quite poorly + dressed. Does he need money? Is that what’s wrong?” + </p> + <p> + “That’s it, Bobbie,” returned the Bonnie Lassie with a + half-smile. “He needs the money.” + </p> + <p> + The rampant philanthropist stirred within Miss Roberta Holland’s + fatally well-meaning soul. “Would it be a case where I could help? I’d + love to put a real artist back on his feet. Are you sure he’s real?” + </p> + <p> + On the subject of Art, the Bonnie Lassie is never anything but sincere and + direct, however much she may play her trickeries with lesser interests, + such as life and love and human fate. + </p> + <p> + “No; I’m not. If he were, I doubt whether he’d have let + himself go so wrong.” + </p> + <p> + “Perhaps it isn’t too late,” said the amateur missionary + hopefully. “Is he a man to whom one could offer money?” + </p> + <p> + The Bonnie Lassie’s smile broadened without change in its subtle + quality. “Julien Tenney isn’t exactly a pauper. He just thinks + he can’t afford to do the kind of thing he wants and ought to.” + </p> + <p> + “What ought he to do?” + </p> + <p> + “Paint—paint—paint!” said the Bonnie Lassie + vehemently. “Five years ago I believe he had the makings of a great + painter in him. And now look what he’s doing!” + </p> + <p> + “Making marks on sidewalks, you mean?” + </p> + <p> + “Worse. Commercial art.” + </p> + <p> + “Designs and that sort of thing?” + </p> + <p> + “Do you ever look at the unearthly beautiful, graceful and + gloriously dressed young super-Americans who appear in the advertisements, + riding in super-cars or wearing super-clothes or brushing super-teeth with + super-toothbrushes?” + </p> + <p> + “I suppose so,” said the girl vaguely. + </p> + <p> + “He draws those.” + </p> + <p> + “Is that what you call pot-boiling?” + </p> + <p> + “One kind.” + </p> + <p> + “And I suppose it pays just a pittance.” + </p> + <p> + “Well,” replied the Bonnie Lassie evasively, “he sticks + to it, so it must support him.” + </p> + <p> + “Then I’m going to help him.” + </p> + <p> + “‘To fulfill his destiny,’ is the accepted phrase,” + said the Bonnie Lassie wickedly. “I’ll call him in for you to + look over. But you’d best leave the arrangements for a later + meeting.” + </p> + <p> + Being summoned, Julien Tenney entered the house as one quite at home + despite his smeary garb of the working artist. His presentation to Miss + Holland was as brief as it was formal, for she took her departure at once. + </p> + <p> + “Who is she?” asked Julien, staring after her. + </p> + <p> + “Bobbie Holland, a gilded butterfly from uptown.” + </p> + <p> + “What’s she doing here?” + </p> + <p> + “Good.” + </p> + <p> + “O Lord!” said he in pained tones. “Has she got a Cause?” + </p> + <p> + “Naturally.” + </p> + <p> + “Philanthropist?” + </p> + <p> + “Worse.” + </p> + <p> + “There ain’t no sich a animile.” + </p> + <p> + “There is. She’s a patron of art.” + </p> + <p> + “Wow!” + </p> + <p> + “Yes. She’s going to patronize you.” + </p> + <p> + “Not if I see her first. How do <i>I</i> qualify as a subject?” + </p> + <p> + “She considered you a wasted life.” + </p> + <p> + “Where does she get that idea?” + </p> + <p> + The Bonnie Lassie removed a small, sharp implement from the left eye of a + stoical figurine and pointed it at herself. + </p> + <p> + “Do you think that’s fair?” demanded the indignant + youth. + </p> + <p> + The Bonnie Lassie reversed the implement and pointed it at him. “Do + you or do you not,” she challenged, “invade our humble + precincts in a five-thousand-dollar automobile?” + </p> + <p> + “It’s my only extravagance.” + </p> + <p> + “Do you or do you not maintain a luxurious apartment in Gramercy + Park, when you are not down here posing in your attic as an honest + working-man?” + </p> + <p> + “Oh, see here, Mrs. Staten, I won’t stand for that!” he + expostulated. “You know perfectly well I keep my room here because + it’s the only place I can work in quietly—” + </p> + <p> + “And because Peter Quick Banta would break his foolish old heart if + you left him entirely,” supplemented the sculptress. + </p> + <p> + Julien flushed and stood looking like an awkward child. “Did you + tell all this stuff to Miss Holland?” he asked. + </p> + <p> + “Oh, no! She thinks that your pot-boiling is a desperate and barely + sufficient expedient to keep the wolf from the door. So she is planning to + help you realize your destiny.” + </p> + <p> + “Which is?” he queried with lifted brows. + </p> + <p> + “To be a great painter.” + </p> + <p> + The other winced. “As you know, I’ve meant all along, as soon + as I’ve saved enough—” + </p> + <p> + “Oh, yes; <i>I</i> know,” broke in the Bonnie Lassie, who can + be quite ruthless where Art is concerned, “and <i>you</i> know; but + time flies and hell is paved with good intentions, and if you want to be + that kind of a pavement artist—well, I think Peter Quick Banta is a + better.” + </p> + <p> + “Do you suppose she’d let me paint her?” he asked + abruptly. + </p> + <p> + If statuettes could blink, the one upon which the Bonnie Lassie was busied + would certainly have shrouded its vision against the dazzling radiance of + her smile, for this was coming about as she had planned it from the moment + when she had caught the flash of startled surprise and wonder in his eyes, + as they first rested on Bobbie Holland. Here, she had guessed, might be + the agency to bring Julien Tenney to his artistic senses; and even so it + was now working out. But all she said was—and she said it with a + sort of venomous blandness—“My dear boy, you can’t + paint.” + </p> + <p> + “Can’t I! Just because I’m a little out of practice—” + </p> + <p> + “Two years, isn’t it, since you’ve touched a palette?” + </p> + <p> + “Give me a chance at such a model as she is! That’s all I ask.” + </p> + <p> + “Do you think her so pretty?” inquired the sculptress + disparagingly. + </p> + <p> + “Pretty? She’s the loveliest thing that—” Catching + his hostess’s smile he broke off. “You’ll admit it’s + a well-modeled face,” he said professionally; “and—and—well, + unusual.” + </p> + <p> + “Pooh! ‘Dangerous’ is the word. Remember it,” + warned the Bonnie Lassie. “She’s a devastating whirlwind, that + child, and she comes down here partly to get away from the wreckage. Now, + if you play your part cleverly—” + </p> + <p> + “I’m not going to play any part.” + </p> + <p> + “Then it’s all up. How is a patroness of Art going to + patronize you, unless you’re a poor and struggling young artist, + living from hand to mouth by arduous pot-boiling? You won’t have to + play a part as far as the pot-boiling goes,” added his monitress + viciously. “Only, don’t let her know that the rewards of your + shame run to high-powered cars and high-class apartments. Remember, you’re + poor but honest. Perhaps she’ll give you money.” + </p> + <p> + “Perhaps she won’t,” retorted the youth explosively. + </p> + <p> + “Oh, it will be done tactfully; never fear. I’ll bring her + around to see you and you’ll have to work the sittings yourself.” + </p> + <p> + As a setting for the abode of a struggling beginner, Julien’s attic + needed no change. It was a whim of his to keep it bare and simple. He + worked out his pictorial schemes of elegance best in an environment where + there was nothing to distract the eye. One could see that Miss Roberta + Holland, upon her initial visit, approved its stark and cleanly poverty. + (Yes, I was there to see; the Bonnie Lassie had taken me along to make up + that first party.) Having done the honors, Julien dropped into the + background, and presently was curled up over a drawing-board, sketching + eagerly while the Bonnie Lassie and I held the doer of good deeds in talk. + Now the shrewd and able tribe of advertising managers do not pay to any + but a master-draughtsman the prices which “J.T.”—with an + arrow transfixing the initials—gets; and Julien was as deft and + rapid as he was skillful. Soon appreciating what was in progress, the + visitor graciously sat quite still. At the conclusion she held out her + hand for the cardboard. + </p> + <p> + To be a patroness of Art does not necessarily imply that one is an + adequate critic. Miss Holland contemplated what was a veritable little gem + in black-and-white with cool approbation. + </p> + <p> + “Quite clever,” she was pleased to say. “Would you care + to sell it?” + </p> + <p> + “I don’t think it would be exactly—” A stern + glance from the Bonnie Lassie cut short the refusal. He swallowed the rest + of the sentence. + </p> + <p> + “Would ten dollars be too little?” asked the visitor with + bright beneficence. + </p> + <p> + “Too much,” he murmured. (The Bonnie Lassie says that with a + little crayoning and retouching he could have sold it for at least fifty + times that.) + </p> + <p> + The patroness delicately dropped a bill on the table. + </p> + <p> + “Could you some day find time to let me try you in oils?” he + asked. + </p> + <p> + “Does that take long?” she said doubtfully. “I’m + very busy.” + </p> + <p> + “You really should try it, Bobbie,” put in the crafty Bonnie + Lassie. “It might give him the start he needs.” + </p> + <p> + What arguments she added later is a secret between the two women, but she + had her way. The Bonnie Lassie always does. So the bare studio was from + time to time irradiated with Bobbie Holland’s youthful loveliness + and laughter. For there was much laughter between those two. Shrewdly + foreseeing that this bird of paradise would return to the bare cage only + if it were made amusing for her, Julien exerted himself to the utmost to + keep her mind at play, and, as I can vouch who helped train him, there are + few men of his age who can be as absorbing a companion as Julien when he + chooses to exert his charm. All the time, he was working with a passionate + intensity on the portrait; letting everything else go; tossing aside the + most remunerative offers; leaving his mail unopened; throwing himself + intensely, recklessly, into this one single enterprise. The fact is, he + had long been starved for color and was now satiating his soul with it. + Probably it was largely impersonal with him at first. The Bonnie Lassie, + wise of heart that she is, thinks so. But that could not last. Men who are + not otherwise safeguarded do not long retain a neutral attitude toward + such creatures of grace and splendor as Bobbie Holland. + </p> + <p> + Between them developed a curious relation. It was hardly to be called + friendship; he was not, to Bobbie’s recognition, a habitant of her + world. Nor, certainly, was it anything more. Julien would as soon have + renounced easel and canvas as have taken advantage of her coming to make + love to her. In this waif of our gutters and ward of our sidewalk artist + inhered a spirit of the most punctilious and rigid honor, the gift, + perhaps, of some forgotten ancestry. More and more, as the intimacy grew, + he deserted his uptown haunts and stuck to the attic studio above the + rooms where, in the dawning days of prosperity, he had installed Peter + Quick Banta in the effete and scandalous luxury of two rooms, a bath, and + a gas stove. Yet the picture advanced slowly which is the more surprising + in that the exotic Bobbie seemed to find plenty of time for sittings now. + Between visits she took to going to the Metropolitan Museum and + conscientiously studying pictures and catalogues with a view to helping + her protégé form sound artistic tastes. (When the Bonnie Lassie heard + that, she all but choked.) As for Julien! + </p> + <p> + “This is all very well,” he said, one day in the sculptress’s + studio; “but sooner or later she’s going to catch me at it.” + </p> + <p> + “What then?” asked the Bonnie Lassie, not looking up from her + work. + </p> + <p> + “She’ll go away.” + </p> + <p> + “Let her go. Your portrait will be finished meantime, won’t + it?” + </p> + <p> + “Oh, yes. That’ll be finished.” + </p> + <p> + This time the Bonnie Lassie did look up. Immediately she looked back + again. + </p> + <p> + “In any case she’ll have to go away some day—won’t + she?” + </p> + <p> + “I suppose so,” returned he in a gloomy growl. + </p> + <p> + “I warned you at the outset, ‘Dangerous,’” she + pointed out. + </p> + <p> + They let it drop there. As for the effect upon the girl of Julien Tenny’s + brilliant and unsettling personality, I could judge only as I saw them + occasionally together, she lustrous and exotic as a budding orchid, he in + the non-descript motley of his studio garb, serenely unconscious of any + incongruity. + </p> + <p> + “Do you think,” I asked the Bonnie Lassie, who was sharing my + bench one afternoon as Julien was taking the patroness of Art over to + where her car waited, “that she is doing him as much good as she + thinks she is, or ought to?” + </p> + <p> + “Malice ill becomes one of your age, Dominie,” said the Bonnie + Lassie with dignity. + </p> + <p> + “I’m quite serious,” I protested. + </p> + <p> + “And very unjust. Bobbie is an adorable little person, when you know + her.” + </p> + <p> + “Does Julien know her well enough to have discovered a self-evident + fact?” + </p> + <p> + “Only,” pursued my companion, ignoring the question, “she + is bored and a little spoiled.” + </p> + <p> + “So she comes down here to escape being bored and to get more + spoiled.” + </p> + <p> + “Julien won’t spoil her.” + </p> + <p> + “He certainly doesn’t appear to bore her.” + </p> + <p> + “She’s having the tables turned on her without knowing it. + Julien is doing her a lot of good. Already she’s far less beneficent + and bountiful and all that sort of stuff.” + </p> + <p> + “Lassie,” said I, “what, if I may so express myself, is + the big idea?” + </p> + <p> + “Slang is an execrable thing from a professed scholar,” she + reproved. “However, the big idea is that Julien is really painting. + And it’s <i>mine</i>, that big idea.” + </p> + <p> + “Mightn’t it be accompanied by a little idea to the effect + that the experience is likely to cost him pretty dear? What will be left + when Bobbie Holland goes?” + </p> + <p> + “Pooh! Don’t be an oracular sphinx,” was all that I got + for my pains. + </p> + <p> + Nor did Miss Bobbie show any immediate symptoms of going. If the painting + seemed at times in danger of stagnation, the same could not be said of the + fellowship between painter and paintee. That nourished along, and one day + a vagrant wind brought in the dangerous element of historical + personalities. The wind, entering at the end of a session, displaced a + hanging above the studio door, revealing in bold script upon the + plastering Béranger’s famous line: + </p> +<pre xml:space="preserve"> + “Dans un grenier qu’on est bien á vingt ans!” + </pre> + <p> + “Did you write that there?” asked the girl. + </p> + <p> + “Seven long years ago. And meant it, every word.” + </p> + <p> + “How did you come to know Béranger?” + </p> + <p> + “I’m French born.” + </p> + <p> + “‘In a garret how good is life at twenty,’” she + translated freely. “I wouldn’t have thought”—she + turned her softly brilliant regard upon him—“that life had + been so good to you.” + </p> + <p> + “It has,” was the rejoinder. “But never so good as now.” + </p> + <p> + “I’ve often wondered—you seem to know so many things—where + you got your education?” + </p> + <p> + “Here and there and everywhere. It’s only a patchwork sort of + thing.” (Ungrateful young scoundrel, so to describe my + two-hours-a-day of brain-hammering, and the free run of my library.) + </p> + <p> + “You’re a very puzzling person,” said she And when a + woman says that to a man, deep has begun to call to deep. (The Bonnie + Lassie, who knows everything, is my authority for the statement.) + </p> + <p> + To her went the patroness of Art, on leaving Julien’s “grenier” + that day. + </p> + <p> + “Cecily,” she said, in the most casual manner she could + contrive, “who <i>is</i> Julien Tenney?” + </p> + <p> + “Nobody.” + </p> + <p> + “You know what I mean,” pleaded the girl. “<i>What</i> + is he?” + </p> + <p> + “A brand snatched from the pot-boiling,” returned the Bonnie + Lassie, quite pleased with her next turn, which was more than her + companion was. + </p> + <p> + “Please don’t be clever. Be nice and tell me—” + </p> + <p> + “‘Be nice, sweet maid, and let who will be clever,’” + declaimed the Bonnie Lassie, who was feeling perverse that day. “You + want me to define his social status for you and tell you whether you’d + better invite him to dinner. You’d better not. He might swallow his + knife.” + </p> + <p> + “You know he wouldn’t!” denied the girl in resentful + tones. “I’ve never known any one with more instinctive good + manners. He seems to go right naturally.” + </p> + <p> + “All due to my influence and training,” bragged the Bonnie + Lassie. “I helped bring him up.” + </p> + <p> + “Then you must know something of his antecedents.” + </p> + <p> + “Ask the Dominie. He says that Julien crawled out of a gutter with + the manners of a <i>preux chevalier</i>. Anyway, he never swallowed any of + <i>my</i> knives. Though he’s had plenty of opportunity.” + </p> + <p> + “It’s very puzzling,” lamented Bobbie. + </p> + <p> + “Why let it prey like a worm i’ the bud of your mind? You’re + not going to adopt him, perhaps?” + </p> + <p> + For the moment Bobbie Holland’s eyes were dreamy and her tongue + unguarded. “I don’t know what I’m going to do with him,” + said she with a gesture as of one who despairingly gives over an insoluble + problem. + </p> + <p> + “Umph!” said the Bonnie Lassie. + </p> + <p> + And continued sculpting. + </p> + <h3> + III + </h3> + <p> + As Julien had prophesied, it was only a question of time when he would be + surprised by his patroness in his true garb and estate. The event occurred + as he was stepping from his touring-car to get his golf-clubs from the + hallway of his Gramercy Park apartment at the very moment when Bobbie + Holland emerged from the house next door. Both her hands flew + involuntarily to her cheeks, as she took in and wholly misinterpreted his + costume, which is not to be wondered at when one considers the similarity + of a golfing outfit to a chauffeur’s livery. + </p> + <p> + “Oh!” she cried out, as if something had hurt her. + </p> + <p> + Julien, for once startled out of his accustomed poise, uncovered and + looked at her apprehensively. + </p> + <p> + Her voice quivered a little as she asked, very low, “Do you <i>have</i> + to do that?” + </p> + <p> + “Why—er—no,” began the puzzled Julien, who failed + for the moment to perceive what of tragic portent inhered in a prospective + afternoon of golf. Her next words enlightened him. + </p> + <p> + “I should think you might have let me help before taking a—servant’s + position.” + </p> + <p> + “It’s an honest occupation,” he averred. + </p> + <p> + “Do you do this—regularly?” she pursued with an effort. + </p> + <p> + “Off and on. There’s good money in it.” + </p> + <p> + “Oh!” she mourned again. Then: “You’re doing this + so that you can afford to buy paints and canvas and—and things to + paint me,” she accused. “It isn’t fair!” + </p> + <p> + “I’d do worse than this for that,” he declared + valiantly. + </p> + <p> + Less than a fortnight later she caught him doing worse. She had ceased to + speak to him of his chauffeurdom because it seemed to cause him painful + embarrassment. (It did, and should have!) There had been a big theater + party, important enough to get itself detailed in the valuable columns + which the papers devote to such matters, and afterward supper at the most + expensive uptown restaurant, Miss Roberta Holland being one of the listed + guests. As she took her place at the table, she caught a glimpse of an + unmistakable figure disappearing through the waiter’s exit. And + Julien Tenney, who had risen from his little supper party of four (stag) + hastily but just too late, on catching sight of her, saw that he was + recognized. Flight, instant and permanent, had been his original intent. + Now it would not do. Bolder measures must be devised. He appealed to the + head-waiter to help him carry out a joke, and that functionary, developing + a sense of humor under the stimulus of a twenty-dollar bill, procured him + on the spot an ill-fitting coat and a black string tie, and gave him + certain simple directions. When the patroness of Art next observed the + object of her patronage, he was performing the humble but useful duties of + an omnibus. + </p> + <p> + Miss Holland suddenly lost a perfectly good and hitherto reliable + appetite. + </p> + <p> + Nor was she the only member of the supper party to develop symptoms of + shock. The gilded and stalwart youth on her left, following her glance, + stared at the amateur servitor with protruding eyes, ceased to eat or + drink, and fell into a state of semi-coma, muttering at intervals an + expressive monosyllable. + </p> + <p> + “Why not swear out loud, Caspar?” asked Bobbie presently. + “It’ll do you less harm.” + </p> + <p> + “D’you see that chap over yonder? The big, fine-looking one + fixing the forks?” + </p> + <p> + “Yes,” said Bobbie faintly. + </p> + <p> + “Well, that’s—No, by thunder, it can’t be!—Yes, + by the red-hot hinges, it <i>is!</i>” + </p> + <p> + “Do you think you know him?” + </p> + <p> + “Know him! I <i>know</i> him? He bunked in with me for two weeks at + Grandpré. He was captain of a machine-gun outfit sent down to help us + clean out that little wasp’s nest. His name’s Tenney, and if + ever there was a hellion in a fight! And see—what he’s come + to! My God!” + </p> + <p> + “Well, don’t cry about it,” advised the girl, serenely, + though it was hard for her to keep her voice steady. “There’s + nothing to do about it, is there?” + </p> + <p> + “Isn’t there!” retorted the youth, rising purposefully. + “I’m going to get him and find him a job that’s fit for + him if I have to take him into partnership. Of all the + dash-blanked-dod-blizzened—” + </p> + <p> + “Caspar! What are you going to do? Don’t. You’ll + embarrass him frightfully.” + </p> + <p> + But he was already heading off his prey at the exit. Bobbie saw her + painter’s face flame into welcome, then stiffen into dismay. The + pair vanished beyond the watcher’s ken. On his return the gilded + youth behaved strangely. From time to time he shook his head. From time to + time he chuckled. And, while Bobbie was talking to her other neighbor, he + shot curious and amused glances at her. He told her nothing. But his + interest in his supper returned. Bobbie’s didn’t. + </p> + <p> + To discuss the social aspects of menial service with a practitioner of it + who has been admitted to a certain implicit equality is a difficult and + delicate matter for a girl brought up in Roberta Holland’s school. + Several times after the restaurant encounter she essayed it; trying both + the indirect approach and the method of extreme frankness. Neither + answered. Julien responded to her advances by alternate moods of extreme + gloom and slyly inexplicable amusement. Bobbie gave it up, concluding that + he was in a very queer mood, anyway. She was right. He was. + </p> + <p> + The next episode of their progress took the form of a veritable unmasking + which, perversely enough, only fixed the mask tighter upon Julien Tenney. + By way of loosening up his wrist for the open season, Peter Quick Banta + had taken advantage of an amiable day to sketch out a composite floral and + faunal scheme on the flagging in front of Thornsen’s Élite + Restaurant, when Miss Holland, in passing, paused to observe and wonder. + At the same moment, Julien hurrying around the corner, all but ran her + down. She nodded toward the decorator of sidewalks. + </p> + <p> + “Isn’t he the funny man that you were with the first time I + saw you?” + </p> + <p> + “The very same,” responded Julien with twinkling eyes. + </p> + <p> + “What is he doing?” + </p> + <p> + “He’s one of the few remaining examples of the sidewalk or + public-view school of art.” + </p> + <p> + “Yes, but what does he do it for?” + </p> + <p> + “His living.” + </p> + <p> + “Do people give him money for it? Do you think I might give him + something?” she asked, looking uncertainly at the artist, who, on + hands and knees and with tongue protruding, was putting a green head on a + red bird, too absorbed even to notice the onlookers. + </p> + <p> + “I think he’d be tickled pink.” + </p> + <p> + She took a quarter from her purse, hesitated, then slipped it into her + companion’s hand. + </p> + <p> + “<i>You</i> give it to him. I think he’d like it better.” + </p> + <p> + “Oh, no; I don’t think he’d like it at all. In fact, I + doubt if he’d take it from me.” + </p> + <p> + “Why not?” + </p> + <p> + “Well, you see,” explained Julien blandly, “we’re + rather intimately connected.” He raised his voice. “Hello, + Dad!” + </p> + <p> + The decorator furled his tongue, lifted his head, changed his crayon, + replied, “Hello, Lad,” and continued his work. “What d’ + you think of <i>that</i>?” he added, after a moment, triumphantly + pointing a yellow crayon at the green-headed red-bird. + </p> + <p> + “Some parrot!” enthused Julien. + </p> + <p> + “‘T ain’t a parrot. It’s a nightingale,” + retorted the artist indignantly. “You black-and-white fellows never + do understand color.” + </p> + <p> + “It’s a corker, anyway,” said Julien. “Dad here’s + a—an art patron who wants to contribute to the cause.” + </p> + <p> + The girl, whose face had become flushed and almost frightened, held out + her quarter. + </p> + <p> + “I—I—don’t know,” she began. “I was + interested in your picture and I thought—Mr. Tenney said—” + </p> + <p> + Peter Quick Banta took the coin with perfect dignity. “Thank you,” + said he. “There ain’t much appreciation of art just at this + season. But if you’ll come down to Coney about June, I’ll show + you some sand-modeling that <i>is</i> sand-modeling—‘s much as + five dollars a day I’ve taken in there.” + </p> + <p> + Miss Holland recovered her social poise. + </p> + <p> + “I’d like to very much,” she said cheerfully. + </p> + <p> + She and Julien walked on in silence. Suddenly he laughed, a little + jarringly. “Well,” he said, “does that help you to place + me?” + </p> + <p> + “I’m not trying to place you,” she answered. + </p> + <p> + “Is that quite true?” he mocked. + </p> + <p> + “No; it isn’t. It’s a downright lie,” said Bobbie + finding courage to raise her eyes to his. + </p> + <p> + “And now, I suppose, I shall be ‘my good man’ or + something like that, to you.” + </p> + <p> + “Do you think it likely?” + </p> + <p> + “You called MacLachan that, you know,” he reminded her. + </p> + <p> + “Long ago. When I was—when I didn’t understand Our + Square.” + </p> + <p> + “And now, of course, our every feeling and thought is an open book + to your penetrating vision.” + </p> + <p> + Her lip quivered. “I don’t know why you should want to be so + hateful to me.” + </p> + <p> + For a flashing second his eyes answered that appeal with a look that + thrilled and daunted her. “To keep from being something else that I’ve + no right to be,” he muttered. + </p> + <p> + “How many more sittings do you think it will take to finish the + picture?” she asked, striving to get on safer ground. + </p> + <p> + “Only one or two, I suppose,” he answered morosely. + </p> + <p> + Such was Julien’s condition of mind after the last sitting that he + actually left the precious portrait unguarded by neglecting to lock the + door of the studio on going out, and the Bonnie Lassie and I, happening + in, beheld it in its fulfillment. A slow flush burned its way upward in + the Bonnie Lassie’s face as she studied it. + </p> + <p> + “He’s done it!” she exclaimed. “Flower and flame! + Why did I ever take to sculpture? One can’t get that in the metal.” + </p> + <p> + “He’s done it,” I echoed. + </p> + <p> + “Of course, technically, it’s rather a sloppy picture.” + </p> + <p> + “It’s a glorious picture!” I cried. + </p> + <p> + “Naturally that,” returned the exasperating critic. “It + always will be—when you paint with your heart’s blood.” + </p> + <p> + “Do you think your friend Bobbie appreciates the medium in which she’s + presented?” + </p> + <p> + “If she doesn’t—which she probably does,” said the + Bonnie Lassie, “she will find out something to her advantage when + she sees me to-morrow. I’m going home to ‘phone her.” + </p> + <p> + In answer to the summons, Bobbie came. She looked, I thought, as I saw her + from my bench, troubled and perplexed and softened, and glowingly lovely. + At the door of the Bonnie Lassie’s house she was met with the + challenge direct. + </p> + <p> + “What have you been doing to my artistic ward?” + </p> + <p> + “Nothing,” replied Bobbie with unwonted meekness, and to prove + it related the incidents of the touring-car, the supper at the Taverne + Splendide, and the encounter with the paternal colorist. + </p> + <p> + “That isn’t Julien’s father,” said the sculptress. + “He’s only an adoptive father. But Julien adores him, as he + ought to. The real father, so I’ve heard, was a French gentleman—” + </p> + <p> + “I don’t care who his father was!” cried Bobbie. (The + Bonnie Lassie’s face took on the expression of an exclamation + point.) “I can’t bear to think of his having to do servant’s + work. And I told him so yesterday.” + </p> + <p> + “Did you look like that while you were telling him?” + </p> + <p> + “Like what? I suppose so.” + </p> + <p> + “And what did he do?” + </p> + <p> + “Do? He didn’t do anything.” + </p> + <p> + “Then,” pronounced the Bonnie Lassie, “he’s a + stick of wood—hardwood—with a knot-hole for a heart.” + </p> + <p> + “He isn’t! Well, perhaps he is. He was very horrid at the + last.” + </p> + <p> + “About what?” + </p> + <p> + “About taking money.” + </p> + <p> + “I’m a prophetess! And you’re a patroness. Born in us, I + suppose. You <i>did</i> try to give him money.” + </p> + <p> + “Just to loan it. Enough so that he could go away to study and + paint. He wouldn’t even let me do that; so I—I—I offered + to buy the picture of me, and he said—he said—Cecily, do you + think he’s sometimes a little queer in his head?” + </p> + <p> + “Not in the head, necessarily. <i>What</i> did he say?” + </p> + <p> + “He said he’d bought it himself at the highest price ever + paid. And he said it so obstinately that I saw it was no use, so I just + told him that I hoped I’d see him when I came back—” + </p> + <p> + “Back from where? Are you going away?” + </p> + <p> + “Yes; didn’t I tell you? On a three months’ cruise.” + </p> + <p> + “Had you told him that?” + </p> + <p> + “Of course. That’s when I tried to get him to take the money. + Cecily—” The girl’s voice shook a little. “You’ll + tell him, won’t you, that he <i>must</i> keep on painting?” + </p> + <p> + “Why? Doesn’t he intend to?” + </p> + <p> + “He said he’d painted himself out and he didn’t think he’d + ever <i>look</i> at color again.” + </p> + <p> + “He will,” said the Bonnie Lassie wisely and comfortably. + “Grief is just as driving a taskmaster as lo—as other + emotions.” + </p> + <p> + “Grief!” The girl’s color ebbed. “Cecily! You don’t + think I’ve hurt him?” + </p> + <p> + The Bonnie Lassie caught her in a sudden hug. + </p> + <p> + “Bobbie, do you know what I’d do in your place?” + </p> + <p> + “No. What?” + </p> + <p> + “I’d go right—straight—back to Julien Tenney’s + studio.” She paused impressively. + </p> + <p> + “Yes?” said the other faintly. + </p> + <p> + “And I’d walk right—straight—up to Julien Tenney—” + Another pause, even more impressive. + </p> + <p> + “I d-d-don’t think I’d—he’d—” + </p> + <p> + “And I’d say to him: ‘Julien, will you marry me?’ + Like that.” + </p> + <p> + “Oh!” said Bobbie in outraged amazement. + </p> + <p> + “And maybe—” continued the Bonnie Lassie judicially: + “maybe I’d kiss him. Yes. I think I would.” + </p> + <p> + Suddenly all the bright softness of Bobbie’s large eyes dissolved in + tears. “You ought to be ashamed of yourself,” she sobbed. + </p> + <p> + “You won’t be ashamed of <i>yourself</i>,” prophesied + the other, “if you do just as I say, quickly and naturally.” + </p> + <p> + “Oh, naturally,” retorted the girl in an indignant whimper. + “I suppose you think that’s natural. Anyway, he probably doesn’t + care about me at all that way.” + </p> + <p> + “Roberta,” said the sculptress sternly, “did you <i>see</i> + his portrait of you?” + </p> + <p> + “Y-y-yes.” + </p> + <p> + “And you have the presumption to say that he doesn’t care? + Why, that picture doesn’t simply tell his secret. It <i>yells</i> + it!” + </p> + <p> + “I don’t care,” said the hard-pressed Bobbie. “It + hasn’t yelled it to me. <i>Nobody’s</i> yelled it to me. And I + c-c-can’t ask a m-m-man to—to—” + </p> + <p> + “Perhaps you can’t,” allowed her adviser magnanimously. + “On second thought, it won’t be necessary. You just go back—after + powdering your nose a little—and say that you’ve come to see + the picture once more, or that it’s a fine day, or that competition + is the life of trade, or that—oh, anything! And, if he doesn’t + do the rest, I’ll kill and eat him.” + </p> + <p> + “But, Cecily—” + </p> + <p> + “You <i>would</i> be a patroness of Art. Now I’ve given you + something real to patronize. Don’t you dare fail me.” Suddenly + the speaker gave herself over to an access of mirth. “Heaven help + that young man when he comes to own up.” + </p> + <p> + “Own up to what?” + </p> + <p> + “Never mind.” + </p> + <p> + Having consumed a vain and repetitious half-hour in variations upon her + query, Bobbie gave it up and decided to find out for herself. It was + curiosity and curiosity alone (so she assured herself) that impelled her + to return for the last time (she assured herself of that, also) to the + attic. + </p> + <p> + A voice raised in vehement protest, echoing through the open door of the + studio, checked her on the landing below as she mounted. + </p> + <p> + “And you’re actually going to let thirty-five thousand a year + slip through your fingers, just to pursue a fad?” + </p> + <p> + To which Julien’s equable accents replied: + </p> + <p> + “That’s it, Merrill. I’m going to paint.” + </p> + <p> + The unseen Merrill left a blessing (of a sort) behind, slammed the door + upon it, and materialized to the vision of the girl on the landing as an + energetic and spruce-looking man of forty-odd, with a harassed expression. + At need, Miss Holland could summon considerable decisiveness to her aid. + </p> + <p> + “Would you think me inexcusably rude,” she said softly, + “if I asked who you are?” + </p> + <p> + The descending man snatched off his hat, stared, seemed on the point of + whistling, then, recovering himself, said courteously: “I’m + George Merrill, advertising manager for the Criterion Clothing Company.” + </p> + <p> + “And Mr. Tenney has been doing drawings for you?” + </p> + <p> + “He has. For several years.” + </p> + <p> + “So that,” said the girl, half to herself, “is his + pot-boiling.” + </p> + <p> + “Not a very complimentary term,” commented Mr. Merrill, + “for the best black-and-white work being done in New York to-day. + Between my concern and two others he makes a railroad president’s + income out of it.” + </p> + <p> + “Yes, I overheard what you said to him. Thank you so much.” + </p> + <p> + “In return, may I ask you something?” + </p> + <p> + “Certainly.” + </p> + <p> + “Will you not, for his own good, dissuade Mr. Tenney from throwing + away his career?” + </p> + <p> + “Why should you suppose me to have any influence with Mr. Tenney?” + </p> + <p> + Mr. Merrill’s face was grave, as befitted the issue, but a twinkle + appeared at the corner of his glasses. “I’ve seen the + portrait,” he replied, and with a bow, went on his way. + </p> + <p> + Julien opened the door to her knock. She stepped inside, facing him with + bright, inscrutable eyes. + </p> + <p> + “Why have you been fooling me about your circumstances?” she + demanded. + </p> + <p> + “D—-n Merrill!” said Julien with fervor. + </p> + <p> + “It’s true that your ‘pot-boiling’ brings you a + big income?” + </p> + <p> + “Yes.” + </p> + <p> + “Then why do you take employment as a chauffeur?” + </p> + <p> + “I don’t. That car belongs to me.” + </p> + <p> + “And your being a waiter? I don’t suppose the Taverne + Splendide belongs to you?” + </p> + <p> + “An impromptu bit of acting,” confessed the abashed Julien. + </p> + <p> + “And this attic? Was that hired for the same comedy?” + </p> + <p> + “No. This is mine, really.” + </p> + <p> + “I don’t understand. Why have you done it all?” + </p> + <p> + “If you want to know the truth,” he said defiantly, “so + that I could keep on seeing you.” + </p> + <p> + “That’s a very poor excuse,” she retorted. + </p> + <p> + “The best in the world. As a successful commercial artist, what + possible interest would you have taken in me? You took me for a struggling + young painter—that was the Bonnie Lassie’s fault, for I never + lied to you about it—and after we’d started on that track I + didn’t—well, I didn’t have the courage to risk losing + you by quitting the masquerade.” + </p> + <p> + “How you must have laughed at me all the time!” + </p> + <p> + He flushed to his angry eyes. “Do you think that is fair?” he + retorted. “Or kind? Or true?” + </p> + <p> + “I—I don’t know,” she faltered. “You let me + offer you money. And you’ve probably got as much as I have.” + </p> + <p> + “I won’t have from now on, then. I’m going to paint. I + thought, when you told me you were going away, that I couldn’t look + at a canvas again. But now I know I was wrong. I’ve got to paint. + You’ll have left me that, at least.” + </p> + <p> + “Mr. Merrill thinks you’re ruining your career. And if you do, + it’ll be my fault. I’ll never, never, never,” said the + patroness of Art desolately, “try to do any one good again!” + </p> + <p> + She turned toward the door. + </p> + <p> + “At least,” said Julien in a voice which threatened to get out + of control, “you’ll know that it wasn’t all masquerade. + You’ll know why I’ll always keep the picture, even if I never + paint another.” + </p> + <p> + She stole a look at him over her shoulder and, with a thrill, saw the + passion in his eyes and the pride that withheld him from speaking. + </p> + <p> + “Suppose,” she said, “I asked you to give it up.” + </p> + <p> + “You wouldn’t,” he retorted quickly. + </p> + <p> + “No, I wouldn’t. But—but—” Her glance, + wandering away from him, fell on the joyous line of Béranger bold above + the door. + </p> + <p> + “‘How good is life in an attic at twenty,’” she + murmured. Then, turning to him, she held out her hands. + </p> + <p> + “I could find it good,” she said with a soft little falter in + her voice, “even at twenty-two.” + </p> + <p> + Everything passes in review before my bench, sooner or later. The two, + going by with transfigured faces, stopped. + </p> + <p> + “Let’s tell Dominie,” said Julien. + </p> + <p> + I waved a jaunty hand. “I know already,” said I, “even + if it hadn’t been announced to a waiting world.” + </p> + <p> + “Wh-wh-why,” stammered Bobbie with a blush worth a man’s + waiting a lifetime to see, “it—it only just happened.” + </p> + <p> + “Bless your dear, innocent hearts, both of you! It’s been + happening for weeks. Come with me.” + </p> + <p> + I lead them to the sidewalk fronting Thornsen’s Élite Restaurant. + There stood Peter Quick Banta, admiring his latest masterpiece of + imaginative symbolism. It represented a love-bird of eagle size holding in + its powerful beak a scroll with a wreath of forget-me-nots on one end and + of orange-blossoms on the other, encircling respectively the initials. + “J.T.” and “R.H.” Below, in no less than four + colors, ran the legend, “Cupid’s Token.” + </p> + <p> + “O Lord! Dad!” cried the horrified Julien, scuffing it out + with frantic feet. “How long has this been there?” + </p> + <p> + “What’re you doing? Leave it be!” cried the anguished + artist. “It’s been there since noon.” + </p> + <p> + “Never mind,” put in Bobbie softly; “it’s very + pretty and tasteful even though it is a little precipitate. But how”—she + turned the lovely and puzzled inquiry of her eyes upon the symbolist—“how + did you know?” + </p> + <p> + “Artistic intuition,” said Peter Quick Banta with profound + complacency. “<i>I’m</i> an artist.” + </p> + <p> + <br /><br /> + </p> + <hr /> + <p> + <a name="link2H_4_0004" id="link2H_4_0004"> </a> + </p> + <div style="height: 4em;"> + <br /><br /><br /><br /> + </div> + <h2> + THE HOUSE OF SILVERY VOICES + </h2> + <p> + Wayfarers on the far side of Our Square used to stop before Number 37 and + wonder. The little house, it seemed, was making music at them. “Kleam, + kleam, kleam, kleam,” it would pipe pleasantly. + </p> + <p> + “BHONG! BHONG! BHONG!” solemn and churchly, in rebuke of its + own levity. + </p> + <p> + “Kung-<i>glang</i>! Kung-<i>glang</i>! Kung-<i>glang</i>! Kung-<i>glang</i>! + Kung-<i>glang</i>!” That was a duet in the middle register. + </p> + <p> + Then from some far-off aerie would ring the tocsin of an elfin + silversmith, fast, furious, and tiny: + </p> + <p> + “Ping-ping-ping-ping-ping-ping-ping-ping!” + </p> + <p> + We surmised that a retired Swiss bell-ringer had secluded himself in our + remote backwater of the great city to mature fresh combinations of his + art. + </p> + <p> + Before the Voices came, Number 37 was as quiet a house as any in the + Square. Quieter than most, since it was vacant much of the time and the + ceremonious sign of the Mordaunt Estate, “For Rental to Suitable + Tenant,” invited inspection. “Suitable” is the catch in + that innocent-appearing legend. For the Mordaunt Estate, which is no + estate at all and never has been, but an ex-butcher of elegant + proclivities named Wagboom, prefers to rent its properties on a basis of + prejudice rather than profit, and is quite capable of rejecting an + applicant as unsuitable on purely eclectic grounds, such as garlic for + breakfast, or a glass eye. + </p> + <p> + How the new tenant had contrived to commend himself to Mr. + Mordaunt-Wagboom is something of a mystery. Probably it was his name + rather than his appearance, which was shiny, not to say seedy. He + encountered the Estate when that incorporated gentleman was engaged in + painting the front door, and, in a deprecating voice, inquired whether + twenty-five dollars a month would be considered. + </p> + <p> + “Maybe,” returned the Estate, whereupon the stranger + introduced himself, with a stiff little bow, as Mr. Winslow Merivale. + </p> + <p> + Mr. Wagboom was favorably impressed with this, as possessing aristocratic + implications. + </p> + <p> + “The name,” he pronounced, “is satisfactory. The sum is + satisfactory. It is, however, essential that the lessor should measure up + in character and status to the standards of the Mordaunt Estate.” + This he had adapted from the prospectus of a correspondence school, which + had come to him through the mail, very genteelly worded. “Family + man?” he added briskly. + </p> + <p> + “Yes, sir.” + </p> + <p> + “How many of you?” + </p> + <p> + “Two.” + </p> + <p> + “Wife?” + </p> + <p> + “No, sir,” said the little man, very low. + </p> + <p> + “Son? Daughter? What age?” + </p> + <p> + “I have never been blessed with a child.” + </p> + <p> + “Then who—” + </p> + <p> + “Willy Woolly would share the house with me, sir.” + </p> + <p> + For the first time the Mordaunt Estate noticed a small, fluffy poodle, + with an important expression, seated behind the railing. + </p> + <p> + “I don’t like dogs,” said the Mordaunt Estate curtly. + </p> + <p> + “Willy Woolly”—Mr. Winslow Merivale addressed his + companion—“this gentleman does not like dogs.” + </p> + <p> + The Mordaunt Estate felt suddenly convicted of social error. The feeling + deepened when Willy Woolly advanced, reckoned him up with an appraising + eye, and, without the slightest loss of dignity, raised himself on his + hind legs, offering the gesture of supplication. He did not, however, + droop his paws in the accepted canine style; he joined them, finger tip to + finger tip, elegantly and piously, after the manner of the Maiden’s + Prayer. + </p> + <p> + The Estate promptly capitulated. + </p> + <p> + “Some pup!” he exclaimed. “When did you want to move in?” + </p> + <p> + “At once, if you please.” + </p> + <p> + Before the Estate had finished his artistic improvements on the front + door, the new tenant had begun the transfer of his simple lares and + penates in a big hand-propelled pushcart. The initial load consisted in + the usual implements of eating, sitting, and sleeping. But the burden of + the half-dozen succeeding trips was homogeneous. Clocks. Big clocks, + little clocks, old clocks, new clocks, fat clocks, lean clocks, solemn + clocks, fussy clocks, clocks of red, of green, of brown, of pink, of + white, of orange, of blue, clocks that sang, and clocks that rang, clocks + that whistled, and blared, and piped, and drummed. One by one, the owner + established them in their new domicile, adjusted them, dusted them, and + wound them, and, as they set themselves once more to their meticulous + busy-ness, that place which had for so long been muffled in quiet and + deadened with dust, gave forth the tiny bustle of unresting mechanism and + the pleasant chime of the hours. Number 37 became the House of Silvery + Voices. + </p> + <p> + <br /><br /> + </p> + <hr /> + <p> + <br /><br /> + </p> + <p> + Thus came to Our Square, to be one of us, for better or for worse, Mr. + Winslow Merivale, promptly rechristened Stepfather Time. The Bonnie Lassie + gave him the name. She said that only a stepfather could bring up his + charges so badly. For his clocks were both independent and irresponsible, + though through no fault of their own. When they were wound they went. When + they were unwound they rested. Seldom were more than half of them + simultaneously busy, and their differences of opinion as to the hour were + radical and irreconcilable. The big, emphatic eight-day, opposite the + front door, might proclaim that it was eleven, only to be at once + contradicted by the little tinkler on the parlor mantel, which announced + that it was six, thereby starting up the cathedral case on the stairway + and the Grandfather in the dining-room, who held out respectively for + eight and two, while all the time it was really half-past one. Thence + arose in the early days painful misunderstandings on the part of Our + Square, for we are a simple people and deem it the duty of a timepiece to + keep time. In particular we were befooled by Grandfather, the + solemn-voiced Ananias of a clock with a long-range stroke and a most + convincing manner. So that Schepstein, the note-shaver, on his way to a + profitable appointment at 11 A.M., heard the hour strike (thirty-five + minutes in advance of the best professional opinion) from the House of + Silvery Voices, and was impelled to the recklessness of hiring a passing + taxi, thereby reaching his destination with half an hour to spare and half + a dollar to lack, for which latter he threatened to sue the Mordaunt + Estate’s tenant. To the credit side of the house’s account it + must be set down that MacLachan, the tailor, having started one of his + disastrous drunks within the precincts of his Home of Fashion, was on his + way to finish it in the gutter via the zigzag route from corner saloon to + corner saloon, when the Twelve Apostles clock in the basement window + lifted up its voice and (presumably through the influence of Peter) thrice + denied the hour, which was actually a quarter before midnight. “Losh!” + said MacLachan, who invariably reacted in tongue to the stimulus of Scotch + whiskey, “they’ll a’ be closed. Hame an’ to bed wi’ + ye, waster of the priceless hours!” And back he staggered to sleep + it off. + </p> + <p> + Then there was the disastrous case of the Little Red Doctor, who set out + to attend a highly interesting consultation at 4 P.M. and, hearing + Grandfather Ananias strike three, erroneously concluded that he had spare + time to stop in for a peek at Madame Tallafferr’s gout (which was + really vanity in the guise of tight shoes), and reached the hospital, only + to find it all over and the patient dead. + </p> + <p> + “It’s an outrage,” declared the Little Red Doctor + fiercely, “that an old lunatic can move in here from God-knows-where + in a pushcart and play merry hell with a hard-working practitioner’s + professional duties. And you’re the one to tell him so, Dominie. You’re + the diplomat of the Square.” + </p> + <p> + He even inveigled the Bonnie Lassie into backing him up in this + preposterous proposal. She had her own grievance against the House of + Silvery Voices. + </p> + <p> + “It isn’t the way it plays tricks on time alone,” said + she. “There’s one clock in there that’s worse than + conscience.” + </p> + <p> + And she brought her indictment against a raucous timepiece which was wont + to lead up to its striking with a long, preliminary clack-and-whirr, + alleging that twice, when she had quit her sculping early because the clay + was obdurate and wouldn’t come right, and had gone for a walk to + clear her vision, the clock had accosted her in these unjustifiable terms: + </p> + <p> + “Clacketty-whirr-rr-rr! Back-to-yer-worr-rr-rrk! Yerr-rr-rr-rr <i>wrong! + wrong! wrong! wrong!”</i> + </p> + <p> + “Wherefore,” said the Bonnie Lassie, “your appellant + prays that you be a dear, good, stern, forbidding Dominie and go over to + Number 37 and ask him what he means by it, anyway, and tell him he’s + got to stop it.” + </p> + <p> + Now, the Bonnie Lassie holds the power of the high, the middle, and the + low justice over all Our Square by the divine right of loveliness and + kindliness. So that evening I went while the Little Red Doctor, as a + self-constituted Committee in Waiting, sat on my bench. Stepfather Time + himself opened the door to me. + </p> + <p> + “What might they call you, sir, if I may ask?” he inquired + with timid courtesy. + </p> + <p> + “They might call me the Dominie hereabouts. And they do.” + </p> + <p> + “I have heard of you.” He motioned me to a seat in the bare + little room, alive with tickings and clickings. “You have lived long + here, sir?” + </p> + <p> + “Long.” + </p> + <p> + From some interminable distance a voice of time mocked me with a subtle + and solemn mockery: “<i>Long. Long. Long</i>.” + </p> + <p> + My host waited for the clock to finish before he spoke again. As I + afterward discovered, this was his invariable custom. + </p> + <p> + “I, too, am an old man,” he murmured. + </p> + <p> + “A hardy sixty, I should guess.” + </p> + <p> + “A long life. Might I ask you a question, sir,’ as to the folk + in this Square?” He hesitated a moment after I had nodded. “Are + they, as one might say, friendly? Neighborly?” + </p> + <p> + I was a little taken aback. “We are not an intrusive people.” + </p> + <p> + “No one,” he said, “has been to see my clocks.” + </p> + <p> + I began to perceive that this was a sad little man, and to mislike my + errand. “You live here quite alone?” I asked. + </p> + <p> + “Oh, no!” said he quickly. “You see, I have Willy + Woolly. Pardon me. I have not yet presented him.” + </p> + <p> + At his call the fluffy poodle ambled over to me, sniffed at my extended + hand, and, rearing, set his paws on my knee. + </p> + <p> + “He greets you as a friend,” said my new acquaintance in a + tone which indicated that I had been signally honored. “I trust that + we shall see you here often, Mr. Dominie. Would you like to inspect my + collection now?” + </p> + <p> + Here was my opening. “The fact is—” I began, and stopped + from sheer cowardice. The job was too distasteful. To wound that gentle + pride in his possessions which was obviously the life of the singular + being before me—I couldn’t do it. “The fact is,” I + repeated, “I—I have a friend outside waiting for me. The + Little Red Doctor—er—Dr. Smith, you know.” + </p> + <p> + “A physician?” he said eagerly. “Would he come in, do + you think? Willy Woolly has been quite feverish to-day.” + </p> + <p> + “I’ll ask him,” I replied, and escaped with that excuse. + </p> + <p> + When I broke it to the Little Red Doctor, the mildest thing he said to me + was to ask me why I should take him for a dash-binged vet! + </p> + <p> + Appeals to his curiosity finally overpersuaded him, and now it was my turn + to wait on the bench while he invaded the realm of the Voices. Happily for + me the weather was amiable; it was nearly two hours before my substitute + reappeared. He then tried to sneak away without seeing me. Balked in this + cowardly endeavor, he put on a vague professional expression and observed + that it was an obscure case. + </p> + <p> + “For a man of sixty,” I began, “Mr. Merivale—” + </p> + <p> + “<i>Who</i>?” interrupted the Little Red Doctor; “I’m + speaking of the dog.” + </p> + <p> + “Have you, then,” I inquired in insinuating accents, “become + a dash-binged vet?” + </p> + <p> + “A man can’t be a brute, can he!” he retorted angrily. + “When that animated mop put up his paws and stuck his tongue out + like a child—” + </p> + <p> + “I know,” I said. “You took on a new patient. Probably + gratis,” I added, with malice, for this was one of the Little Red + Doctor’s notoriously weak points. + </p> + <p> + “Just the same, he’s a fool dog.” + </p> + <p> + “On the contrary, he is a person of commanding intellect and nice + social discrimination,” I asserted, recalling Willy Woolly’s + flattering acceptance of myself. + </p> + <p> + “A faker,” asseverated my friend. “He pretends to see + things.” + </p> + <p> + I sat up straight on my bench. “Things? What kind of things?” + </p> + <p> + “Things that aren’t there,” returned the Little Red + Doctor, and fell to musing. “They couldn’t be,” he added + presently and argumentatively. + </p> + <p> + Receiving no encouragement when I sought further details, I asked whether + he had called the new resident to account for the delinquencies of his + clocks. He shook his head. + </p> + <p> + “I didn’t have time,” said he doggedly. + </p> + <p> + “Time? Why, there’s nothing but time in that house.” + </p> + <p> + The Little Red Doctor chose to take my feeble joke at par. “No time + at all. None of the clocks keep it.” + </p> + <p> + “How does he manage his life, then?” + </p> + <p> + “Willy Woolly does that for him. Barks him up in the morning. Jogs + his elbow at mealtimes. Tucks him in bed at night, for all I know.” + </p> + <p> + Thus abortively ended Our Square’s protest against Stepfather Time + and his House of Silvery Voices. The Little Red Doctor’s obscure + suggestion stuck in my mind, and a few nights later I made a second call. + Curiosity rather than neighborliness was the inciting cause. Therefore I + ought to have been embarrassed at the quiet warmth of my reception by both + of the tenants. Interrupting himself in the work of adjusting a new + acquisition’s mechanism, Stepfather Time settled me into the most + comfortable chair and immediately began to talk of clocks. + </p> + <p> + Good talk, it was; quaint and flavorous and erudite. But my attention kept + wandering to Willy Woolly, who, after politely kissing my hand, had + settled down behind his master’s chair. Willy Woolly was seeing + things. No pretense about it. His mournful eyes yearned hither and + thither, following some entity that moved in the room, dimmer than + darkness, more ethereal than shadow. His ears quivered. A muffled, + measured thumping sounded, dull and indeterminate like spirit rapping; it + took me an appreciable time to identify it as the noise of the poodle’s + tail, beating the floor. Once he whined, a quick, quivering, eager note. + And still the amateur of clocks murmured his placid lore. It was rather + more than old nerves could stand. + </p> + <p> + “The dog,” I broke in upon the stream of erudition. “Surely, + Mr. Merivale—” + </p> + <p> + “Willy Woolly?” He looked down, and the faithful one withdrew + himself from his vision long enough to lick the master hand. “Does + he disturb you?” + </p> + <p> + “Oh, no,” I answered, a little confused. “I only thought—it + seemed that he is uneasy about something.” + </p> + <p> + “There are finer sensibilities than we poor humans have,” said + my host gravely. + </p> + <p> + “Then you have noticed how he watches and follows?” + </p> + <p> + “He is always like that. Always, since.” + </p> + <p> + His “since” was one of the strangest syllables that ever came + to my ears. It implied nothing to follow. It was finality’s self. + </p> + <p> + “It is”—I sought a word—“interesting and + curious,” I concluded lamely, feeling how insufficient the word was. + </p> + <p> + “She comes back to him,” said my host simply. + </p> + <p> + No need to ask of whom he spoke. The pronoun was as final and definitive + as his “since.” Never have I heard such tenderness as he gave + to its utterance. Nor such desolation as dimmed his voice when he added: + </p> + <p> + “She never comes back to me.” + </p> + <p> + That evening he spoke no more of her. Yet I felt that I had been admitted + to an intimacy. And, as the habit grew upon me thereafter of dropping in + to listen to the remote, restful, unworldly quaintnesses of his + philosophy, fragments, dropped here and there, built up the outline of the + tragedy which had left him stranded in our little backwater of quiet. She + whom he had cherished since they were boy and girl together, had died in + the previous winter. She had formed the whole circle of his existence + within which he moved, attended by Willy Woolly, happily gathering his + troves. Her death had left him not so much alone as alien in the world. He + was without companionship except that of Willy Woolly, without interest + except that of his timepieces, and without hope except that of rejoining + her. Once he emerged from a long spell of musing, to say in a tone of + indescribable conviction: + </p> + <p> + “I suppose I was the happiest man in the world.” + </p> + <p> + Any chance incident or remark might turn his thought and speech, + unconscious of the transition, from his favorite technicalities back to + the past. Some comment of mine upon a specimen of that dismal songster, + the cuckoo clock, which stood on his mantel, had started him into one of + his learned expositions. + </p> + <p> + “The first cuckoo clock, as you are doubtless aware, sir”—he + was always scrupulous to assume knowledge on the part of his hearer, no + matter how abstruse or technical the subject; it was a phase of his + inherent courtesy—“was intended to represent not the cuckoo, + but the blackbird. It had a double pipe for the hours, ‘Pit-weep! + Pit-weep!’ and a single—” + </p> + <p> + His voice trailed into silence as the mechanical bird of his own + collection popped forth and piped its wooden lay. Willy Woolly pattered + over, sat down before it, and, gazing through and beyond the meaningless + face with eyes of adoration whose purport there was no mistaking, whined + lovingly. + </p> + <p> + “When the cuckoo sounded,” continued the collector without the + slightest change of intonation, “she used to imitate it to puzzle + Willy Woolly. A merry heart! ... All was so still after it stopped + beating. The clocks forgot to strike.” + </p> + <p> + The poodle, turning his absorbed regard from the Presence that moves + beyond time and its perishing voices, trotted to his master and nuzzled + the frail hand. + </p> + <p> + The hand fondled him. “Yes, little dog,” murmured the man. His + eyes, sad as those of the animal, quested the dimness. + </p> + <p> + “Why does she come to him and not to me? He loved her dearly, didn’t + you, little dog? But not as I did.” There was a quivering note of + jealousy in his voice. “Why is my vision blinded to what he sees?” + </p> + <p> + “You have said yourself that there are finer sensibilities than + ours,” I suggested. + </p> + <p> + He shook his head. “It lies deeper than that. I think he is drawing + near her. He used to have a little bark that he kept for her alone. In the + dead of night I have heard him give that bark—since. And I knew that + she was speaking to him. I think that he will go first. Perhaps he will + tell her that I am coming.... But I should be very lonely.” + </p> + <p> + “Willy’s a stout young thing,” I asserted, “with + years of life before him.” + </p> + <p> + “Perhaps,” he returned doubtfully. A gleam of rare fun lit up + his pale, vague eyes. “Can’t you see him dodging past Saint + Peter through the pearly gates” (“I was brought up a + Methodist,” he added in apologetic explanation), “trotting + along the alabaster streets sniffing about for her among all the Shining + Ones, listening for her voice amid the sound of the harps, and when he + finds her, hallelujahing with that little bark that was for her alone: + ‘Here I am, mistress! Here I am! And <i>he’s</i> coming soon, + mistress. Your Old Boy is coming soon.’” + </p> + <p> + When I retailed that conversation to the Little Red Doctor, he snorted and + said that Stepfather Time was one degree crazier than Willy Woolly and + that I wasn’t much better than a higher moron myself. Well, if I’ve + got to be called a fool by my best friends, I’d rather be called it + in Greek than in English. It’s more euphonious. + </p> + <p> + <br /><br /> + </p> + <hr /> + <p> + <br /><br /> + </p> + <p> + The pair in Number 37 soon settled down to a routine life. Every morning + Stepfather Time got out his big pushcart and set forth in search of + treasure, accompanied by Willy Woolly. Sometimes the dog trotted beneath + the cart; sometimes he rode in it. He was always on the job. Never did he + indulge in those divagations so dear to the normal canine heart. Other + dogs and their ways interested him not. Cats simply did not exist in his + circumscribed life. Even to the shining mark of a boy on a bicycle he was + indifferent, and when a dog has reached that stage one may safely say of + him that he has renounced the world and all its vanities. Willy Woolly’s + one concern in life was his master and their joint business. + </p> + <p> + Soon they became accepted familiars of Our Square. Despite the general + conviction that they were slightly touched, we even became proud of them. + They lent distinction to the locality by getting written up in a Sunday + supplement, Willy Woolly being specially photographed therefor, a gleam of + transient glory, which, however it may have gratified our local pride, + left both of the subjects quite indifferent. Stepfather Time might have + paid more heed to it had he not, at the time, been wholly preoccupied in a + difficult quest. + </p> + <p> + In a basement window, far over on Avenue D, stood an old and battered + timepiece of which Stepfather Time had heard the voice but never seen the + face. Each of three attempts to investigate with a view to negotiations + had been frustrated by a crabbed and violent-looking man with a repellent + club. Nevertheless, the voice alone had ensnared the connoisseur; it was, + by the test of the pipe which he carried on all his quests, D in alt, and + would thus complete the major chord of a chime which he had long been + building up. (She had loved, best of all, harmonic combinations of the + clock bells.) Every day he would halt in front of the place and wait to + hear it strike, and its owner would peer out from behind it and shake a + wasted fist and curse him with strange, hoarse foreign oaths, while Willy + Woolly tugged at his trouser leg and urged him to pass on from that + unchancy spot. All that he could learn about the basement dweller was that + his name was Lukisch and he owed for his rent. + </p> + <p> + Mr. Lukisch had nothing special against the queer old party who made sheep’s + eyes at his clock every day. He hated him quite impartially, as he hated + everybody. Mr. Lukisch had a bad heart in more senses than one, and a + grudge against the world which he blamed for the badness of his heart. + Also he had definite ideas of reprisal, which were focused by a dispossess + notice, and directed particularly upon the person and property of his + landlord. The clock he needed as the instrument of his vengeance; + therefore he would not have sold it at any price to the sheep-eyed old + lunatic of the pushcart, who now, on the eve of his eviction, stood gazing + in with wistful contemplation. Presently he passed on and Mr. Lukisch + resumed his tinkering with the clock’s insides. He was very delicate + and careful about it, for these were the final touches, preparatory to his + leaving the timepiece as a memento when he should quietly depart that + evening, shortly before nine. What might happen after nine, or, rather, on + the stroke of nine, was no worry of his, though it might be and probably + would be of the landlord’s, provided that heartless extortioner + survived it. + </p> + <p> + Having completed his operations, Mr. Lukisch sat down in a rickety chair + and gazed at the clock, face to face, with contemplative satisfaction. + Stepfather Time would have been interested in the contrast between those + two physiognomies. The clock’s face, benign and bland, would have + deceived him. But, innocent though he was in the ways of evil, the man’s + face might have warned him. + </p> + <p> + Something within the clock’s mechanism clicked and checked and went + on again. The sound, quite unexpected, gave Mr. Lukisch a bad start. Could + something have gone wrong with the combination? Suppose a premature + release.... At that panic thought something within Mr. Lukisch’s bad + heart clicked and checked and did not go on again. The fear in his eyes + faded and was succeeded by an expression of surprise and inquiry. Whether + the inquiry was answered, nobody could have guessed from the still, + unwinking regard on the face of the victim of heart failure. + </p> + <p> + By and by a crowd gathered on the sidewalk, drawn by that mysterious + instinct for sensation which attracts the casual and the idle. Two bold + spirits entered the door and stood, hesitant, just inside, awed because + the clock seemed so startlingly alive in that place. Some one sent + upstairs for the landlord, who arrived to bemoan the unjust fates which + had not only mulcted him of two months’ rent with nothing to show + for it but a rickety clock, but had also saddled him with a wholly + superfluous corpse. He abused both indiscriminately, but chiefly the clock + because it gave the effect of being sentient. So fervently did he curse it + that Stepfather Time, repassing with Willy Woolly, heard him and entered. + </p> + <p> + “And who”—the landlord addressed high Heaven with a + gesture at once pious and pessimistic—“is to pay me fourteen + dollars back rent this dirty beggar owes?” + </p> + <p> + “The man,” said Stepfather Time gently, “is dead.” + </p> + <p> + “He is.” The landlord confirmed the unwelcome fact with + objurgations. “Now must come the po-liss, the coroner, trouble, and + expense. And what have I who run my property honest and respectable got to + pay for it? Some rags and a bum clock.” + </p> + <p> + Willy Woolly sniffed at one protruding foot and growled. Dead or alive, + this was not Willy Woolly’s kind of man. “Now, now, Willy + Woolly!” reproved his master. “Who are we that we should judge + him?” + </p> + <p> + “But I don’t <i>like</i> him,” declared Willy Woolly in + unequivocal dog language. + </p> + <p> + “I think from his face that he has suffered much,” said the + gentle collector, wise in human pain. + </p> + <p> + “Me; I suppose I don’t suffer!” pointed out the landlord + vehemently. “Fourteen dollars out. Two months’ rent. A bum + clock.” + </p> + <p> + He kicked the shabby case which whizzed and birred and struck five. The + voice of its bell, measured and mellow and pure, was unquestionably D in + alt. + </p> + <p> + “My dear sir,” said Stepfather Time urbanely, but quivering + underneath his calm manner with the hot eagerness of the chase, “I + will buy your clock.” + </p> + <p> + A gust of rough laughter passed through the crowd. The injurious word + “nut” floated in the air, and was followed by “Verrichter.” + The landlord took thought and hope. + </p> + <p> + “It is a very fine clock,” he declared. + </p> + <p> + “It is a bum clock,” Stepfather Time reminded him mildly. + </p> + <p> + “Stepnadel, the auctioneer, would pay me much money for it.” + </p> + <p> + “I will pay you much money for it.” + </p> + <p> + “How much?” + </p> + <p> + “Seven dollars. That is one month’s rent that he owed.” + </p> + <p> + “Two months’ rent I must have.” + </p> + <p> + “One,” said Stepfather Time firmly. + </p> + <p> + “Two,” said the landlord insistently. + </p> + <p> + “Urff! Grr—rr—rr—rrff!” said Willy Woolly in + emphatic dissuasion. + </p> + <p> + Stepfather Time was scandalized. Expert opinion was quite outside of Willy + Woolly’s province. Only once in the course of their years together + had he interfered in a purchase. Justice compelled Stepfather Time to + recall that the subject of Willy’s protests on that occasion had + subsequently turned out to be far less antique than the worm holes in the + woodwork (artificially blown in with powder) would have led the + unsuspecting to suppose. But about the present legacy there could be no + such question. It was genuine. It was old. It was valuable. It possessed a + seraphic note pitched true to the long-desired chord. + </p> + <p> + Extracting a ten-dollar note from his wallet, Stepfather Time waved it + beneath the landlord’s wrinkled and covetous nose. The landlord + capitulated. Willy Woolly, sniffing at the clock with fur abristle, lifted + up his voice and wailed. Perhaps his delicate nose had already detected + the faint, unhallowed odor of the chemicals within. He stubbornly refused + to ride back in the cart with the new acquisition, and was accused of + being sulky and childish. + </p> + <p> + <br /><br /> + </p> + <hr /> + <p> + <br /><br /> + </p> + <p> + The relic of the late unlamented Lukisch was temporarily installed in a + high chair before the open window giving on the areaway of Number 37. + There it briefly beamed upon the busy life of Our Square with its bland + and hypocritical face, and there, thrice and no more, it sounded the + passing of the hours with its sweet and false voice, biding the stroke of + nine. Meantime Willy Woolly settled down to keep watch on it and could not + be moved from that duty. Every time it struck the half he growled. At the + hour he barked and raged. When Stepfather Time sought to draw him away to + dinner he committed the unpardonable sin of dog-dom, he snarled at his + master. Turning this strange manifestation over in his troubled mind, the + collector decided that Willy Woolly must be ill, and therefore that + evening went to seek the Little Red Doctor and his wisdom. + </p> + <p> + Together they came across the park space opposite the House of Silvery + Voices in time to witness the final scene. + </p> + <p> + The new clock struck the half after eight as they reached the turn in the + path. A long, quavering howl, mingled of rage and desperation, answered in + Willy Woolly’s voice. + </p> + <p> + “You hear?” said Stepfather Time anxiously to the Little Red + Doctor. “The dog is not himself.” + </p> + <p> + They saw him rear up against the clock case. He seemed to be trying to + tear it open with his teeth. + </p> + <p> + “Willy!” cried his master in a tone such as, I suppose, the + well-loved companion had not heard twice before in his life. “Down, + Willy!” + </p> + <p> + The dog drooped back. But it was not in obedience. For once he disregarded + the master’s command. Perhaps he did not even hear it in the + absorption of his dread and rage. Step by step he withdrew, then rushed + and launched himself straight at the timepiece. Slight though his bulk + was, the impetus of the charge did the work. The clock reeled, toppled, + and fell outward through the window; then— + </p> + <p> + From the House of Silvery Voices rose a roar that smote the heavens. A + roar and a belch of flame and a spreading, poisonous stench that struck + the two men in the park to earth. When they struggled to their feet again, + the smoke had parted and the House of Silvery Voices gaped open, its front + wall stripped bodily away. But within, the sound of the busy industry of + time went on uninterrupted. + </p> + <p> + Weaving and wobbling on his feet, Stepfather Time staggered toward the pot + calling on the name of Willy Woolly. At the gate he stopped, put forth his + hand, and lifted from the railing a wopsy, woolly fragment, no bigger than + a sheet of note paper. It was red and warm and wet. + </p> + <p> + “He’s gone,” said Stepfather Time. + </p> + <p> + The Clock of Conscience took up the tale. “Gone. Gone. Gone,” + it pealed. + </p> + <p> + As the collector would not leave the shattered house, they sent for me to + stay the night with him. A strange vigil! For now it was the man who + followed with intent, unworldly eyes that which I, with my lesser vision, + could not discern. And the Unseen moved swiftly about the desolate room, + low to the floor, and seemed finally to stop, motionless beneath a + caressing hand. I thought to hear that dull, measured thumping of a + grateful tail, but it was only the Twelve Apostles getting ready to + strike. + </p> + <p> + Only once that night did Stepfather Time speak, and then not to me. + </p> + <p> + “Tell her,” he said in an assured murmur, “that I shan’t + be long.” + </p> + <p> + “Not-long. Not-long. Not-long. Not-long. Not-long,” confirmed + Grandfather from his stance on the stairway. + </p> + <p> + In that assurance Stepfather Time fell asleep. He did not go out again + with his pushcart, but sat in the rear room while the Mordaunt Estate in + person superintended the job of putting a new front on the house. + </p> + <p> + The night after it was finished I received an urgent telephone call to + come there at once. At the entrance I met the Little Red Doctor coming + out. + </p> + <p> + “The clocks have stopped,” said he gently. + </p> + <p> + So I turned to cross the park with him. + </p> + <p> + “I shall certify,” said he, “heart disease.” + </p> + <p> + “You may certify what you please,” said I. “But what do + you believe?” + </p> + <p> + The Little Red Doctor, who prides himself on being a hard-bitted + materialist, glared at me as injuriously as if my innocent question had + been an insult. + </p> + <p> + “I don’t believe it!” he averred violently. “Do + you take me for a sentimental idiot that I should pin silly labels on my + old friend, Death?” His expression underwent a curious change. + “But I never saw such joy on any living face,” he muttered + under his breath. + </p> + <p> + <br /><br /> + </p> + <hr /> + <p> + <br /><br /> + </p> + <p> + The House of Silvery Voices is silent now. But its echo still lives and + makes music in Our Square. For, with the proceeds of Stepfather Time’s + clocks, an astounding total, we have built a miniature clock tower facing + Number 37, with a silvery voice of its own, for memory. The Bonnie Lassie + designed the tower, and because there is love and understanding in all + that the Bonnie Lassie sets her wonder-working hand to, it is as beautiful + as it is simple. Among ourselves we call it the Tower of the Two Faithful + Hearts. + </p> + <p> + The silvery voice within it is the product of a paragon among timepieces, + a most superior instrument, of unimpeachable construction and great cost. + But it has one invincible peculiarity, the despair of the best consulting + experts who have been called in to remedy it and, one and all, have failed + for reasons which they cannot fathom. How should they! + </p> + <p> + It never keeps time. + </p> + <p> + <br /><br /> + </p> + <hr /> + <p> + <a name="link2H_4_0005" id="link2H_4_0005"> </a> + </p> + <div style="height: 4em;"> + <br /><br /><br /><br /> + </div> + <h2> + HOME-SEEKERS’ GOAL + </h2> + <p> + Long ago I made an important discovery. It comes under the general head of + statics and is this: by occupying an invariable bench in Our Square, + looking venerable and contemplative and indigenous, as if you had grown up + in that selfsame spot, you will draw people to come to you for + information, and they will frequently give more than they get of it. Such, + I am informed, is the method whereby the flytrap orchid achieves a + satisfying meal. Not that I seek to claim for myself the colorful + splendors of the Cypripedium, being only a tired old pedagogue with a + taste for the sunlight and for observing the human bubbles that float and + bob on the current in our remote eddy of life. Nevertheless, I can follow + a worthy example, even though the exemplar be only a carnivorous bloom. + And, I may confess, on the afternoon of October 1st, I was in a receptive + mood for such flies of information as might come to me concerning two + large invading vans which had rumbled into our quiet precincts and, after + a pause for inquiry, stopped before the Mordaunt Estate’s newly + repaired property at Number 37. + </p> + <p> + The Mordaunt Estate in person was painting the front wall. The design + which he practiced was based less upon any previsioned concept of art than + upon the purchase, at a price, of a rainbow-end job lot of colors. + </p> + <p> + The vanners descended, bent on negotiations. Progress was obviously + unsatisfactory, the artist, after brief and chill consideration, reverting + to his toil. Now, tact and discretion are essential in approaching the + Mordaunt Estate, for he is a prickly institution. I was sure that the + newcomers had taken the wrong tack with him. + </p> + <p> + Discomfiture was in their mien as they withdrew in my direction. I mused + upon my bench, with a metaphysical expression which I have found useful in + such cases. They conferred. They approached. They begged my pardon. With + an effort which can hardly have failed to be effective, I dragged myself + back to the world of actualities and opened languid eyes upon them. It is + possible that I opened them somewhat wider than the normal, for they fell + at once upon the nearer and smaller of the pair, a butterfly of the most + vivid and delightful appearance. + </p> + <p> + “Is the house with the ‘To Let’ sign on it really to + let, do you know, sir?” she inquired, adding music to color with her + voice. + </p> + <p> + “So I understand,” said I, rising. + </p> + <p> + “And the party with the yellow nose, who is desecrating the front,” + put in the butterfly’s companion. “Is he a lunatic or a + designer of barber poles?” + </p> + <p> + “He is a proud and reserved ex-butcher, named Wagboom, now doing a + limited but high-class business in rentals as the Mordaunt Estate.” + </p> + <p> + “He may be the butcher, but he talks more like the pig. All we could + get out of him was a series of grunts when we addressed him by name.” + </p> + <p> + “Ah, but you used the wrong name. For all business purposes he + should be addressed as the Mordaunt Estate, his duly incorporated title. + Wagboom is an irritant to a haughty property-owner’s soul.” + </p> + <p> + “Shall we go back and try a counter-irritant?” asked the young + man of his companion. + </p> + <p> + “With a view to renting?” I inquired. + </p> + <p> + “Yes.” + </p> + <p> + “Do you keep dogs?” + </p> + <p> + “No,” said the young man. + </p> + <p> + “Or clocks by the hundred?” + </p> + <p> + “Certainly not,” answered the butterfly. + </p> + <p> + “Or bombs?” + </p> + <p> + Upon their combined and emphatic negative they looked at each other with a + wild surmise which said plainly: “Are they <i>all</i> crazy down + here?” + </p> + <p> + “If you do,” I explained kindly, “you might have trouble + in dealing. The latest tenant of Number 37 was a fluffy poodle who pushed + one of two hundred clocks into the front area so that it exploded and blew + away the front wall.” And I outlined the history of that canine + clairvoyant, Willy Woolly. “The Mordaunt Estate is sensitive about + his tenants, anyway. He rents, not on profits, but on prejudice. Perhaps + it would be well for you to flatter him a little; admire his style of + house painting.” + </p> + <p> + Accepting this counsel with suitable expressions, they returned to the + charge, addressed the proprietor of Number 37 by his official title and + delivered the most gratifying opinions regarding his artistry. + </p> + <p> + “That,” said the Mordaunt Estate, wiping his painty hands on + his knees with brilliant results, as he turned a fat and smiling face to + them, “is after the R. Noovo style. I dunno who R. Noovo was, but he’s + a bear for color. Are you artists?” + </p> + <p> + “We’re house-hunters,” explained the young man. + </p> + <p> + “As for tenants,” said the Mordaunt Estate, “I take + ’em or leave ’em as I like ’em or don’t. I like + you folks. You got an eye for a tasty bit of colorin’. Eight rooms, + bath, and kitchen. By the week in case we don’t suit each other. + Very choice and classy for a young married couple. Eight dollars, in + advance. Prices for R. Noovo dwellings has riz.” + </p> + <p> + “We’re not married,” said the young man. + </p> + <p> + “Hey? Whaddye mean, not married?” demanded that highly + respectable institution, the Mordaunt Estate, severely. His expression + mollified as he turned to the butterfly. “Aimin’ to be, I s’pose.” + </p> + <p> + “We only met this morning; so we haven’t decided yet,” + answered the young man. “At least,” he added blandly, as his + companion seemed to be struggling for utterance, “she hasn’t + informed me of her decision, if she has made it.” + </p> + <p> + Bewilderment spread like a gray mist across the painty features of the + Mordaunt Estate. “Nothin’ doin’,” he began, + “until—” + </p> + <p> + “Don’t decide hastily,” adjured the young man. “Take + this coin.” He forced a half-dollar into the reluctant hand of the + decorator. + </p> + <p> + “Nothin’ doin’ on account, either. Pay as you enter.” + </p> + <p> + “Only one of us is going to enter. The coin decides. Spin it. Your + call,” he said to the butterfly. + </p> + <p> + “Heads,” cried the butterfly. + </p> + <p> + “Tails,” proclaimed the arbiter, as the silver shivered into + silence on the flagging. + </p> + <p> + “Then the house is yours,” said the butterfly. “Good + luck go with it.” She smiled, gamely covering her disappointment. + </p> + <p> + “I don’t want it,” returned the young man. + </p> + <p> + “Play fair,” she exhorted him. “We both agreed solemnly + to stand by the toss. Didn’t we?” + </p> + <p> + “What did we agree?” + </p> + <p> + “That the winner should have the choice.” + </p> + <p> + “Very well. I won, didn’t I?” + </p> + <p> + “You certainly did.” + </p> + <p> + “And I choose not to take the house,” he declared + triumphantly. “It’s a very nice house, but”—he + shaded his eyes as he directed them upon the proud-pied façade, blinking + significantly—“I’d have to wear smoked glasses if I + lived in it, and they don’t suit my style of beauty.” + </p> + <p> + “You’d not get it now, young feller, if you was to go down on + your knees with a thousand dollars in each hand,” asserted the + offended Estate. + </p> + <p> + “See!” said the young man to the butterfly. “Fate + decides for you.” + </p> + <p> + “But what will you do?” she asked solicitously. + </p> + <p> + “Perhaps I can find some other place in the Square.” + </p> + <p> + She held out her hand. “You’ve been very nice and helpful, but—I + think not. Good-bye.” + </p> + <p> + He regarded the hand blankly. “Not—what?” + </p> + <p> + “Not here in this Square, if you don’t mind.” + </p> + <p> + “But where else is there?” he asked piteously. “You know + yourself there are countless thousands of homeless drifters floating + around on this teeming island in vans, with no place to land.” + </p> + <p> + “Try Jersey. Or Brooklyn,” was her hopeful suggestion. + </p> +<pre xml:space="preserve"> + “‘And bade betwixt their shores to be + The unplumb’d, salt, estranging sea,’” + </pre> + <p> + he quoted with dramatic intonation, adding helpfully: “Matthew + Arnold. Or is it Arnold Bennett? Anyway, think how far away those places + are,” he pleaded. “From you!” he concluded. + </p> + <p> + A little decided frown crept between her eyebrows. “I’ve + accepted you as a gentleman on trust,” she began, when he broke in: + </p> + <p> + “Don’t do it. It’s a fearfully depressing thing to be + reminded that you’re a gentleman on trust and expected to live up to + it. Think how it cramps one’s style, not to mention limiting one’s + choice of real estate. A gentleman may stake his future happiness and his + hope of a home on the toss of a coin, but he mustn’t presume to want + to see the other party to the gamble again, even if she’s the only + thing in the whole sweep of his horizon worth seeing. Is that fair? Where + is Eternal Justice, I ask you, when such things—” + </p> + <p> + “Oh, do stop!” she implored. “I don’t think you’re + sane.” + </p> + <p> + “No such claim is put forth on behalf of the accused. He confesses + to complete loss of mental equilibrium since—let me see—since + 11.15 A.M.” + </p> + <p> + Here the Mordaunt Estate, who had been doing some shrewd thinking on his + own behalf, interposed. + </p> + <p> + “I’d rather rent to two than one,” he said + insinuatingly. “More reliable and steady with the rent. Settin’ + aside the young feller’s weak eyes, you’re a nice-matched + pair. Gittin’ a license is easy, if you know the ropes. I’d + even be glad to go with you to—” + </p> + <p> + “As to not being married,” broke in the butterfly, with the + light of a great resolve in her eye, “this gentleman may speak for + himself. I am.” + </p> + <p> + “Am what?” queried the Estate. + </p> + <p> + “Married.” + </p> + <p> + “Damn!” exploded the young man. “I mean, congratulations + and all that sort of thing. I—I’m really awfully sorry. You’ll + forgive my making such an ass of myself, won’t you?” + </p> + <p> + To her troubled surprise there was real pain in the eyes which he turned + rather helplessly away from her. Had she kept her own gaze fixed on them, + she would have experienced a second surprise a moment later, at a sudden + alteration and hardening of their expression. For his groping regard had + fallen upon her left hand, which was gloved. Now, a wedding ring may be + put on and off at will, but the glove, beneath which it has been once + worn, never thereafter quite regains the maidenly smoothness of the third + finger. The butterfly’s gloves were not new, yet there showed not + the faintest trace of a ridge in the significant locality. While admitting + to himself that the evidence fell short of conclusiveness, the young man + decided to accept it as a working theory and to act, win or lose, do or + die, upon the hopeful hypothesis that his delightful but elusive companion + was a li—that is to say, an inventor. He would give that invention + the run of its young life! + </p> + <p> + “We—ell,” the Mordaunt Estate was saying, “that’s + too bad. Ain’t a widdah lady are you?” + </p> + <p> + “My husband is in France.” + </p> + <p> + With a prayer that his theory was correct, the young man rushed in where + many an angel might have feared to tread. “Maybe he’ll stay + there,” he surmised. + </p> + <p> + “What!” + </p> + <p> + In a musical but unappreciated barytone he hummed the initial line of + “The Girl I Left Behind Me.” + </p> +<pre xml:space="preserve"> + “‘The maids of France are fond and free.’ +</pre> + <p> + “Besides,” he added, “it’s quite unhealthy there + at this season. I wouldn’t be surprised”—he halted—“at + anything,” he finished darkly. + </p> + <p> + Outraged by this ruthless if hypothetical murder of an equally + hypothetical spouse, she groped vainly for adequate words. Before she + could find them— + </p> + <p> + “I’ll wait around—in hopes,” he decided calmly. + </p> + <p> + So, that was the attitude this ruffian took with a respectable and + ostensibly married woman! And she had mistaken him for a gentleman! She + had even begun to feel a reluctant sort of liking for him; at any rate, an + interest in his ambiguous and perplexing personality. Now—how dared + he! She put it to him at once: “How dare you!” + </p> + <p> + “Flashing eye, stamp of the foot, hands outstretched in gesture of + loathing and repulsion; villain registers shame and remorse,” + prescribed the unimpressed subject of her retort. “As a wife, you + are, of course, unapproachable. As a widow, grass-green, crepe-black, or + only prospective”—he suddenly assumed a posture made familiar + through the public prints by a widely self-exploited savior of the + suffering—“there is H-O-P-E!” he intoned solemnly, + wagging a benignant forefinger at her. + </p> + <p> + The butterfly struggled with an agonizing desire to break down into + unbridled mirth and confess. Pride restrained her; pride mingled with + foreboding as to what this exceedingly progressive and by no means + unattractive young suitor—for he could be relegated to no lesser + category—might do next. She said coolly and crisply: + </p> + <p> + “I wish nothing more to do with you whatever.” + </p> + <p> + “Then I needn’t quit the Garden of Ed—I mean, Our + Square?” + </p> + <p> + “You may do as you see fit,” she replied loftily. + </p> + <p> + “Act the gent, can’t chuh?” reproved the Mordaunt + Estate. “You’re makin’ the lady cry.” + </p> + <p> + “He isn’t,” denied the lady, with ferocity. “He + couldn’t.” + </p> + <p> + “He’ll find no spot to lay his head in Our Square, ma’am,” + the polite Estate assured her. + </p> + <p> + “If he wants to stay, he’ll have to live in his van.” + </p> + <p> + “Grand little idea! I’ll do it. I’ll be a van hermit and + fast and watch and pray beneath your windows.” + </p> + <p> + “You may live in your van forever,” retorted the justly + incensed butterfly, “but I’ll never speak to you as long as I + live in this house. Never, never, <i>never</i>!” + </p> + <p> + She vanished beyond the outrageous decorations of the wall. The Mordaunt + Estate took down the “To Let” sign, and went in search of a + helper to unload the van. The deserted and denounced young man crawled + into his own van and lay down with his head on a tantalus and his feet on + the collected works of Thackeray, to consider what had happened to him. + But his immediate memories were not conducive to sober consideration, shot + through as they were with the light of deep-gray eyes and the fugitive + smile of lips sensitive to every changeful thought. So he fell to dreams. + As to the meeting which had brought the now parted twain to Our Square, it + had come about in this wise: + </p> + <p> + Two miles northwest of Our Square as the sparrow flies, on the brink of a + maelstrom of traffic, two moving-vans which had belied their name by + remaining motionless for five impassioned minutes, disputed the right of + way, nose to nose, while the injurious remarks of the respective drivers + inflamed the air. A girlish but decided voice from within the recesses of + the larger van said: “Don’t give an inch.” + </p> + <p> + Deep inside the other vehicle a no less decisive barytone said what + sounded like “Give an ell,” but probably was not, as there was + no corresponding movement of the wheels. + </p> + <p> + What the van drivers said is the concern of the censor. What they did upon + descending to the sidewalk comes under the head of direct action, and as + such was the concern of the authorities which pried them asunder and led + them away. Thereupon the inner habitants of the deserted equipages emerged + from amid their lares and penates, and met face to face. The effect upon + the occupant of the smaller van was electric, not to say paralytic. + </p> + <p> + “Oh, glory!” he murmured faintly, with staring eyes. + </p> + <p> + “Would you kindly move?” said the girl, in much the same tone + that one would employ toward an obnoxious beetle, supposing that one ever + addressed a beetle with freezing dignity. + </p> + <p> + The young man directed a suffering look upon his van. “I’ve + done nothing else for the last three days. Tell me where I can move to and + I’ll bless you as a benefactress of the homeless.” + </p> + <p> + “Anywhere out of my way,” she replied with a severity which + the corners of her sensitive mouth were finding it hard to live up to. + </p> + <p> + “Behold me eliminated, deleted, expunged,” he declared humbly. + “But first let me explain that when I told my idiot chauffeur to + give em—that is, to hold his ground, I didn’t know who you + were.” + </p> + <p> + She wrinkled dainty brows at him. “Well, you don’t know who I + am now, do you?” + </p> + <p> + “I don’t have to,” he responded with fervor. “Just + on sight you may have all of this street and as many of the adjoining + avenues as you can use. By the way, who <i>are</i> you?” The + question was put with an expression of sweet and innocent simplicity. + </p> + <p> + The girl looked at him hard and straight. “I don’t think that + introductions are necessary.” + </p> + <p> + He sighed outrageously. “They Met but to Part; Laura Jean Libbey; + twenty-fourth large edition,” he murmured. “And I was just + about to present myself as Martin Dyke, vagrant, but harmless, and very + much at your service. However, I perceive with pain that it is, indeed, my + move. May I help you up to the wheel of your ship? I infer that you intend + driving yourself.” + </p> + <p> + “I’ll have to, if I’m to get anywhere.” A look of + dismay overspread her piquant face. “Oh, dear! I don’t in the + least understand this machinery. I can’t drive this kind of car.” + </p> + <p> + “Glory be!” exclaimed Mr. Dyke. “I mean, that’s + too bad,” he amended gracefully. “Won’t you let me take + you where you want to go?” + </p> + <p> + “What’ll become of your van, then? Besides, I haven’t + any idea where I want to go.” + </p> + <p> + “What! Are you, too, like myself, a wandering home-seeker on the + face of an overpopulated earth, Miss?” + </p> + <p> + The “Miss” surprised her. Why the sudden lapse on the part of + this extraordinary and self-confident young person into the terminology of + the servant class? + </p> + <p> + “Yes, I am,” she admitted. + </p> + <p> + “A hundred thousand helpless babes in the wood,” he announced + sonorously, “are wandering about, lost and homeless on this + melancholy and moving day of October 1st, waiting for the little robins to + come and bury them under the brown and withered leaves. Ain’t it + harrowing, Miss! Personally I should prefer to have the last sad dirge + sung over me by a quail on toast, or maybe a Welsh rabbit. What time did + you breakfast, Miss? I had a ruined egg at six-fifteen.” + </p> + <p> + The girl surrendered to helpless and bewildered laughter. “You ask + the most personal questions as if they were a matter of course.” + </p> + <p> + “By way of impressing you with my sprightly and entertaining + individuality, so that you will appreciate the advantages to be derived + from my continued acquaintance, and grapple me to your soul with hooks of + steel, as Hamlet says. Or was it Harold Bell Wright? Do you care for + reading, Miss? I’ve got a neat little library inside, besides an + automatic piano and a patent ice-box.... By the way, Miss, is that + policeman doing setting-up exercises or motioning us to move on? <i>I</i> + think he is.” + </p> + <p> + “But I can’t move on,” she said pathetically. + </p> + <p> + “Couldn’t you work my van, Miss? It’s quite simple.” + </p> + <p> + She gave it a swift examination. “Yes,” said she. “It’s + almost like my own car.” + </p> + <p> + “Then I’ll lead, and you follow, Miss.” + </p> + <p> + “But I can’t—I don’t know who—I don’t + <i>want</i> your van. Where shall we—” + </p> + <p> + “Go?” he supplied. “To jail, I judge, unless we go + somewhere else and do it <i>now</i>. Come on! We’re off!” + </p> + <p> + Overborne by his insistence and further influenced by the scowl of the + approaching officer, she took the wheel. At the close of some involved but + triumphant maneuverings the exchanged vans removed themselves from the + path of progress, headed eastward to Fourth Avenue and bore downtownward. + Piloting a strange machine through rush traffic kept the girl in the + trailer too busy for speculation, until, in the recesses of a side street, + her leader stopped and she followed suit. Mr. Dyke’s engaging and + confident face appeared below her. + </p> + <p> + “Within,” he stated, pointing to a quaint Gothic doorway, + “they dispense the succulent pig’s foot and the innocuous and + unconvincing near-but-not-very-beer. It is also possible to get something + to eat and drink. May I help you down, Miss?” + </p> + <p> + “No,” said the girl dolefully. “I want to go home.” + </p> + <p> + “But on your own showing, you haven’t any home.” + </p> + <p> + “I’ve got to find one. Immediately.” + </p> + <p> + “You’ll need help, Miss. It’ll take some finding.” + </p> + <p> + “I wish you wouldn’t call me Miss,” she said with + evidences of petulance. + </p> + <p> + “Have it your own way, Lady. We strive to please, as R.L. Stevenson + says. Or is it R.H. Macy? Anyway, a little bite of luncheon Lady, while we + discuss the housing problem—” + </p> + <p> + “Why are you calling me Lady, now?” + </p> + <p> + He shook a discouraged head. “You seem very hard to please, Sister. + I’ve tried you with Miss and I’ve tried you with Lady—” + </p> + <p> + “Are you a gentleman or are you a—a—” + </p> + <p> + “Don’t say it, Duchess. Don’t! Remember what Tennyson + says: ‘One hasty line may blast a budding hope.’ Or was it + Burleson? When you deny to the companion of your wanderings the privilege + of knowing your name, what can he do but fall back for guidance upon that + infallible chapter in the Gents’ Handbook of Classy Behavior, + entitled, ‘From Introduction’s Uncertainties to Friendship’s + Fascinations’?” + </p> + <p> + “We haven’t even been introduced,” she pointed out. + </p> + <p> + “Pardon me. We have. By the greatest of all Masters of Ceremonies, + Old Man Chance. Heaven knows what it may lead to,” he added piously. + “Now, Miss—or Lady—or Sister, as the case may be; or + even Sis (I believe that form is given in the Gents’ Handbook), if + you will put your lily hand in mine—” + </p> + <p> + “Wait. Promise me not to call me any of those awful things during + luncheon, and afterward I may tell you my name. It depends.” + </p> + <p> + “A test! I’m on. We’re off.” + </p> + <p> + Mr. Martin Dyke proved himself capable of selecting a suitable repast from + an alien-appearing menu. In the course of eating it they pooled their + real-estate impressions and information. He revealed that there was no + available spot fit to dwell in on the West Side, or in mid-town. She had + explored Park Avenue and the purlieus thereof extensively and without + success. There remained only the outer darkness to the southward for + anything which might meet the needs of either. In the event of a discovery + they agreed, on her insistence, to gamble for it by the approved method of + the tossed coin: “The winner has the choice.” + </p> + <p> + Throughout the luncheon the girl approved her escort’s manner and + bearing as unexceptionable. No sooner had they entered into the implied + intimacy of the tête-à-tête across a table than a subtle change manifested + itself in his attitude. Gayety was still the keynote of his talk, but the + note of the personal and insistent had gone. And, at the end, when he had + paid the bill and she asked: + </p> + <p> + “What’s my share, please?” + </p> + <p> + “Two-ten,” he replied promptly and without protest. + </p> + <p> + “My name,” said she, “is Anne Leffingwell.” + </p> + <p> + “Thank you,” he replied gravely. But the twinkle reappeared in + his eye as he added: “Of course, that was rudimentary about the + check.” + </p> + <p> + Before she had fully digested this remark they were on the sidewalk again. + In the act of escorting her to his van, now under her guidance, he + suddenly stopped in front of hers and lost himself in wondering + contemplation of the group painted on the side in the best style of + tea-store art. + </p> + <p> + “Suffering Raphael!” he exclaimed at length. “What’s + the lady in the pink shroud supposed to be saying to the bearded patriarch + in the nightie? What’s it all about, anyway?” + </p> + <p> + “The title,” replied Anne Leffingwell, indicating a line of + insignificant lettering, “is ‘Swedish Wedding Feast.’” + </p> + <p> + “Wedding feast,” he repeated thoughtfully, looking from the + picture to his companion. “Well,” he raised an imaginary glass + high, “prosit omen!” + </p> + <p> + The meaning was not to be mistaken. “Well, really,” she began + indignantly. “If you are going to take advantage—” + </p> + <p> + “You’re not supposed to understand Latin,” interposed + Mr. Dyke hastily. He grew flustered and stood, for once, at a loss. For + some subtle reason her heart warmed to his awkwardness as it never would + have done to his over-enterprising adroitness. + </p> + <p> + “We must be going on,” she said. + </p> + <p> + He gave her a grateful glance. “I was afraid I’d spilled the + apple cart and scared Eve clean out of the orchard that time,” he + murmured. Having helped her to her place at the wheel, he stood bareheaded + for a moment, turned away, came back, and asked abruptly: + </p> + <p> + “Sister of Budge Leffingwell, the Princeton half-back?” + </p> + <p> + “No. Cousin.” + </p> + <p> + “I knew Old Man Chance had a happy coincidence up his sleeve + somewhere,” he declared with profound and joyous conviction. + </p> + <p> + “Are you a friend of Budge’s?” + </p> + <p> + “Friend doesn’t half express it! He made the touchdown that + won me a clean hundred last season. Outside of that I wouldn’t know + him from Henry Ford. You see how Fate binds us together.” + </p> + <p> + “Will you tell me one thing, please?” pleaded Anne Leffingwell + desperately. “Have you ever been examined for this sort of thing?” + </p> + <p> + “Not yet. But then, you see, I’m only a beginner. This is my + first attempt. I’ll get better as I go on.” + </p> + <p> + “Will you please crank my car?” requested Anne Leffingwell + faintly. + </p> + <p> + Not until they reached Our Square did they speak again. + </p> + <p> + <br /><br /> + </p> + <hr /> + <p> + <br /><br /> + </p> + <p> + All things come to him who, sedulously acting the orchid’s part, + vegetates and bides his time. To me in the passage of days came Anne + Leffingwell, to talk of many things, the conversation invariably touching + at some point upon Mr. Martin Dyke—and lingering there. She was + solicitous, not to say skeptical, regarding Mr. Dyke’s reason. Came + also Martin Dyke to converse intelligently upon labor, free verse, ouija, + the football outlook, O. Henry, Crucible Steel, and Mr. Leffingwell. He + was both solicitous and skeptical regarding Mr. Leffingwell’s + existence. Now when two young persons come separately to an old person to + discuss each other’s affairs, it is a bad sign. Or perhaps a good + sign. Just as you choose. + </p> + <p> + Adopting the Mordaunt Estate’s sardonic suggestion, Martin Dyke had + settled down to van life in a private alleyway next to Number 37. Anne + Leffingwell deemed this criminally extravagant since the rental of a van + must be prodigious. (“Tell her not to worry; my family own the + storage and moving plant,” was one of his many messages that I + neglected to deliver.) On his part he worried over the loneliness and + simplicity of her establishment—one small but neat maid—which + he deemed incongruous with her general effect of luxury and ease of life, + and wondered whether she had split with her family. (She hadn’t; + “I’ve always been brought up like a—a—an + artichoke,” she confided to me. “So when father went West for + six months, I just moved, and I’m going to be a potato and see how I + like it. Besides, I’ve got some research work to do.”) + </p> + <p> + Every morning a taxi called and took her to an uptown library, and every + afternoon she came back to the harlequin-fronted house at Number 37. Dyke’s + hours were such that he saw her only when she returned early, for he slept + by day in his van, and worked most of the night on electrical experiments + which he was conducting over on the river front, and which were to send + his name resounding down the halls of fame. (The newspapers have already + caught an echo or two.) On his way back from his experiments, he daily + stopped at the shop of Eberling the Florist, where, besides chaste and + elegant set pieces inscribed “Gates Ajar” and “Gone But + Not Forgotten,” one may, if expert and insistent, obtain really + fresh roses. What connection these visits had with the matutinal arrival + of deep pink blossoms addressed to nobody, but delivered regularly at the + door of Number 37, I shall not divulge; no, not though a base attempt was + made to incriminate me in the transaction. + </p> + <p> + Between the pair who had arrived in Our Square on such friendly and + promising terms, there was now no communication when they met. She was + steadfastly adhering to that “Never. Never. <i>Never</i>!” + What less, indeed, could be expected of a faithful wife insulted by ardent + hopes of her husband’s early demise from a young man whom she had + known but four hours? So it might have gone on to a sterile conclusion but + for a manifestation of rebellious artistic tastes on her part. The + Mordaunt Estate stopped at my bench to complain about them one afternoon + when Martin Dyke, having just breakfasted, had strolled over to discuss + his favorite topic. (She was, at that very moment, knitting her dainty + brows over the fifteenth bunch of pink fragrance and deciding regretfully + that this thing must come to an end even if she had to call in Terry the + Cop.) + </p> + <p> + “That lady in Number 37,” said the Mordaunt Estate bitterly, + “ain’t the lady I thought she was.” + </p> + <p> + Martin Dyke, under the impulse of his persistent obsession, looked up + hopefully. “You mean that she isn’t really <i>Mrs.</i> + Leffingwell?” + </p> + <p> + “I mean I’m disappointed in her; that’s what I mean. She + wants the house front painted over.” + </p> + <p> + “No!” I protested with polite incredulity. + </p> + <p> + “Where’s her artistic sense? I thought she admired your work + so deeply.” + </p> + <p> + “She does, too,” confirmed the Estate. “But she says it’s + liable to be misunderstood. She says ladies come there and order tea, and + men ask the hired girl when the barbers come on duty, and one old bird + with whiskers wanted to know if Ashtaroth, the Master of Destiny, told + fortunes there. So she wants I should tone it down. I guess,” + pursued the Mordaunt Estate, stricken with gloom over the difficulty of + finding the Perfect Tenant in an imperfect world, “I’ll have + to notice her to quit.” + </p> + <p> + “No; don’t do that!” cried the young man. “Here! I’ll + repaint the whole wall for you free of charge.” + </p> + <p> + “What do <i>you</i> know about R. Noovo art? Besides, paints cost + money.” + </p> + <p> + “I’ll furnish the paint, too,” offered the reckless + youth. “I’m crazy about art. It’s the only solace of my + declining years. And,” he added cunningly and with evil intent to + flatter and cajole, “I can tone down that design of yours without + affecting its beauty and originality at all.” + </p> + <p> + Touched by this ingenuous tribute hardly less than by the appeal to his + frugality, the Estate accepted the offer. From four to five on the + following afternoon, Martin Dyke, appropriately clad in overalls, sat on a + plank and painted. On the afternoon following that the lady of the house + came home at four-thirty and caught him at it. + </p> + <p> + “That’s going to be ever so much nicer,” she called + graciously, not recognizing him from the view of his industrious-appearing + back. + </p> + <p> + “Thank you for those few kind words.” + </p> + <p> + “You!” she exclaimed indignantly as he turned a mild and + benevolent beam of the eye upon her. “What are you doing to my + house?” + </p> + <p> + “Art. High art.” + </p> + <p> + “How did you get up there?” + </p> + <p> + “Ladder. High ladder.” + </p> + <p> + “You know that isn’t what I mean at all.” + </p> + <p> + “Oh! Well, I’ve taken a contract to tone down the Midway + aspect of your highly respectable residence. One hour per day.” + </p> + <p> + “If you think that this performance is going to do you any good—” + she began with withering intonation. + </p> + <p> + “It’s done that already,” he hastened to assert. “You’ve + recognized my existence again.” + </p> + <p> + “Only through trickery.” + </p> + <p> + “On the contrary, it’s no trick at all to improve on the + Mordaunt Estate’s art. Now that we’ve made up again, Miss or + Mrs. Leffingwell, as the case may be—” + </p> + <p> + “We haven’t made up. There’s nothing to make up.” + </p> + <p> + “Amended to ‘Now that we’re on speaking terms once more.’ + Accepted? Thank you. Then let me thank you for those lovely flowers you’ve + been sending me. You can’t imagine how they brighten and sweeten my + simple and unlovely van life, with their—” + </p> + <p> + “Mr. Dyke!” Her eyes were flashing now and her color was + deeper than the pink of the roses which she had rejected. “You must + know that you had no right to send me flowers and that in returning them—” + </p> + <p> + “Returning? But, dear lady—or girl, as the case may be [here + she stamped a violent foot]—if you feel it your duty to return them, + why not return them to the florist or the sender? Marked though my + attentions may have been, does that justify you in assuming that I am, so + to speak, the only floral prospect in the park? There’s the Dominie, + for instance. He’s notoriously your admirer, and I’ve seen him + at Eberling’s quite lately.” (Mendacious young scoundrel!) + </p> + <p> + For the moment she was beguiled by the plausibility of his manner. + </p> + <p> + “How should he know that pink roses are my favorites?” she + said uncertainly. + </p> + <p> + “How should <i>I</i>, for that matter?” he retorted at once. + “Though any idiot could see at a glance that you’re at least + half sister to the whole rose tribe.” + </p> + <p> + “Now you’re beginning again,” she complained. “You + see, it’s impossible to treat you as an ordinary acquaintance.” + </p> + <p> + “But what do you think of me as a painter-man?” inquired the + bewildering youth. + </p> + <p> + Preparatory to entering the house she had taken off her gloves, and now + one pinky-brown hand rested on the door lintel below him. “The + question is,” said she, “wasn’t it really you that sent + the roses, and don’t you realize that you mustn’t?” + </p> + <p> + “The question is,” he repeated, “whether, being denied + the ordinary avenues of approach to a shrine, one is justified in jumping + the fence with one’s votive offerings. Now I hold—” + </p> + <p> + Her left hand, shifting a little, flashed a gleam of gold into his eager + eyes, striking him into silence. When he spoke again, all the vividness + was gone from his voice. “I beg your pardon,” he said. “Yes; + I sent the roses. You shan’t be troubled again in that way—or + any other way. Do you mind if I finish this job?” + </p> + <p> + Victory for the defense! Yet the rosebud face of Anne Leffingwell + expressed concern and doubt rather than gratification. There is such a + thing as triumph being too complete. + </p> + <p> + “I think you’re doing it very nicely,” was the demure + reply. + </p> + <p> + Notwithstanding this encomium, the workman knocked off early to sit on my + bench and indulge in the expression of certain undeniable but vague + truisms, such as that while there is life there is hope, and it isn’t + necessary to display a marriage license in order to purchase a plain gold + band. But his usual buoyant optimism was lacking; he spoke like one who + strives to convince himself. Later on the lady in the case paused to offer + to me some contumelious if impersonal reflections upon love at first + sight, which she stigmatized as a superstition unworthy of the + consideration of serious minds. But there was a dreamy light in her eyes, + and the smile on her lips, while it may not have been expressive of + serious consideration, was not wholly condemnatory. The carnivorous orchid + was having a good day and keeping its own counsel as a sensible orchid + expectant of continued patronage should do. + </p> + <p> + There was an obviously somber tinge to Mr. Dyke’s color scheme on + the following afternoon, tending to an over-employment of black, when an + impressive and noiseless roadster purred its way to the curb, there + discharging a quite superb specimen of manhood in glorious raiment. The + motorist paused to regard with unfeigned surprise the design of the house + front. Presently he recovered sufficiently to ask: + </p> + <p> + “Could you tell me if Miss Leffingwell lives here?” + </p> + <p> + The painter turned upon his precarious plank so sharply that he was all + but precipitated into the area. “<i>Who</i>?” he said. + </p> + <p> + “Miss Leffingwell.” + </p> + <p> + “You don’t mean Mrs. Leffingwell?” queried the aerial + operator in a strained tone. + </p> + <p> + “No; I don’t. I mean Miss Anne Leffingwell.” + </p> + <p> + The painter flourished the implement of his trade to the peril of the + immaculate garments below. “Toora-loo!” he warbled. + </p> + <p> + “I beg your pardon,” said the new arrival. + </p> + <p> + “I said ‘Toora-loo.’ It’s a Patagonian expression + signifying satisfaction and relief; sort of I-thought-so-all-the-time + effect.” + </p> + <p> + “You seem a rather unusual and learned sort of house painter,” + reflected the stalwart Adonis. “Is that Patagonian art?” + </p> + <p> + “Symbolism. It represents hope struggling upward from the oppression + of doubt and despair. That,” he added, splashing in a prodigal + streak of whooping scarlet, “is resurgent joy surmounting the misty + mountain-tops of—” + </p> + <p> + The opening door below him cut short the disquisition. + </p> + <p> + “Reg!” cried the tenant breathlessly. Straight into the big + young man’s ready arms she dived, and the petrified and stricken + occupant of the dizzy plank heard her muffled voice quaver: “Wh—wh—wh—why + didn’t you come before?” + </p> + <p> + To which the young giant responded in gallingly protective tones: “You + little idiot!” + </p> + <p> + The door closed after them. Martin Dyke, amateur house painter, continued + blindly to bedeck the face of a ruinous world with radiant hues. After + interminable hours (as he reckoned the fifteen elapsed minutes) the tenant + escorted her visitor to the door and stood watching him as the powerful + and unassertive motor departed. Dazedly the artist descended from his + plank to face her. + </p> + <p> + “Are you going?” he demanded. + </p> + <p> + A perfectly justifiable response to this unauthorized query would have + been that it was no concern of his. But there was that in Martin Dyke’s + face which hurt the girl to see. + </p> + <p> + “Yes,” she replied. + </p> + <p> + “With him?” + </p> + <p> + “Ye—es.” + </p> + <p> + “He isn’t your husband.” + </p> + <p> + “No.” + </p> + <p> + “You haven’t any husband.” + </p> + <p> + She hung her head guiltily. + </p> + <p> + “Why did you invent one?” + </p> + <p> + Instead of replying verbally she raised her arm and pointed across the + roadway to a patch of worn green in the park. He followed the indication + with his eyes. A Keep-Off-the-Grass sign grinned spitefully in his face. + </p> + <p> + “I see. The invention was for my special benefit.” + </p> + <p> + “Safety first,” she murmured. + </p> + <p> + “I never really believed it—except when you took me by + surprise,” he pursued. “That’s why I—I went ahead.” + </p> + <p> + “You certainly went ahead,” she confirmed. “What are + speed laws to you!” + </p> + <p> + “You’re telling me that I haven’t played the game + according to the rules. I know I haven’t. One has to make his own + rules when Fate is in the game against him.” He seemed to be + reviewing something in his mind. “Fate,” he observed + sententiously, “is a cheap thimble-rigger.” + </p> + <p> + “Fate,” she said, “is the ghost around the corner.” + </p> + <p> + “A dark green, sixty-horse-power ghost, operated by a matinée hero, + a movie close-up, a tailor’s model—” + </p> + <p> + “If you mean Reg, it’s just as well for you he isn’t + here.” + </p> + <p> + “Pooh!” retorted the vengeful and embittered Dyke. “I + could wreck his loveliness with one flop of my paint-brush.” + </p> + <p> + “Doubtless,” she agreed with a side glance at the wall, now + bleeding from every pore. “It’s a fearful weapon. Spare my + poor Reg.” + </p> + <p> + “I suppose,” said Dyke, desperate now, but not quite bankrupt + of hope, “you’d like me to believe that he’s your + long-lost brother.” + </p> + <p> + She lowered her eyes, possibly to hide the mischief in them. “No,” + she returned hesitantly and consciously. “He isn’t—exactly + my brother.” + </p> + <p> + He recalled the initials, “R.B.W.,” on the car’s door. + Hope sank for the third time without a bubble. “Good-bye,” + said Martin Dyke. + </p> + <p> + “Surely you’re not going to quit your job unfinished,” + she protested. + </p> + <p> + Dyke said something forcible and dismissive about the job. + </p> + <p> + “What will the Mordaunt Estate think?” + </p> + <p> + Dyke said something violent and destructive about the Mordaunt Estate. + </p> + <p> + “Perhaps you’d like to take the house, now that it’s + vacant.” + </p> + <p> + Dyke, having expressed a preference for the tomb as a place of residence, + went on his gloomful way shedding green paint on one side and red on the + other. + </p> + <p> + Insomnia, my old enemy, having clutched me that night, I went to my window + and looked abroad over Our Square, as Willy Woolly’s memorial clock + was striking four (it being actually five-thirty). A shocking sight + afflicted my eyes. My bench was occupied by a bum. Hearing the measured + footsteps of Terry the Cop, guardian of our destinies, I looked for a + swift and painful eviction. Terry, after a glance, passed on. Nothing is + worse for insomnia than an unsolved mystery. Slipping into my clothes, I + made my way softly to the spot. There in the seat where I was wont to + pursue my even tenor as an orchid slumbered Martin Dyke, amateur + desecrator of other men’s houses, challenger of the wayward fates, + fanatic of a will-o’-the-wisp pursuit, desperate adventurer in the + uncharted realms of love; and in his face, turned toward the polychromatic + abominations of the house, so soon to be deserted, was all the pathos and + all the beauty of illusion-haunted youth. + </p> + <p> + Ah, youth! Blundering, ridiculous youth! An absurd period, excusable only + on the score of its brevity. A parlous condition! A traitorous guide, + froward, inspired of all manner of levity, pursuant of hopeless phantasms, + dupe of roseate and pernicious myths (love-at-first-sight, and the like), + butt of the High Gods’ stinging laughter, deserving of nothing + kinder than mockery from the aged and the wise—which is doubtless + why we old and sage folk thank Heaven daily, uplifting cracked voices and + withered hands, that we are no longer young. A pious and fraudulent litany + for which may we be forgiven! My young friend on the bench stirred. A + shaft of moonlight, streaming through the bush upon his face, bewitched + him to unguarded speech: + </p> + <p> + “Dominie, I have been dreaming.” + </p> + <p> + Fearing to break the spell, I stood silent. + </p> + <p> + “A fairy came down to me and touched her lips to mine, so lightly, + so softly. Did you know there were fairies in Our Square, Dominie?” + </p> + <p> + “Always.” + </p> + <p> + “I think her name is Happiness. Is there such a fairy in this world, + Dominie?” + </p> + <p> + “There has been.” + </p> + <p> + “Then there will always be. I think it was Happiness because she + went away so quickly.” + </p> + <p> + “Happiness does. Did you try to hold her?” + </p> + <p> + “So hard! But I was clumsy and rough. She slipped through my arms.” + </p> + <p> + “Did she leave nothing?” + </p> + <p> + “Nothing.” + </p> + <p> + “Then what is this?” I lifted from the ground at his feet a + single petal of pink rose, fragrant, unwithered, and placed it in his + hand. + </p> + <p> + “The fairy’s kiss,” he said dreamily. “That’s + for farewell.” + </p> + <p> + The moon, dipped beyond a cloud, dissolved the spell. Youth straightened + up brusquely on its bench, rubbing enchantment from its eyes. + </p> + <p> + “Have I been talking in my sleep, Dominie?” + </p> + <p> + “Possibly.” + </p> + <p> + “What kind of talk? Nonsense?” + </p> + <p> + “Nonsense—or wisdom. How should I know?” + </p> + <p> + “Dominie, is there a perfume in the air? A smell of roses?” + </p> + <p> + “Look in your hand.” + </p> + <p> + He opened his fingers slowly and closed them again, tenderly, jealously. + “I must go now,” he said vaguely. “May I come back to + see you sometimes, Dominie?” + </p> + <p> + “Perhaps you’ll bring Happiness with you,” I said. + </p> + <p> + But he only shook his head. On the morrow his van was gone from the alley + and the house at Number 37, which had once been the House of Silvery + Voices, was voiceless again. + </p> + <p> + <br /><br /> + </p> + <hr /> + <p> + <br /><br /> + </p> + <p> + Something of the savor of life went with the vanners out of Our Square. I + missed their broad-ranging and casual talk of politics, art, religion, the + fourth dimension, and one another. Yet I felt sure that I should see them + both again. There is a spell woven in Our Square—it has held me + these sixty years and more, and I wonder at times whether Death himself + can break it—which draws back the hearts that have once known the + place. It was a long month, though, before the butterfly fluttered back. + More radiant than ever she looked, glowing softly in the brave November + sun, as she approached my bench. But there was something indefinably + wistful about her. She said that she had come to satisfy her awakened + appetite for the high art of R. Noovo, as she faced the unaltered and + violent frontage of Number 37. + </p> + <p> + “Empty,” said I. + </p> + <p> + “Then he didn’t take my advice and rent it. The painter-man, I + mean.” + </p> + <p> + “He’s gone.” + </p> + <p> + “Where?” + </p> + <p> + “I haven’t an idea.” + </p> + <p> + “Doesn’t he ever come back?” + </p> + <p> + “You must not assume,” said I with severity, “that you + are the only devotee of high art. You may perhaps compare your devotion to + that of another whom I might mention when you, too, have lost ten pounds + and gained ten years—” + </p> + <p> + “Dominie! Has he?” + </p> + <p> + “Has he what?” + </p> + <p> + “G-g-g-gained ten pounds. I mean, lost ten years.” + </p> + <p> + “I haven’t said so.” + </p> + <p> + “Dominie, you are a cruel old man,” accused the butterfly. + </p> + <p> + “And you are a wicked woman.” + </p> + <p> + “I’m not. I’m only twenty,” was her irrelevant but + natural defense. + </p> + <p> + “Witness, on your oath, answer; were you at any time in the evening + or night before you departed from this, Our Square, leaving us desolate—were + you, I say, abroad in the park? + </p> + <p> + “Y-y-yes, your Honor.” + </p> + <p> + “In the immediate vicinity of this bench?” + </p> + <p> + “Benches are very alike in the dark.” + </p> + <p> + “But occupants of them are not. Don’t fence with the court. + Were you wearing one or more roses of the general hue and device of those + now displayed in your cheeks?” + </p> + <p> + “The honorable court has nothing to do with my face,” said the + witness defiantly. + </p> + <p> + “On the contrary, your face is the <i>corpus delicti.</i> Did you, + taking advantage of the unconscious and hence defenseless condition of my + client, that is, of Mr. Martin Dyke, lean over him and deliberately + imprint a—” + </p> + <p> + “No! No! No! No! <i>No</i>!” cried the butterfly with great + and unconvincing fervor. “How dare you accuse me of such a thing?” + </p> + <p> + “On the circumstantial evidence of a pink rose petal. But worse is + coming. The charge is unprovoked and willful murder.” + </p> + <p> + Butterflies are strange creatures. This one seemed far less concerned over + the latter than the former accusation. “Of whom?” she + inquired. + </p> + <p> + “You have killed a budding poet.” Here I violated a sacred if + implied confidence by relating what the bewitched sleeper on the bench had + said under the spell of the moon. + </p> + <p> + The result was most gratifying. The butterfly assured me with indignation + that it was only a cold in her head, which had been annoying her for days: + <i>that</i> was what made her eyes act so, and I was a suspicious and + malevolent old gentleman—and—and—and perhaps some day + she and Mr. Martin Dyke might happen to meet. + </p> + <p> + “Is that a message?” I asked. + </p> + <p> + “No,” answered the butterfly with a suspicion of panic in her + eyes. + </p> + <p> + “Then?” I queried. + </p> + <p> + “He’s so—so awfully go-aheadish,” she complained. + </p> + <p> + “I’ll drop him a hint,” I offered kindly. + </p> + <p> + “It might do some good. I’m afraid of him,” she + confessed. + </p> + <p> + “And a little bit of yourself?” I suggested. + </p> + <p> + The look of scorn which she bent upon me would have withered incontinently + anything less hardy than a butterfly-devouring orchid. It passed and + thoughtfulness supplanted it. “If you really think that he could be + influenced to be more—well, more conventional—” + </p> + <p> + “I guarantee nothing; but I’m a pedagogue by profession and + have taught some hard subjects in my time.” + </p> + <p> + “Then do you think you could give him a little message, word for + word as I give it to you?” + </p> + <p> + “Senile decay,” I admitted, “may have paralyzed most of + my faculties, but as a repeater of messages verbatim, I am faithful as a + phonograph.” + </p> + <p> + “Tell him this, then.” She ticked the message off on her + fingers. “A half is not exactly the same as a whole. Don’t + forget the ‘exactly.’” + </p> + <p> + “Is this an occasion for mathematical axioms?” I demanded. But + she had already gone, with a parting injunction to be precise. + </p> + <p> + When, three days thereafter, I retailed that banality to young Mr. Dyke, + it produced a startling though not instantaneous effect. + </p> + <p> + “I’ve got it!” he shouted. + </p> + <p> + “Don’t scare me off my bench! What is it you’ve got?” + </p> + <p> + “The answer. She said he was not exactly her brother.” + </p> + <p> + “Who?” + </p> + <p> + “That bully-looking big chap in the roadster who took her away.” + He delivered this shameless reversal of a passionately asserted opinion + without a quiver. “Now she says a half isn’t exactly the same + as a whole. He wasn’t exactly her brother, she said; he’s her + half brother. Toora-loora-loo,’ as we say in Patagonia.” + </p> + <p> + “For Patagonia it sounds reasonable. What next?” + </p> + <p> + “Next and immediately,” said Mr. Dyke, “I am obtaining + an address from the Mordaunt Estate, and I am then taking this evening + off.” + </p> + <p> + “Take some advice also, my boy,” said I, mindful of the + butterfly’s alarms. “Go slow.” + </p> + <p> + “Slow! Haven’t I lost time enough already?” + </p> + <p> + “Perhaps. But now you’ve got all there is. Don’t force + the game. You’ve frightened that poor child so that she never can + feel sure what you’re going to do next.” + </p> + <p> + “Neither can I, Dominie,” confessed the candid youth. “But + you’re quite right. I’ll clamp on the brakes. I’ll be as + cool and conventional as a slice of lemon on an iced clam. ‘How well + you’re looking to-night, Miss Leffingwell’—that’ll + be my nearest approach to unguarded personalities. Trust me, Dominie, and + thank you for the tip.” + </p> + <p> + The memorial and erratic clock of Our Square was just striking seven of + the following morning, meaning approximately eight-forty, when my + astonished eyes again beheld Martin Dyke seated on my bench, beautifully + though inappropriately clad in full evening dress with a pink rose in his + coat lapel, and gazing at Number 37 with a wild, ecstatic glare. + </p> + <p> + “What have you been doing here all night?” I asked. + </p> + <p> + “Thinking.” + </p> + <p> + I pointed to the flower. “Where did you get that?” + </p> + <p> + “A fairy gift.” + </p> + <p> + “Martin,” said I, “did you abide by my well-meant and + inspired advice?” + </p> + <p> + “Dominie,” replied the youth with a guilty flush, “I did + my best. I—I tried to. You mustn’t think—Nothing is + settled. It’s only that—” + </p> + <p> + “It’s only that Age is a fool to advise Youth. Why should I + expect you to abide by my silly counsels? Who am I to interfere with the + dominant fates! Says the snail to the avalanche: ‘Go slow!’ + and the avalanche—” + </p> + <p> + “Hey! Hi! You Mordaunt Estate!” broke in young Mr. Dyke, + shouting. “I beg your pardon, Dominie, I’ve got to see the + Estate for a minute.” + </p> + <p> + Rushing across the street, he intercepted that institutional gentleman in + the act of dipping a brush into a can in front of Number 37. + </p> + <p> + “Don’t, for Heaven’s sake, touch that front!” + implored the improver of it. + </p> + <p> + “Why not?” demanded the Estate. + </p> + <p> + “I want to rent it. As it is. From to-day.” + </p> + <p> + The Mordaunt Estate turned a dull, Wagboomish look of denial upon him. + “Nope,” said he. “I’ve had enough of short + rentals. It don’t pay. I’m going to paint her up and lease her + for good.” + </p> + <p> + “I’ll take your lease,” insisted Martin Dyke. + </p> + <p> + “For how long a period?” inquired the other, in terms of the + Estate again. + </p> + <p> + The light that never was, on sea or land, the look that I had surprised on + the face of illusion-haunted Youth in the moon glow, gleamed in Martin + Dyke’s eyes. + </p> + <p> + “Say a million years,” he answered softly. + </p> + <p> + <br /><br /> + </p> + <hr /> + <p> + <a name="link2H_4_0006" id="link2H_4_0006"> </a> + </p> + <div style="height: 4em;"> + <br /><br /><br /><br /> + </div> + <h2> + THE GUARDIAN OF GOD’S ACRE + </h2> + <p> + As far as the eye could apprehend him, he was palpably an outlander. No + such pink of perfection ever sprung from the simple soil of Our Square. A + hard pink it was, suggestive less of the flower than of enameled metal. He + was freshly shaved, freshly pressed, freshly anointed, and, as he paced + gallantly across my vision, I perceived him to be slightly grizzled at the + temples, but nevertheless of a vigorous and grim youthfulness that was + almost daunting. Not until he returned and stood before me with his feet + planted a little apart, giving an impression of purposeful immovability to + his wiry figure, did I note that his eyes belied the general jauntiness of + his personality. They were cold, direct eyes, with a filmy appearance, + rather like those of a morose and self-centered turtle which had lived in + our fountain until the day the Rosser twins fell in, when it crawled out + and emigrated. + </p> + <p> + “Nice day,” said the stranger, shifting a patent-leathered + foot out of a puddle. + </p> + <p> + “Very,” I agreed. Finical over-accuracy about the weather is + likely to discourage a budding acquaintanceship. + </p> + <p> + “Have one?” He extended a gemmed cigarette-case, and when, + removing my pipe, I had declined in suitable terms, lighted up, himself. + He then sat down upon the dryest portion of the bench not occupied by my + person. + </p> + <p> + “Whiplash win in the fi’th,” he volunteered presently. + </p> + <p> + “Yes?” said I with a polite but spurious show of interest. + </p> + <p> + “Under a pull. Spread-eagled his field.” + </p> + <p> + “Who is Whiplash, may I ask?” + </p> + <p> + “Oh, Gaw!” said the pink man, appalled. He searched my face + suspiciously. “A hoss,” he stated at length, satisfied of my + ignorance. + </p> + <p> + After several reflective puffs, the smoke of which insufficiently veiled + his furtive appraisal of myself, he tried again: + </p> + <p> + “They give O’Dowd a shade, last night.” + </p> + <p> + “Indeed? Who did?” + </p> + <p> + “The sporting writers.” + </p> + <p> + “As a testimonial?” I inquired, adding that a shade, whether + of the lamp or sun species seemed an unusual sort of gift. + </p> + <p> + My interlocutor groaned. He drew from the pocket of his gray-check + cutaway, purple and fine linen, the purple being an ornate and + indecipherable monogram, wherewith to wipe his troubled brow. Susan Gluck’s + Orphan, who was playing down-wind, paused to inhale deeply and with a + beatific expression. Restoring the fragrant square to its repository, the + pink one essayed another conversational skirmish. + </p> + <p> + “The Reds copped again yesterday.” + </p> + <p> + “If you are referring to the raid on Anarchist Headquarters in + Avenue C, I should have inferred that the Reds <i>were</i> copped, to use + your term.” + </p> + <p> + Curt and contemptuous laughter was his response. “Don’t you + ever read the papers, down here?” + </p> + <p> + “Certainly,” I retorted with some spirit, for the implied slur + upon Our Square stung me. “In fact, I was reading one of our local + publications when you inter—when you arrived. It contains some very + interesting poetry.” + </p> + <p> + “Yeh?” said the hard, pink man politely. + </p> + <p> + “For example, in this issue I find the following apostrophe.” + I proceeded to read aloud: + </p> +<pre xml:space="preserve"> + “Farewell, our dear one, we must part, + For thou hast gone to heavenly home, + While we below with aching heart + Must long for thee and ever moan.” + </pre> + <p> + “Swell stuff,” commented the sharer of my bench, with + determined interest. “Poetry’s a little out of my line, but I’m + <i>for</i> it. Who wrote that?” + </p> + <p> + “It is signed ‘Loving Father and 3 Sisters.’ But the + actual authorship rests with the long gentleman in black whom you see + leaning on the park fence yonder. His name is Bartholomew Storrs and he is + the elegiac or mortuary or memorial laureate of Our Square.” + </p> + <p> + This was said with intent to mortify the soul of my new acquaintance in + revenge for his previous display of erudition. The bewilderment in his + face told me that I had scored heavily. But he quickly rallied. + </p> + <p> + “Do I get you right?” he queried. “Does he write those + hymns for other folks to sign?” + </p> + <p> + “He does.” + </p> + <p> + “What does he do that for?” + </p> + <p> + “Money. He gets as high as five dollars per stanza.” + </p> + <p> + “Some salesman!” My hard-faced companion regarded the lank + figure overhanging the fence with new respect. “Looks to me like the + original Gloom,” he observed. “What’s <i>his</i> grouch?” + </p> + <p> + “Conscience.” + </p> + <p> + “He must have a bum one!” + </p> + <p> + “He has a busy one. He expends a great amount of time and sorrow + repenting of our sins.” + </p> + <p> + “Whose sins?” asked the other, opening wider his dull and + weary eyes. + </p> + <p> + “Ours. His neighbors. Everybody in Our Square.” + </p> + <p> + My interlocutor promptly and fitly put into words the feeling which had + long lurked within my consciousness, ashamed to express itself against a + monument of dismal pity such as Bartholomew Storrs. “He’s got + a nerve!” he asserted. + </p> + <p> + Warming to him for his pithy analysis of character, I enlarged upon my + theme. “He rebukes MacLachan for past drunkenness. He mourns for + Schepstein, who occasionally helps out a friend at ten per cent, as a + usurer. He once accused old Madame Tallafferr of pride, but he’ll + never do that again. He calls the Little Red Doctor, our local physician, + to account for profanity, and gets a fresh sample every time. Even against + the Bonnie Lassie, whose sculptures you can just see in that little house + near the corner”—I waved an illustrative hand—“he + can quote Scripture, as to graven images. We all revere and respect and + hate him. He’s coming this way now.” + </p> + <p> + “Good day, Dominie,” said Bartholomew Storrs, as he passed, in + such a tone as a very superior angel might employ toward a particularly + damned soul. + </p> + <p> + “That frown,” I explained to my companion, after returning the + salutation, “means that I failed to attend church yesterday.” + </p> + <p> + But the hard, pink man had lost interest in Bartholomew. “Called you + Dominie,’ didn’t he?” he remarked. “I thought I + had you right. Heard of you from a little red-headed ginger-box named + Smith.” + </p> + <p> + “You know the Little Red Doctor?” + </p> + <p> + “I met him,” he replied evasively. “He told me to look + you up. ‘You talk to the Dominie,’ he says.” + </p> + <p> + “About what?” + </p> + <p> + “I’m coming to that.” He leaned forward to place a + muscular and confidential hand on my knee. “First, I’d like to + do you a little favor,” he continued in his husky and intimate + voice. “If you’re looking for some quick and easy money, I got + a little tip that I’d like to pass on to you.” + </p> + <p> + “Evidently the Little Red Doctor told you that my mind was a + tottering ruin, which may be quite true; but if it’s a matter of + investing in the Peruvian Gold, Rubber Tree, and Perpetual Motion + Concession, I’m reluctantly compelled—” + </p> + <p> + “Forget it!” adjured the hard, pink man in a tone which + secured my silence and almost my confidence. “This is a hoss. Seven + to one, and a sure cop. I <i>know</i> hosses. I’ve owned ’em.” + </p> + <p> + “Thank you, but I can’t afford such luxuries as betting.” + </p> + <p> + “You can’t afford <i>not</i> to have something down on this if + it’s only a shoestring. No? Oh—well!” + </p> + <p> + Again drawing the art-square from his pocket he lifted his pearl-gray + derby and dabbed despairingly at his brow. Catching the scent hot and + fresh, Susan Gluck’s Orphan came dashing up-wind giving tongue, or + rather, nose, voluptuously. + </p> + <p> + “Mm-m-m! Snmmff!” inhaled the Orphan, wrinkling ecstatic + nostrils. “Mister, lemme smell it some more!” + </p> + <p> + Graciously the dispenser of fragrance waved his balm-laden handkerchief. + “Like it, kiddie?” he said. + </p> + <p> + “Oh, it’s <i>grand</i>!” She stretched out her little + grimy paws. “Please, Mister,” she entreated, “would you + flop it over ’em, just once?” + </p> + <p> + The pink man tossed it to her. “Take it along and, when you get it + all snuffed up, give it back to the Dominie here for me.” + </p> + <p> + “Oh, gracious!” said the Orphan, incredulous at this bounty. + “Can I have it till <i>to-morrah</i>?” + </p> + <p> + “Sure! What’s the big idea for to-morrow?” + </p> + <p> + “I’m goin’ to a funeral. I want it to cry in,” + said the Orphan importantly. + </p> + <p> + “A funeral?” I asked. “In Our Square? Whose?” + </p> + <p> + “My cousin Minnie. She’s goin’ to be buried in God’s + Acre, an’ I’m invited ‘cause I’m a r’lation. + She married a sporting gentleman named Hines an’ she died yesterday,” + said the precocious Orphan. + </p> + <p> + So Minnie Munn, pretty, blithe, life-loving Minnie, whose going had hurt + us so, had come back to Our Square, with all her love of life quenched. + She had promised that she would come back, in the little, hysterical, + defiant note she left under the door. Her father and mother must wait and + not worry. There are thousands of homes, I suppose, in which are buried + just such letters as Minnie’s farewell to her parents; rebellious, + passionate, yearning, pitiful. Ah, well! The moth must break its + chrysalis. The flower must rend its bonds toward the light. Little Minnie + was “going on the stage.” A garish and perilous stage it was, + whereon Innocence plays a part as sorry as it is brief. And now she was + making her exit, without applause. Memory brought back a picture of Minnie + as I had first seen her, a wee thing, blinking and smiling in the arms of + her Madonna-faced mother, on a bench in Our Square, and the mother (who + could not wait for the promised return—she has lain in God’s + Acre these three years) crooning to her an unforgettable song, mournfully + prophetic: + </p> +<pre xml:space="preserve"> + “Why did I bring thee, Sweet + Into a world of sin?— + Into a world of wonder and doubt + With sorrows and snares for the little white feet— + Into a world whence the going out + Is as dark as the coming in!” + </pre> + <p> + Old lips readily lend themselves to memory; I suppose I must have repeated + the final lines aloud, for the pink man said, wearily but politely: + </p> + <p> + “Very pretty. Something more in the local line?” + </p> + <p> + “Hardly.” I smiled. Between Bartholomew Storr’s elegies + and William Young’s “Wish-makers’ Town” stretches + an infinite chasm. + </p> + <p> + “What’s this—now—God’s Acre the kid was + talking about?” was his next question. + </p> + <p> + “An old local graveyard.” + </p> + <p> + “Anything interesting?” he asked carelessly. + </p> + <p> + “If you’re interested in that sort of thing. Are you an + antiquary?” + </p> + <p> + “Sure!” he replied with such offhand promptitude that I was + certain the answer would have been the same had I asked him if he was a + dromedary. + </p> + <p> + “Come along, then. I’ll take you there.” + </p> + <p> + To reach that little green space of peace amidst our turmoil of the + crowded, encroaching slums, we must pass the Bonnie Lassie’s house, + where her tiny figurines, touched with the fire of her love and her + genius, which are perhaps one and the same, stand ever on guard, looking + out over Our Square from her windows. Judging by his appearance and + conversation, I should have supposed my companion to be as little + concerned with art as with, let us say, poetry or local antiquities. But + he stopped dead in his tracks, before the first window. Fingers that were + like steel claws buried themselves in my arm. The other hand pointed. + </p> + <p> + “What’s that?” he muttered fiercely. + </p> + <p> + “That,” to which he was pointing, was a pictorial bronze, the + figure of a girl, upright in a cockleshell boat, made of a rose-petal, her + arms outspread to the breeze that was bearing her out across sunlit + ripples. Beneath was the legend: “Far Ports.” The face, eager, + laughing, passionate, adventurous, was the face of Minnie Munn. Therein + the Bonnie Lassie had been prophetess as well as poet and sculptress, for + she had finished the bronze before Minnie left us. + </p> + <p> + “That,” I answered the strong, pink man, trying to shake loose + his grip, “is a sculpture by Cecily Willard, otherwise Mrs. Cyrus + Staten.” + </p> + <p> + “What’ll she take for it?” + </p> + <p> + “It can’t be bought.” I spoke with authority, for the + figurines that the Bonnie Lassie sets in her window are not for sale, but + for us of Our Square, who love them. + </p> + <p> + “Anything can be bought,” he retorted, with his quiet, hoarse + persuasiveness, “at a price. I’ve got the price, no matter + what it is.” + </p> + <p> + Suddenly I understood my pink and hard acquaintance. I understood that + stale look in his eyes. Tears do not bring that. Nothing brings it but + sleepless thoughts beyond the assuagement of tears. Behind such eyes the + heart is aching cold and the brain searing hot. Who should know better + than I, though the kindly years have brought their healing! But here was a + wound, raw and fresh and savage. I put my hand on his shoulder. + </p> + <p> + “What was little Minnie to you?” I asked, and answered myself. + “You’re Hines. You’re the man she married.” + </p> + <p> + “Yes. I’m Chris Hines.” + </p> + <p> + “You’ve brought her back to us,” I said stupidly. + </p> + <p> + “She made me promise.” + </p> + <p> + Strange how Our Square binds the heartstrings of those who have once lived + in it! To find it unendurable in life, to yearn back to it in the hour of + death! Many have known the experience. So our tiny God’s Acre, + shrunk to a small fraction of human acreage through pressure of the + encroaching tenements, has filled up until now it has space but for few + more of the returning. Laws have been invoked and high and learned courts + appealed to for the jealously guarded right to sleep there, as Minnie Munn + was so soon to sleep beside her mother. + </p> + <p> + I told Hines that I would see the Bonnie Lassie about the statuette, and + led him on, through the nagged and echoing passage and the iron gate, to + the white-studded space of graves. The new excavation showed, brown + against the bright verdure. Above it stood the headstone of the Munns, + solemn and proud, the cost of a quarter-year’s salary, at the + pitiful wage which little, broken Mr. Munn drew from his municipal + clerkship. Hines’s elegant coat rippled on his chest, above what may + have been a shudder, as he looked about him. + </p> + <p> + “It’s crowded,” he muttered. + </p> + <p> + “We lie close, as we lived close, in Our Square. I am glad for her + father’s sake that Minnie wished to come back.” + </p> + <p> + “She said she couldn’t rest peaceful anywhere else. She said + she had some sort of right to be here.” + </p> + <p> + “The Munns belong to what we call the Inalienables in Our Square,” + said I, and told him of the high court decision which secured to the + descendants of the original “churchyard membership,” and to + them alone, the inalienable right to lie in God’s Acre, provided, as + in the ancient charter, they had “died in honorable estate.” I + added: “Bartholomew Storrs, as sexton, has constituted himself + watchdog of our graves and censor of our dead. He carried one case to the + Supreme Court in an attempt to keep an unhappy woman from sleeping in that + pious company.” + </p> + <p> + “That sour-faced prohibitionist?” growled Mr. Hines, employing + what I suspect to be the blackest anathema in his lexicon. “Is he + the sexton?” + </p> + <p> + “The same. Our mortuary genius,” I confirmed. + </p> + <p> + “She was a good girl, Min was,” said Mr. Hines firmly, though, + it might appear, a trifle inconsequentially: “I don’t care + what they say. Anyway, after I met up with her”; in which qualifying + afterthought lay a whole sorrowful and veiled history. + </p> + <p> + I waited. + </p> + <p> + “What did they say about her, down here?” he asked jealously. + </p> + <p> + “Oh, there were rumors. They didn’t reach her father.” + </p> + <p> + “No: tell me,” he persisted. “I gotta know.” + </p> + <p> + Because Mr. Hines had already impressed himself upon me as one with whom + straight talk would serve best, I acceded. + </p> + <p> + “Bartholomew Storrs said that her feet took hold on hell.” + </p> + <p> + Mr. Hines’s face remained impassive. Only his hands worked slightly, + perhaps kneading an imaginary throat. I perceived him to be a person of + considerable and perhaps formidable self-control. + </p> + <p> + “Not that she hadn’t her friends. The Bonnie Lassie would have + stood by her if she had come back, and little Mrs. Morse, and our Dr. + Smith, and MacLachan, who thought he had lost his own girl the same way, + and—and others, plenty.” + </p> + <p> + “And you, Dominie,” said the hard, pink Mr. Hines. + </p> + <p> + “My dear sir, old men cannot afford harsh judgments. They are too + near their own time.” + </p> + <p> + “Yeh?” said Mr. Hines absently. “I guess that’s + right.” But his mind was plainly elsewhere. “When would you + say would be the best time to do business with old Funeral-Clothes?” + he asked after a thoughtful pause. + </p> + <p> + “You want to see Bartholomew Storrs?” I interpreted. + </p> + <p> + “Sure. I gotta deliver the death certificate to him if he runs the + graveyard, haven’t I?” + </p> + <p> + “Such is the procedure, I believe.” + </p> + <p> + “Besides,” he added with a leer, “I want to get some of + that weepy poetry of his.” + </p> + <p> + “Well; he’ll sell it to you readily.” + </p> + <p> + “I’ll say he’ll sell it to me,” returned Mr. Hines + with a grimness which I failed to comprehend. + </p> + <p> + “Now is as good a time as any to catch him in his office.” I + pointed to a sign at the farther end of the yard. + </p> + <p> + Mr. Hines seemed in no hurry to go. With his elegantly lacquered cane, he + picked at the sod, undecidedly. His chill, veiled eyes roved about the + open space. He lifted his pearl-gray derby, and, for lack of a + handkerchief, wiped his forehead with the back of his hand. Although the + May day was cool and brisk with wind, his knuckles glistened when they + descended. I began to suspect that, despite his stony self-command, Mr. + Hines’s nerves were not all that they should be. + </p> + <p> + “Perhaps you’d like me to introduce you to Mr. Storrs,” + I hazarded. + </p> + <p> + The cold and filmy eyes gleamed with an instant’s dim warmth. + “Dominie, you’re a good guy,” responded Mr. Hines. + “If a dead cinch at ten to one, all fruited up for next week, the + kind of thing you don’t hand on to your own brother, would be any + use to you—No? I’m off again,” he apologized. “Well—let’s + go.” + </p> + <p> + We went. At the doorstep of Bartholomew Storrs’s office he paused. + </p> + <p> + “This sexton-guy,” he said anxiously, “he don’t + play the ponies, ever, I wouldn’t suppose?” + </p> + <p> + “No more often than he commits murder or goes to sleep in church,” + I smiled. + </p> + <p> + “Yeh?” he answered, disheartened. “I gotta get to him + some other way. On the poetry—and that’s out of my line.” + </p> + <p> + “I don’t quite see what your difficulty is.” + </p> + <p> + “By what you tell me, it’s easier to break into a swell Fifth + Avenue Club than into this place.” + </p> + <p> + “Except for those having the vested right, as your wife has.” + </p> + <p> + “And this sexton-guy handles the concession for—he’s got + the say-so,” he corrected himself hastily—“on who goes + in and who stays out. Is that right?” + </p> + <p> + “Substantially.” + </p> + <p> + “And he’d rather keep ’em out than let ’em in?” + </p> + <p> + “Bartholomew,” I explained, “considers that the honor of + God’s Acre is in his keeping. He has a fierce sort of jealousy about + it, as if he had a proprietary interest in the place.” + </p> + <p> + “I get you!” Mr. Hines’s corded throat worked painfully. + “You don’t suppose the old goat would slip Min a blackball?” + he gulped. + </p> + <p> + “How can he? As an ‘Inalienable’—” + </p> + <p> + “Yeh; I know. But wasn’t there something about a clean record? + I’ll tell <i>you</i>, Dominie”—Mr. Hines’s husky + but assured voice trailed away into a miserable, thick whisper—“as + to what he said—about her feet taking hold on hell—I guess + there was a time—I guess about one more slip—I guess I didn’t + run across her any too quick. But there never was a straighter, truer girl + than Min was with me. I gotta get her planted <i>right</i>, Dominie. I + gotta do it,” he concluded with pathetic earnestness. + </p> + <p> + “I see no difficulty,” I assured him. “The charter + specifies ‘<i>died</i> in honorable estate.’ Matrimony is an + honorable estate. How she lived before that is between her and a gentler + Judge than Bartholomew Storrs.” + </p> + <p> + “Give her a straight course and a fair judge and I’ll back Min + to the limit,” said Mr. Hines so simply and loyally that no + suggestion of irreverence could attach to him. + </p> + <p> + Nevertheless, doubt was mingled with determination in his florid face as + he rang the bell. Bartholomew Storrs opened to us, himself. When he saw + me, he hastily pocketed a Rhyming Dictionary. I introduced my companion, + stating, by way of a favorable opening, that he was interested in memorial + poetry. + </p> + <p> + “Very pleased,” said Bartholomew Storrs in his deep, + lugubrious tones. “Bereaved husband?” + </p> + <p> + Mr. Hines nodded. + </p> + <p> + “Here’s a tasty thing I just completed,” continued the + poet, and, extending a benignant hand toward the visitor he intoned + nasally: + </p> +<pre xml:space="preserve"> + “Together we have lived our life + Till thou hast gone on high. + But I will come to thee, dear Wife, + In the sweet bye-and-bye.” + </pre> + <p> + “That style five dollars,” he said. + </p> + <p> + “You’re on,” barked Mr. Hines. “I’ll take + it.” + </p> + <p> + “To be published, I suppose, on the first anniversary of death. + Shall I look after the insertion in the papers?” queried the + obliging poet, who split an advertising agent’s percentage on + memorial notices placed by him. + </p> + <p> + “Sure. Got any more? I’d spend a hundred to do this right.” + </p> + <p> + With a smile of astounded gratification, Bartholomew accepted the roll of + bills, fresh and crisp as the visitor himself. To do him justice, I + believe that his pleasure was due as much to the recognition of his genius + as to the stipend it had earned. + </p> + <p> + “Perhaps you’d like a special elegy to be read at the grave,” + he rumbled eagerly. “When and where did the interment take place?” + </p> + <p> + The other glared at him in stony surprise. “It ain’t taken + place. It’s to-morrow. Ain’t you on? I’m Hines.” + </p> + <p> + A frown darkened the sexton’s heavy features. He shook a + reprehensive head. “An unfortunate case,” he boomed; “most + unfortunate. I will not conceal from you, Mr. Hines, that I have consulted + our attorneys upon this case, and unhappily—unhappily, I say—they + hold that there is no basis for exclusion provided the certificate is in + form. You have it with you?” + </p> + <p> + Impassive and inscrutable, Mr. Hines tapped his breast-pocket. + </p> + <p> + The conscience of a responsible sexton being assuaged, Bartholomew’s + expression mollified into that of the flattered poet. + </p> + <p> + “Such being the case,” he pursued, “there can be no + objection to the reading of an elegy as part of the service. Who is to + officiate?” + </p> + <p> + “The Reverend Doctor Hackett.” + </p> + <p> + “He has retired these two years,” said the sexton doubtfully. + “He is very old. His mind sometimes wanders.” + </p> + <p> + “She wouldn’t have any one else,” asserted the hard, + pink Mr. Hines. “She was as particular about that as about being + buried yonder.” He jerked his head toward the window. + </p> + <p> + “Very well. I will be at the grave. I always am. Trust me to guide + the reverend gentleman over any breach in his memory. Excuse me for a + moment while I look up my elegies.” + </p> + <p> + “Say,” said Mr. Hines in his hoarse, confidential croak, as + the poet-sexton retired, “this is dead easy. Why, the guy’s on + the make. For sale. He’ll stand for anything. Passing out this stuff + for other folks to sign! He’s a crook!” + </p> + <p> + “Make no such mistake,” I advised. “Bartholomew is as + honest a man as lives, in his own belief.” + </p> + <p> + “Very likely. That’s the worst kind,” pronounced the + expert Mr. Hines. + </p> + <p> + Further commentary was cut off by the return of the sexton-poet. “If + you will kindly give me the death certificate of the late lamented,” + said he. + </p> + <p> + “What becomes of it after I deliver it?” asked Mr. Hines. + </p> + <p> + “Read, attested, and filed officially.” + </p> + <p> + “Any one else but you see it?” + </p> + <p> + “Not necessarily.” + </p> + <p> + “That’s all right, then.” + </p> + <p> + Hardly had Bartholomew Storrs glanced at the document received from Mr. + Hines than he lifted a stiffening face. + </p> + <p> + “What is this?” he challenged. + </p> + <p> + “What’s what?” + </p> + <p> + The official tapped the paper with a gaunt finger. “‘Minna + Merivale, aged twenty-five,’” he read. + </p> + <p> + “That’s the name she went by.” + </p> + <p> + “<i>Unmarried</i>” read Bartholomew Storrs in a voice of doom. + </p> + <p> + “Well?” + </p> + <p> + In the sexton’s eyes gleamed an unholy savagery of satisfaction. + “Take her away.” + </p> + <p> + “<i>What</i>?” + </p> + <p> + “Bury her somewhere else. Do not think that you can pollute the + ground—” + </p> + <p> + “Bartholomew!” I broke in, stepping hastily in front of Mr. + Hines, for I had seen all the pink ebb out of his face, leaving it a + dreadful sort of gray; and I had no desire to be witness of a murder, + however much I might deem it justified. + </p> + <p> + “I’ll handle him,” said Mr. Hines steadily. “Now; + you! You got my hundred in your jeans, ain’t you!” + </p> + <p> + “Bribery!” boomed the sexton. He drew out the roll of bills + and let it fall from his contaminated fingers. + </p> + <p> + “Sure! Bribery,” railed the other. “What’d you + think? Ain’t it enough for what I’m asking?” The two men + glared at each other. + </p> + <p> + I broke the silence. “Exactly what are you asking, Mr. Hines?” + </p> + <p> + “File that”—he touched the document—“and + forget it. Let Min rest out there as my wife, like she ought to have been.” + </p> + <p> + “Why didn’t you make her your wife?” thundered the + accuser. + </p> + <p> + Some invisible thing gripped the corded throat of Mr. Hines. “Couldn’t,” + he gulped. “There was—another. She wouldn’t divorce me.” + </p> + <p> + “Your sin has found you out,” declared the self-constituted + judge of the dead with a dismal sort of relish. + </p> + <p> + “Yeh? That’s all right. <i>I’ll</i> pay for it. But she’s + paid already.” + </p> + <p> + “As she lived so she has died, in sin,” the inexorable voice + answered. “Let her seek burial elsewhere.” + </p> + <p> + Mr. Hines leaned forward. His expression and tone were passionless as + those of a statistician proffering a tabulation: his words were fit to + wring the heart of a stone. + </p> + <p> + “She’s dead, ain’t she?” he argued gently. “She + can’t hurt any one, can she? ‘Specially if they don’t + know.” + </p> + <p> + Bartholomew Storrs made a gesture of repulsion. + </p> + <p> + “Well, who’ll she hurt?” pursued the other, in his form + of pure and abstract reasoning. “Not her mother, I guess. Her mother’s + waiting for her; that’s what Min said when she was—was going. + And her father’ll be on the other side of her. And that’s all. + Min never harmed anybody but herself when she was alive. How’s she + going to do ’em any damage now, just lying there, resting? Be + reasonable, man!” + </p> + <p> + Be pitiful, oh, man! For there was a time not so long past when you, with + all your stern probity and your unwinking conscience, needed pity; yes, + and pleaded for it when the mind was out of control. Think back, + Bartholomew Storrs, to the day when you stood by another grave, close to + that which waits to-day for the weary sleeper—Bartholomew Storrs + rested, opened the door and stood by it, grimly waiting. Mr. Hines turned + to me. + </p> + <p> + “What is this thing, Dominie; a man or a snake? Will I kill it?” + </p> + <p> + “Bartholomew,” I began. “When we—” + </p> + <p> + “Not a word from you, Dominie. My mind is made up.” + </p> + <p> + “The girl is Isabel Munn’s daughter.” + </p> + <p> + I saw a tremor shake the gaunt frame. + </p> + <p> + “When we buried Isabel Munn, you came back in the night to weep at + her grave.” + </p> + <p> + He thrust out a warding hand toward me. + </p> + <p> + “Why did you weep over Isabel Munn’s grave, Bartholomew?” + </p> + <p> + “Speak no evil of the dead,” he cried wildly. + </p> + <p> + “It is not in my mind. She was a good and pure woman. What would she + have been if she had listened to you?” + </p> + <p> + “What do you know? Who betrayed me?” + </p> + <p> + “You, yourself. When you came down with pneumonia after the burial, + I sat with you through a night of delirium.” + </p> + <p> + Bartholomew Storrs bowed his head. + </p> + <p> + “My sin hath found me out,” he groaned. “God knows I + loved her, and—and I hadn’t the strength not to tell her. I’d + have given up everything for her, my hope of heaven, my—my—I + ‘d have given up my office and gone away from God’s Acre! And + that was twenty years ago. I—I don’t sleep o’ nights + yet, for thinking.” + </p> + <p> + “Well, you ain’t the only one,” said the dull voice of + Mr. Hines. + </p> + <p> + “You’re tempting me!” Bartholomew Storrs snarled at him. + “You’re trying to make me false to my trust.” + </p> + <p> + “Just to let her lie by her mother, like her mother would ask you if + she could.” + </p> + <p> + “Don’t say it to me!” He beat his head with his clenched + hand. Recovering command of himself, he straightened up, taking a deep + breath: “I must be guided by my conscience and my God,” he + said professionally, and I noted a more reverent intonation given to the + former than to the latter. A bad sign. + </p> + <p> + “Isabel Munn’s daughter, Bartholomew,” I reminded him. + </p> + <p> + Instead of replying he staggered out of the door. Through the window we + saw him, a moment later, posting down the street, bareheaded and + stony-eyed, like one spurred by tormenting thoughts. + </p> + <p> + “Will he do it, do you think?” queried the anxious-visaged Mr. + Hines. + </p> + <p> + I shook my head in doubt. With a man like Bartholomew Storrs, one can + never tell. + </p> + <p> + Old memories are restless companions for the old. So I found them that + night. But there is balm for sleeplessness in the leafy quiet of Our + Square. I went out to my bench, seeking it, and found an occupant already + there. + </p> + <p> + “We ain’t the only ones that need a jab of dope, Dominie,” + said Mr. Hines, hard and pink and hoarsely confidential as when I first + saw him. + </p> + <p> + “No? Who else?” Though I suspected, of course. + </p> + <p> + “Old Gloom. He’s over in the Acre.” + </p> + <p> + “Did you meet him there? What did he say?” + </p> + <p> + “I ducked him. He never saw me. He was—well, I guess he was + praying,” said Mr. Hines shamefacedly. + </p> + <p> + “Praying? At the Munn grave?” + </p> + <p> + “That’s it. Groaning and saying, ‘A sign, O Lord! + Vouchsafe thy servant a sign!’ Kept saying it over and over.” + </p> + <p> + “For guidance to-morrow,” I murmured. “Mr. Hines, I’m + not sure that I know Bartholomew Storrs’s God. Nor can I tell what + manner of sign he might give, or with what meaning. But if I know my God, + whom I believe to be the true God, your Minnie is safe with him.” + </p> + <p> + “Yeh? You’re a good guy, Dominie,” said Mr. Hines in his + emotionless voice. + </p> + <p> + I took him home with me to sleep. But we did not sleep. We smoked. + </p> + <p> + Minnie Munn’s funeral morning dawned clear and fresh. No word came + from Bartholomew Storrs. I tried to find him, but without avail. + </p> + <p> + “We’ll go through with it,” said Mr. Hines quietly. + </p> + <p> + How small and insignificant seemed our tiny God’s Acre, as the few + mourners crept into it behind Minnie Munn’s body; the gravestones + like petty dots upon the teeming earth, dwarfed by the overshadowing + tenements, as if death were but an incident in the vast, unhasting, + continuous sweep of life, as indeed perhaps it is. Then the grandeur of + the funeral service, which links death to immortality, was bodied forth in + the aged minister’s trembling voice, and by it the things which are + of life were dwarfed to nothingness. But my uneasy mind refused to be + bound by the words; it was concerned with Bartholomew Storrs, standing + grim, haggard, inscrutable, beside the grave, his eyes upturned and + waiting. Too well I knew for what he was waiting; his sign. So, too, did + Mr. Hines, still hard, still pink, still impeccably tailored, and still + clinging to his elegant lacquered cane, as he supported little, broken Mr. + Munn, very pathetic and decorous in full black, even to the gloves. + </p> + <p> + The sonorous beauty and simplicity of the rite suddenly checked, faltered. + Bartholomew Storrs leaned over anxiously to the minister. The poor, + gentle, worn-out old brain was groping now in semi-darkness, through which + shot a cross-ray of memory. The tremulous voice took on new confidence, + but the marrow of my spine turned icy as I heard the fatally misplaced and + confused words that followed: + </p> + <p> + “If any man know—know just and good cause why this woman—why + this woman—should not—” + </p> + <p> + Bartholomew Storrs’s gaunt hand shot upward, high in air, outspread + in the gesture of forbiddance. His deep voice rang, overbearing the + stumbling accents of the clergyman. + </p> + <p> + “A sign! A sign from on High! O God, thou hast spoken through thy + servant to forefend a sore offense. Listen, ye people. This woman—” + </p> + <p> + He stopped as there rose, on the opposite side of the open grave another + figure, with hands and voice lifted to heaven in what must surely have + been the most ingenuous supplication that ever ascended to the throne of + Pity and Understanding. All the passion which, through the bitter hours, + had been repressed in the self-commanding soul of the hard and pink Mr. + Hines, swelled and cried aloud in his plea: + </p> + <p> + “O God! have a heart!” + </p> + <p> + Bartholomew Storrs’s hand fell. His eyes faltered. His lips + trembled. He stood once more, agonized with doubt. And in that moment the + old minister came to his rightful senses. + </p> + <p> + “Peace, my friends,” he commanded with authority. “Let + no man disturb the peace of the dead.” + </p> + <p> + And, unwaveringly, he went on to the end of the service. + </p> + <p> + So little Minnie Munn rests beside the mother who waited for her. No + ghosts have risen to protest her presence there. The man who loved her + comes back to Our Square from time to time, at which times there are fresh + flowers on Minnie’s mound, below the headstone reading: “Beloved + Wife of Christopher Hines.” But the elegiac verse has never + appeared. I must record also the disappearance of that tiny bronze + cockleshell, outward bound for “Far Ports,” from the Bonnie + Lassie’s window, though Mr. Hines was wrong in his theory that it + could be bought—like all else —“at a price.” By + the way, I believe that he has modified that theory. + </p> + <p> + As for Bartholomew Storrs, he is prone to take the other side of the + Square when he sees me on my accustomed bench. In repose his face is as + grim as ever, but I have seen him smile at a child. Probably the weight of + our collective sins upon his conscience is less irksome, now that he has a + crime of his own to balance them. For forgery and falsification of an + official record is a real crime, which might send him to jail. But even + that grim and judicial God of his worship ought to welcome him into heaven + on the strength of it. + </p> + <p> + I believe that Bartholomew sleeps o’ nights now. + </p> + <p> + <br /><br /> + </p> + <hr /> + <p> + <a name="link2H_4_0007" id="link2H_4_0007"> </a> + </p> + <div style="height: 4em;"> + <br /><br /><br /><br /> + </div> + <h2> + FOR MAYME, READ MARY + </h2> + <h3> + I + </h3> + <p> + Mayme Mccartney was a bad little good girl. She inspired (I trust) esteem + for her goodness. But it was for her hardy and happy impudence, her bent + for ingenious mischief, her broad and catholic disrespect for law, + conventions, proprieties and persons, and the glint of the devil in her + black eyes that we really loved her. Such is the perversity of human + nature in Our Square. I am told that it is much the same elsewhere. + </p> + <p> + She first came into public notice by giving (unsolicited) a most + scandalous and spirited imitation of old Madame Tallafferr, aforetime of + the Southern aristocracy, in the act of rebuking her landlord, the + insecticidal Boggs (“Boggs Kills Bugs” in his patent of + nobility), for eating peanuts on his own front steps. She then (earnestly + solicited by a growing audience) put on impromptu sketches of the Little + Red Doctor diagnosing internal complications in a doodle-bug; of MacLachan + (drunk) singing “The Cork Leg” and MacLachan (sober) repenting + thereof; of Bartholomew Storrs offering samples of his mortuary poesy to a + bereaved second-cousin; and, having decked out her chin in cotton-batten + whiskers (limb of Satan!), of myself proffering sage counsel and pious + admonitions to Our Square at large. Having concluded, she sat down on a + bench and coughed. And the Little Red Doctor, who, from the shelter of a + shrub had observed her presentation of his little idiosyncrasies, drew + nearer and looked at her hard. For he disliked the sound of that cough. He + suspected that his old friend and opponent, Death, with whom he fought an + interminable campaign, was mocking him from ambush. It wasn’t quite + fair play, either, for the foe to use the particular weapon indicated by + the cough on a mere child. With her lustrous hair loose and floating, and + her small, eager, flushed face, she looked far short of the mature and + self-reliant seventeen which was the tally of her experienced years. + </p> + <p> + “Hello,” greeted the Little Red Doctor, speaking with the + brusque informality of one assured of his place as a local celebrity. + “I don’t know you, do I?” + </p> + <p> + Mayme lifted her eyes. “If you don’t,” she drawled, + “it ain’t for lack of tryin’. Is your hat glued on?” + </p> + <p> + “Good Lord!” exclaimed the Little Red Doctor indignantly. + “Do you think I’m trying to flirt with you? Why, you’re + only a kid.” + </p> + <p> + “Get up to date,” advised Mayme. “I’m old enough + to be your steady. Only, I’m too lucky.” + </p> + <p> + “That’s a bad cough you’ve got,” said the Little + Red Doctor hastily. + </p> + <p> + “I’ve got a better one at home. Like to hear it some day?” + </p> + <p> + “Bring it over to my office and let’s look at the thing,” + suggested the Little Red Doctor, smiling. + </p> + <p> + As Mayme McCartney observed that smile with the shrewd judgment of men + which comes early, in self-protection, to girls of her environment, the + suspicion and impudence died out of her face, which became wistful. + </p> + <p> + “D’you think it means anything?” she asked. + </p> + <p> + “Any cough means something. I couldn’t tell without + examination.” + </p> + <p> + “How much?” inquired the cautious Mayme. + </p> + <p> + The Little Red Doctor is a willing liar in a good cause. “No charge + for first consultation. Come over to my office.” + </p> + <p> + When the test was finished, the Little Red Doctor looked professionally + non-committal. “Live with your parents?” he asked. + </p> + <p> + “No. With my aunt. ‘Round in the Avenue.” + </p> + <p> + “Where do you work?” + </p> + <p> + “The Emporium,” answered the girl, naming the great and still + fashionable downtown department store, half a mile to the westward. + </p> + <p> + “You ought to quit. As soon as possible.” + </p> + <p> + “And spoil my delicate digestion?” + </p> + <p> + “Who said anything about your digestion?” + </p> + <p> + “I did. If I quit workin’, I quit eatin’. And that’s + bad for me. I tried it once.” + </p> + <p> + “I see,” said the Little Red Doctor, recognizing a condition + by no means unprecedented in local practice. “Couldn’t you get + a job in some better climate?” + </p> + <p> + “Where, for instance?” + </p> + <p> + “Well, if you knew any one in California.” + </p> + <p> + “How’s the walkin’?” asked Mayme. + </p> + <p> + “It’s long,” replied the Little Red Doctor, “seeing” + again. “Anyway, you’ve got to have fresh air.” + </p> + <p> + “They serve it fresh, every morning, right here in Our Square,” + Mayme pointed out. + </p> + <p> + “Good idea. Get up early and fill your lungs full of it for an hour + every day.” He gave some further instructions. + </p> + <p> + Mayme produced a dollar, and delicately placed it on the mantel. + </p> + <p> + “Take it away,” said the Little Red Doctor. “Didn’t + I tell you—” + </p> + <p> + “Go-wan!” said Mayme. “Whadda you think you are; + Bellevue Hospital? I pay as I go, Doc.” + </p> + <p> + The Little Red Doctor frowned austerely. + </p> + <p> + “What’s the matter? Face hurt you?” asked the solicitous + Mayme. + </p> + <p> + “People don’t call me ‘Doc,’” began the + offended practitioner in dignified tones. + </p> + <p> + “Oh, that’s because they ain’t on to you,” she + assured him. “I wouldn’t call you ‘Doc’ myself if + I didn’t know you was a good sport back of your bluff.” + </p> + <p> + The Little Red Doctor grinned, looking first at Mayme and then at the + dollar. “You aren’t such a bad sport yourself,” he + admitted. “Well, we’ll call this a deal. But if I see you in + the Square and give you a tip about yourself now and again, that doesn’t + count. That’s on the side. Understand?” + </p> + <p> + She considered it gravely. “All right,” she agreed at length. + “Between pals, yes? Shake, Doc.” + </p> + <p> + So began the quaint friendship between our hard-worked, bluff, + knightly-hearted practitioner, and the impish and lovable little + store-girl. Also another of the innumerable tilts between him and his old + friend, Death. + </p> + <p> + “He’s got the jump on me, Dominie,” complained the + Little Red Doctor to me. “But, at that, we’re going to give + him a fight. She’s clear grit, that youngster is. She’s got a + philosophy of life, too. I don’t know where she got it, or just what + it is, but it’s there. Oh, she’s worth saving, Dominie.” + </p> + <p> + “If I hadn’t reason to think you safeguarded, my young friend,” + said I, “I’d give you solemn warning.” + </p> + <p> + “Why, she’s an infant!” returned the Little Red Doctor + scornfully. “A poor, little, monkey-faced child. Besides—” + He stopped and sighed. + </p> + <p> + “Yes; I know,” I assented. There was at that time a “Besides” + in the Little Red Doctor’s sorrowful heart which bulked too large to + admit of any rivalry. “Nevertheless,” I added, “you + needn’t be so scornful about the simian type in woman. It’s a + concentrated peril to mankind. I’ve seen trouble caused in this + world by kitten faces, by pure, classic faces, by ox-eyed-Juno faces, by + vivid blond faces, by dreamy, poetic faces, by passionate Southern faces, + but for real power of catastrophe, for earthquake and eclipse, for red + ruin and the breaking up of laws, commend me to the humanized, feminized + monkey face. I’ll wager that when Antony first set eyes on + Cleopatra, he said, ‘And which cocoa palm did she fall out of?’ + Phryne was of the beautified baboon cast of features, and as for Helen of + Troy, the best authorities now lean to the belief that the face that + launched a thousand ships and fired the topless towers of Ilium was a + reversion to the arboreal. I tell you, man that is born of woman cannot + resist it. Give little Mayme three more years—” + </p> + <p> + “I wish to God I could,” said the Little Red Doctor. + </p> + <p> + “Can’t you?” I asked, startled. “Is it as bad as + that?” + </p> + <p> + “It isn’t much better. How’s your insomnia, Dominie?” + </p> + <p> + “Insomnia,” said I, “is a scientific quibble for unlaid + memories. I take mine out for the early morning air at times, if that’s + what you mean.” + </p> + <p> + “It is. Keep an eye on the kid, and do what you can to prevent that + busy little mind of hers from brooding.” + </p> + <p> + In that way Mayme McCartney and I became early morning friends. She + adopted for her special own a bench some rods from mine under the lilac + near the fountain. After her walk, taken with her thin shoulders flung + back and the chest filling with deep, slow breaths, she would pay me a + call or await one from me and we would exchange theories and opinions and + argue about this and other worlds. Seventy against seventeen. Fair + exchange, for, if mine were the riper creed, hers was the more vivid and + adventurous. Who shall say which was the sounder? + </p> + <p> + On the morning of the astonishing Trespass, I was late, being discouraged + by a light rain. As she approached her bench, she found it occupied by an + individual who appeared to be playing a contributory part in the general + lamentation of nature. The interloper was young and quite exquisite of + raiment, which alone would have marked him for an outlander. His elbows + were propped on his knees, his fists supported his cheekbones, his whole + figure was in a slump of misery. Scrutinizing him with surprise, Mayme was + shocked to see a glistening drop, detached from his drooping countenance, + fall to the pavement, followed by another. At the same time she heard an + unmistakable and melancholic sound. + </p> + <p> + The benches in Our Square have seen more life than most. They have cradled + weariness of body and spirit; they have assuaged grief and given refuge to + shaking terror, and been visited by Death. They have shivered to the + passion of cursing men and weeping women. But never before had any of + their ilk heard grown young manhood blubber. Neither had Mayme McCartney. + It inspired her with mingled emotions, the most immediate of which was a + desire to laugh. + </p> + <p> + Accordingly she laughed. The intruder lifted a woeful face, gave her one + vague look, and reverted to his former posture. Mayme stopped laughing. + She advanced and put a friendly hand on one of the humped shoulders. + </p> + <p> + “Cheer up, Buddy,” she said. “It ain’t as bad as + you think it is.” + </p> + <p> + “It’s worse,” gulped a choky voice. Then the head lifted + again. “Who are you?” it demanded. + </p> + <p> + “I’m your big sister,” said Mayme reassuringly. “Tell + a feller about it.” + </p> + <p> + The response was neither polite nor explanatory. “D—-n + sisters!” said the bencher. + </p> + <p> + “Oh, tutt-<i>tutt</i> and naughty-naughty!” rebuked Mayme. + “Somebody’s sister been puttin’ somethin’ over on + poor little Willy?” + </p> + <p> + “My own sister has.” He was in that state of semi-hysterical + exhaustion in which revelation of one’s intimate troubles to the + first comer seems natural. “She’s gone and got arrested,” + he wailed. + </p> + <p> + Mayme’s face became grave and practical. + </p> + <p> + “That’s different,” said she. “What’s her + lay?” + </p> + <p> + “Lay? I don’t know—” + </p> + <p> + “What’s her line? What’s she done to get pinched?” + </p> + <p> + “Shoplifting. At the special night sale of the Emporium.” + </p> + <p> + “You’re tellin’ me! In the silks, huh?” + </p> + <p> + “What do you know about it? My God! Is it in the papers already?” + </p> + <p> + “Keep your hair on, Buddy. I work there, and I heard about that + pinch. Swell young married lady. Say,” she added, after a thoughtful + pause: “has she got somethin’ comin’?” + </p> + <p> + “Something coming? How? What?” + </p> + <p> + “Don’t be dumb. A kid.” + </p> + <p> + He stared. She was looking at him with unabashed frankness. Those who live + in the close, rough intimacy of the slums do not cherish false shame about + the major facts of life. + </p> + <p> + “Suppose she has?” queried the youth sulkily. + </p> + <p> + “Why, that’ll be all right, you poor boob,” returned the + kindly Mayme. “The judge’ll let her off with a warning.” + </p> + <p> + “How do you know?” + </p> + <p> + “They always do. Those cases are common. Dolan ought to be canned + for makin’ a pinch of a lady in the fam’ly way.” + </p> + <p> + “What if they do let her off?” lamented the youth. “It’ll + be in all the papers and I’ll be ruined. My life’s spoiled. I + might as well leave the city.” + </p> + <p> + “Ah, don’t do a mean trick like that to the old town!” + besought the sardonic Mayme. “Where do you come in to get hurt?” + </p> + <p> + He burst into the hectic grievances of the pampered and spoiled child. His + family was just getting a foothold in Society (with an almost holy + emphasis on the word) and now they were disgraced. All was up. Their new, + precariously held acquaintances would drop them. In his petulant grief he + did an amazing thing; he produced a bunch of clippings from the local + society columns, setting forth, in the printed company of the Shining + Ones, the doings (mostly charitable) of Mrs. Samuel Berthelin, her + daughter, Mrs. Harris, and her son, David, referred to glowingly as + “the scion of the wealth and position of the late lamented + financier.” + </p> + <p> + Mayme was impressed. Like most shop-girls she was a fervent reader of + society news. (If shop-girls did not read this fine flower of American + democracy, nobody would, except those who wait eagerly and anxiously for + their names to appear.) She perceived—not knowing that the + advertising leverage of the Berthelin Loan Agency had forced those + insecure portals of print for the entry of Mrs. Berthelin and her progeny—that + she was in the presence of the Great. Capacity for awe was not in Mayme’s + independent soul. But she was interested and sympathetic. Here was a + career worth saving! + </p> + <p> + “Let’s go over to the station-house,” said she. “I + know some of the cops.” + </p> + <p> + To the white building with the green lanterns they went. The shoplifting + case, it appeared, had already been bailed out. Furthermore, everything + would be all right and there was little fear of publicity; the store + itself would see to that. Vastly relieved and refreshed in spirit, David + Berthelin began to take stock of his companion with growing interest. She + was decidedly not pretty. Just as decidedly she was quaint and piquant and + quite new to his jejune but also somewhat bored experience. From the + opening passage of their first conversation he deduced, lacking the + insight to discriminate between honest frankness and immodesty, that she + was a “fly kid.” On that theory he invited her to breakfast + with him. Mayme accepted. They went to Thomson’s Élite Restaurant, + on the corner, where David roused mingled awe and misgivings in the breast + of Polyglot Elsa, the cashier, by ordering champagne, and Mayme reassured + her by declining it. + </p> + <p> + Thus began an acquaintanceship which swiftly ripened into a queer sort of + intimacy, more than a little disturbing to us of Our Square who were + interested in Mayme. Young Berthelin’s over-ornate roadster lingered + in our quiet precincts more often than appeared to us suitable or safe, + and black-eyed Mayme, looking demure and a little exalted, was whirled + away to unknown worlds, always returning, however, at respectable hours. + When the Little Red Doctor remonstrated with her ostensibly on the score + of her health, she reminded him in one breath that he hadn’t been + invited to censor her behavior which was entirely her own affair, and in + the next—with his hand caught between hers and her voice low and + caressing—declared that he was the best little old Doc in the world + and there was nothing to worry about, either as to health or conduct. + Indeed, her condition seemed to be improving. I dare say young Mr. + Berthelin’s expensive food was one of the things she needed. + Furthermore, she ceased to be the raggle-taggle, hoydenishly clad Mayme of + the cash department, and, having been promoted to saleswoman, quite went + in for dress. On this point she sought the advice of the Bonnie Lassie. + The result went far to justify my prophecy that Mayme’s queer little + face might yet make its share of trouble in an impressionable world. But + the Bonnie Lassie shook her bonnie head privately and said that the + fine-feathers development was a bad sign, and that if young Berthelin + would obligingly run his seventeen-jeweled roadster off the Williamsburgh + Bridge, with himself in it, much trouble might be saved for all concerned. + </p> + <p> + If little Mayme were headed for trouble, she went to meet it with a + smiling face. Never had she seemed so joyous, so filled with the desire of + life. This much was to be counted on the credit side, the Little Red + Doctor said. On the debit side—well, to me was deputed the unwelcome + task of conveying the solemn, and, as it were, official protest and + warning of Our Square. Of course I did it at the worst possible moment. It + was early one morning, when Mayme, on her bench, was looking a little + hollow-eyed and disillusioned. I essayed the light and jocular approach to + the subject: + </p> + <p> + “Well, Mayme; how is the ardent swain?” + </p> + <p> + She turned to me with the old flash in her big, shadowed eyes: “Did + you say swain or swine, Dominie?” + </p> + <p> + “Ah!” said I. “Has he changed his rôle?” + </p> + <p> + “He’s given himself away, if that’s what you mean.” + </p> + <p> + “I thought that would come.” + </p> + <p> + “He—he wanted me to take a trip to Boston with him.” + </p> + <p> + I considered this bit of information, which was not as surprising or + unexpected as Mayme appeared to deem it. “Have you told the Little + Red Doctor?” + </p> + <p> + “Doc’d kill him,” said Mayme simply. + </p> + <p> + “What better reason for telling?” + </p> + <p> + “Oh, the poor kid: he don’t know any better.” + </p> + <p> + “Doesn’t he? In any case I trust that you know better, after + this, than to have anything more to do with him.” + </p> + <p> + “Yep. I’ve cut him out,” replied Mayme listlessly. + “I figured you and Doc were right, Dominie. It’s no good, his + kind of game. Not for girls like me.” She looked up at me with + limpid eyes, in which there was courage and determination and suffering. + </p> + <p> + “My dear,” I murmured, “I hope it isn’t going to + be too hard.” + </p> + <p> + “He’s so pretty,” said Mayme McCartney wistfully. + </p> + <p> + So he was, now that I came to think of it. With his clear, dark color, his + wavy hair, his languishing brown eyes, his almost girlishly graceful + figure, and his beautiful clothes, he was pretty enough to fascinate any + inexperienced imagination. But I cannot say that he looked pretty when, a + few days later, he invaded Our Square in search of a Mayme who had + vanished beyond his ken (she had kept her tenement domicile a secret from + him), and, addressing me as “you white-whiskered old goat,” + accused me of having come between him and the girl upon whom he had + deigned to bestow his lordly favor. Unfortunately for him, the Little Red + Doctor chanced along just then and inquired, none too deferentially, what + the Scion of Wealth and Position was doing in that quarter. + </p> + <p> + “What business is it of yours, Red-Head?” countered the + offended visitor. + </p> + <p> + He then listened with distaste, but perforce (for what else could he do in + the grasp of a man of twice his power?), to a brilliant and convincing + summary of his character, terminating in a withering sketch of his + personal and sartorial appearance. + </p> + <p> + “I didn’t mean the kid any harm,” argued the Scion + suavely. “I—I came back to apologize.” + </p> + <p> + “Let me catch you snooping around here again and I’ll break + every bone in your body,” the Little Red Doctor answered him. + </p> + <p> + “I guess this Square’s free to everybody. I guess you don’t + own it,” said the youth, retreating to his car. + </p> + <p> + Notwithstanding the unimpeachable exactitude of this surmise, he was seen + no more in that locality. Judge, then, of our dismay, locally, at + learning, not a fortnight later, from a fellow employee of Mayme’s, + that she had been met at closing time by a swell young guy in a + cherry-colored rattler, who took her away to dine with him. Catechized + upon the point, later on, by a self-appointed committee of two consisting + of the Little Red Doctor and myself, Mayme said vaguely that it was all + right; we didn’t understand. This is, I believe, the usual formula. + The last half of it at least, was true. + </p> + <p> + About that time we, in common with the rest of the Nation, took that upon + our minds which was even more important than Mayme McCartney’s love + affair. War loomed imminently before us. It was only a question of the + fitting time to strike; and Our Square was feverishly reckoning up its + military capacity. The great day of the declaration came. The Nation had + drawn the sword. In the week following, Our Square was invaded. + </p> + <p> + She descended upon us from the somber sumptuousness of a gigantic + limousine, the majestic, the imposing, the formidable, the authoritative + Mrs. S. Berthelin. We knew at once who she was, because she led, by the + ear, as it were, her hopeful progeny, young David. I do not mean that she + had an actual auricular grip on him, but the effect upon his woe-begone + and brow-beaten person was the same. He suggested vividly a spoiled and + pretty lapdog being sternly conveyed to a detested bath. She suggested a + vivified bouquet of artificial flowers. We hastily rallied our forces to + meet her; the Little Red Doctor, the Bonnie Lassie, and myself. Mrs. + Berthelin opened her exordium in a tone of high philippic, not even + awaiting the formalities of introduction. But when I insisted upon these, + and she learned that the Bonnie Lassie was Mrs. Cyrus Staten, she cringed. + Despite a desire to keep out of the society columns quite as genuine as + that of Mrs. Berthelin’s to get in, the Cyrus Statens frequently + figure among the Shining Ones, a fact almost painfully appreciated by our + visitor. After that it was easy to get her into the Bonnie Lassie’s + house, where her eloquence could not draw a crowd. To get young David + there was not quite so easy. He made one well-timed and almost successful + effort to bolt, and even evinced signs of balking on the steps. + </p> + <p> + His punishment was awaiting him. No sooner were we all settled in the + Bonnie Lassie’s studio than the mother proceeded to regale us with a + history and forecast of his career, beginning with his precocious infant + lispings and terminating with his projected, though wholly indefinite, + marriage into the Highest Social Circles. To do David justice, he + squirmed. + </p> + <p> + “Have you got him a job as a general in the army yet, ma’am?” + inquired the Little Red Doctor suavely. + </p> + <p> + It was quite lost upon Mrs. Berthelin. She informed us that a commission + as Captain in the Quartermaster’s Department was arranged for, and + she expected to have the young officer assigned to New York so that he + could live at home in the comfort and luxury suitable to his wealth and + condition. And what she wanted us to understand clearly was that no + designing little gutter-snipe was to be allowed to compromise David’s + future. She concluded with an imaginative and most unflattering estimate + of Mayme McCartney’s character, manners, and morals, in the midst of + which I heard a gasp. + </p> + <p> + It came from Mayme, standing, wide-eyed and white, in the doorway. The + front door had been left ajar, and, seeing the Berthelins’ + monogrammed car outside, she had come in. The oratress turned and stared. + </p> + <p> + “That’s a lie,” said Mayme McCartney steadily. “I’m + as straight a girl as your own daughter. Ask him.” + </p> + <p> + She pointed to the stricken David. Pointing may not be ladylike, but it + can be extremely effective. David’s head dropped into his hands. + </p> + <p> + “Oh, Ma!” he groaned. + </p> + <p> + “Don’t call me ‘Ma,’” snapped the goaded + Mrs. Berthelin. “And this is the girl?” She looked Mayme up + and down. Mayme did the same by her and did it better. + </p> + <p> + “I could give you a lorny-yette and beat you at the frozen-stare + trick,” said the irrepressible Mayme at the conclusion of the duel + which ended in her favor. + </p> + <p> + The Little Red Doctor gurgled. I saw the Bonnie Lassie’s eyelids + quiver, but her face was cold and impassive as she turned to the visitor. + </p> + <p> + “Mrs. Berthelin,” said she, “you have made some very + damaging statements, before witnesses, about Miss McCartney’s + character. What proof have you?” + </p> + <p> + “Why, he wants to <i>marry</i> her!” almost yelled the mother. + “She’s trapped him.” + </p> + <p> + “That’s another lie,” said Mayme. + </p> + <p> + “He told me himself that he was going to marry you.” + </p> + <p> + “Did he? Then he’s wrong. I wouldn’t marry him with a + brass ring,” asserted Mayme. + </p> + <p> + “You wouldn’t mar—You wouldn’t <i>what</i>?” + demanded the mother, outraged and incredulous. + </p> + <p> + “You heard me. He knows it, too. I don’t like the family—what + I’ve seen of them,” observed Mayme judicially. “Besides, + he’s yellow.” + </p> + <p> + David’s shamed face emerged into view. “I’m not,” + he gulped. “She—she made me.” + </p> + <p> + “Captain!” said Mayme with a searing scorn in her voice. + “Quartermaster’s Department! Safety first! When half the + little fifteen-per tape-snippers in the Emporium are breakin’ their + fourteen-inch necks volunteerin’ early and often to get where the + fightin’ is.” + </p> + <p> + David Berthelin stood on his feet, and his pretty face wore an ugly + expression. + </p> + <p> + “Let me out of here,” he growled. + </p> + <p> + “David!” said his mother. “Where are you going?” + </p> + <p> + “To enlist.” + </p> + <p> + “Davey!” It was a shriek. “You shan’t.” + </p> + <p> + “I will.” + </p> + <p> + “I won’t let you.” + </p> + <p> + “You can go to—” + </p> + <p> + “Buddy!” Mayme’s voice, magically softened, broke in. + “Cut out the rough stuff. You better go home and think it over. Bein’ + a private is no pink-silk picnic.” + </p> + <p> + “I’d rather see a son of mine dead than a common soldier!” + cried Mrs. Berthelin. + </p> + <p> + The Bonnie Lassie, very white, rose. “You must leave this house,” + she said. “At once. Think yourself fortunate that I cannot bring + myself to betray a guest. Otherwise I should report you to the + authorities.” + </p> + <p> + Young David addressed Mayme in the words and tone of a misunderstood and + aggrieved pet. “You think I’m no good. I’ll show you, + Mayme. Wait till I come back—if I ever do come back—and you’ll + be sorry.” + </p> + <p> + “Hero stuff,” commented the Little Red Doctor. “It’ll + all have oozed out of his fingertips this time to-morrow.” + </p> + <p> + “Will you show me a place to enlist?” challenged the boy. + “And,” he added with a malicious grin, “will you enlist + with me?” + </p> + <p> + “Sure!” said the Little Red Doctor. “I’ll show + you. But they won’t take me.” He bestowed a bitter glance on + his twisted foot. “Come along.” + </p> + <p> + They went off together, while Mrs. Berthelin scandalized Our Square by an + exhibition of hysterics involving language not at all in accord with the + rich respectability of her apparel and her limousine. + </p> + <p> + We waited at the Bonnie Lassie’s for the Little Red Doctor’s + return. He came back alone. I thought that I detected a pathetic little + gleam of disappointment in Mayme’s deep eyes. + </p> + <p> + “He’s done it,” said the Little Red Doctor. And I was + sorry for him, so much was there of tragic envy in his face. + </p> + <p> + “Did you give him your blessing?” I asked. + </p> + <p> + “I did. He shook hands like a man. There’s maybe something in + that boy, if it weren’t for the old hell-cat of a mother. However, + she won’t have much chance. He’s off to-morrow.” + </p> + <p> + “Will he write?” said Mayme in a curious, strained voice. + </p> + <p> + “He will. He’ll report to me from time to time.” + </p> + <p> + “Didn’t he—wasn’t there any message?” + </p> + <p> + “Just good-bye and good luck,” answered the Little Red Doctor, + censoring ruthlessly. + </p> + <p> + The Bonnie Lassie went over and put her arms around Mayme McCartney. + </p> + <p> + “My dear,” she said softly. “It wouldn’t do. It + really wouldn’t. He isn’t worth it. You’re going to + forget him.” + </p> + <p> + “All right.” Suddenly Mayme looked like a very helpless and + sorrowful little girl. “Only, it—it isn’t goin’ to + be as easy as you think. He was so pretty,” said Mayme McCartney + wistfully. + </p> + <h3> + II + </h3> + <p> + Summer was smiting Our Square with white-hot bolts of sun-fire, from which + one could scarcely find refuge beneath the scraggly shelter of parched + shrubbery, when one morning the Bonnie Lassie approached my bench with a + fell and purposeful smile. + </p> + <p> + “Dominie, you’re a dear old thing,” she began in her + most insinuating tones. + </p> + <p> + “I won’t do it,” I said determinedly, foreboding + something serious. + </p> + <p> + The Bonnie Lassie raised her eyebrows at me, affecting aggrieved + innocence. “Won’t do what?” she inquired. + </p> + <p> + “Whatever it is that you’re trying to wheedle me into.” + </p> + <p> + The eyebrows resumed their normal arch, and a dimple flickered in the + corner of the soft lips. By this I knew that the case was hopeless. + “Oh, but you’ve already done it,” she said. + </p> + <p> + “Help! Tell me the worst and get it over with.” + </p> + <p> + “It must be lovely to be rich,” said the Bonnie Lassie + meditatively. “And so generous!” + </p> + <p> + “How much is it? What do you want it for? I haven’t got that + much,” I hastily remarked. + </p> + <p> + “And to keep it an absolute secret from everybody. Even from Mayme + herself.” + </p> + <p> + “Go on. Don’t mind me,” I murmured. + </p> + <p> + “The Little Red Doctor has found the place. It’s in New + Mexico. And in the fall she’s going on to the Coast. He’s + almost willing to guarantee that a year of it will make her as strong as + ever. And the hundred dollars a month you allow her besides her traveling + expenses will be plenty. You <i>are</i> a good old thing, Dominie!” + </p> + <p> + “What you mean is that I’m an old good-thing. How shall I + look,” I demanded bitterly, “when Mayme comes to thank me?” + </p> + <p> + “No foolisher than you do now, trying to raise unreasonable + objections to our perfectly good plans,” retorted the Bonnie Lassie. + “Besides, she won’t. She knows that your way is to do good by + stealth and blush to find it fame, and she’s under pledge to pretend + to know nothing about it.” + </p> + <p> + “Where did the Little Red Doctor raise it?” I queried. + </p> + <p> + “There are times, Dominie, when your mind has real penetrative + power. Think it over.” + </p> + <p> + “The Weeping Scion of Wealth and Position!” I cried. “Did + our medical friend blackmail him?” + </p> + <p> + “Not necessarily. He only dropped a hint that Mayme’s chance + here was rather poorer than a soldier’s going to war, unless + something could be done and the Weeping Scion fairly begged to be allowed + to do it. ‘Do you think she’d take it from you?’ said + the Little Red Doctor, ‘after what your mother called her?’ + ‘Don’t let her know,’ says our ornamental young weeper. + ‘Tell her somebody else is doing it. Tell her it’s from that + white-whiskered old—from the elderly and handsome gentleman with the + benevolent expres—‘” + </p> + <p> + “Yes: I know,” I broke in. “Very good. I’m the + goat. Lying, hypocrisy, false pretense, fake charity; it’s all one + to a sin-seared old reprobate like me. After it’s over I’ll go + around the corner and steal what pennies I can find in Blind Simon’s + cup, just to make me feel comparatively respectable and decent again.” + </p> + <p> + It was no easier than I expected it to be, especially when little Mayme, + having come to say good-bye, put her lips close to my ear and tried to + whisper something, and cried and kissed me instead. + </p> + <p> + Our Square was a dimmer and duller place after she left. But her letters + helped. They were so exactly like herself! Even at the first, when things + seemed to be going ill with her, they were all courage, and quaint humor + and determination to get well and come back to Our Square, which was the + dearest and best place in the world with the dearest and best people in + it. Homesickness! Poor little, lonely Mayme. She was reading—she + wrote the Bonnie Lassie—all the books that the Dominie had listed + for her, and she was being tutored by a school-teacher with blue goggles + and a weak heart who lived at the same resort. “Why grow up a Boob,” + wrote the philosophic Mayme, “when the lil old world is full of wise + guys just aking to spill their wiseness?” + </p> + <p> + Contemporaneously the Weeping Scion of Wealth was writing back his views + on life and the emptiness thereof, in better orthography, but with + distinctly less of spirit. + </p> + <p> + “It appears,” reported the Little Red Doctor, “that + every man in his own company has licked our young friend and now the other + companies of the regiment are beginning to show interest, and he doesn’t + like it. I believe he’d desert if it weren’t that he’s + afraid of what Mayme would think.” + </p> + <p> + “Still on his mind, is she?” I asked. + </p> + <p> + The Little Red Doctor produced a letter with a camp postmark from the + South and read a passage: + </p> + <p> + “You were right when you guessed that I never wanted anything very + much before, without having it handed to me. Perhaps you are right about + its being good for me. But it comes hard. The promise goes, of course. I’m + going to show you and her that I’m not yellow. [So that was still + rankling; salutary, if bitter dose!] But if this war ever finishes, all + bets are off and I’m coming back to find her. And don’t you + forget your part of the bargain, to write and let me know how she is + getting on.” The Little Red Doctor was able to send progressively + encouraging news. When the cold weather came, Mayme moved westward to + Southern California, and found herself on the edge of one of the strange, + tumultuous, semi-insane moving-picture colonies of that region. Thence + issued, presently, stirring tidings. + </p> + <p> + “What do you think?” wrote our exile. “They’ve got + my funny little monkey mug in the movies. Five per and steady work. The + director likes me and says he will give me a real chance one of these + days. But, as the Dominie would say, this is a hell of a place. [Graceless + imp!] I would not say it myself, because I am a perfect lady. You have to + be, out here. That reminds me: I have cut out the Mayme. Every fresh + little frizzle in the colony with a false front and a pneumatic figure + calls herself Mayme or Daisye or Tootsye. Not for me! I am keeping up my + lessons and trying to make my head good for something besides carrying a + switch. Tell the Little Red Doctor that it is so long since I coughed I + have forgotten how. And I love you all so hard that it <i>hurts</i>. + </p> + <p> + “Your loving + </p> + <h3> + “MARY MCCARTNEY + </h3> + <p> + “P.S. I am going to be Marie Courtenay when I get my name up in the + pictures. Put that in the Directory and see how it looks. + </p> + <p> + “P.S.2. How is my soldier boy getting along? Poor kid! I expect he + is finding it a lot different from Broadway with money in your pocket.” + </p> + <p> + About this time the Weeping Scion was finding things very different, + indeed, from Broadway, having been shifted to a specially wet and muddy + section of France; and was taking them as he found them. That is to say, + he had learned the prime lesson of war. + </p> + <p> + “And he’s been made corporal,” announced the Little Red + Doctor with satisfaction. + </p> + <p> + “That sounds encouraging,” remarked the Bonnie Lassie. “How + did it happen?” + </p> + <p> + “He went over on one of the ‘flu ships,’ and when the + epidemic began to mow ’em down there was a kind of panic. From what + I can make out, the Scion kept his head and his nerve, and made good. A + corporal’s stripes aren’t much, but they’re something.” + </p> + <p> + Better was to come. There was high triumph in the Little Red Doctor’s + expression when he came to my bench with the glad tidings of young David’s + promotion to a sergeantcy. + </p> + <p> + “While it’s very gratifying,” I remarked, “it + doesn’t seem to me an epoch-making event.” + </p> + <p> + “Doesn’t it!” retorted my friend. “That’s + because of your abysmal military ignorance, Dominie. Let me tell you how + it is in our army. A fellow can get himself made a captain by pull, or a + major by luck, or a colonel by desk-work, or a general by having a fine + martial figure, but to get yourself made a sergeant, by Gosh, you’ve + got to show the <i>stuff</i>. You’ve got to be a <i>man</i>. You’ve + got to have—” + </p> + <p> + “Are you going to tell her?” interrupted the Bonnie Lassie who + had been sent for to share the news. + </p> + <p> + The Little Red Doctor fell suddenly grave. “She’s another + matter,” he said. “I don’t think I shall.” + </p> + <p> + Matters were going forward with Mayme—beg her pardon, Mary + McCartney, too. + </p> + <p> + “Better and more of it,” she wrote the Bonnie Lassie. “They + rang me in on one of their local Red Cross shows to do a monologue. Was I + a hit? Say, I got more flowers than a hearse! You’ve got to + remember, though, that they deliver flowers by the car-load out here. And + the local stock company has made me an offer. Ingenue parts. There is not + the money that I might get in the pictures, but the chance is better. So + Marie Courtenay moves on to the legit.—I mean the spoken drama. Look + out for me on Broadway later!” + </p> + <p> + In the correspondence from Sergeant Berthelin there came a long hiatus + followed by a curt bit of official information: “Seriously wounded.” + The Little Red Doctor brought the news to me, with a queer expression on + his face. + </p> + <p> + “It doesn’t look good, Dominie,” he said. “You + know, my old friend, Death, is a shrewd picker. He’s got an eye for + men.” He mused, rubbing his tousled, brickish locks with a nervous + hand. “I was getting to kind of like that young pup,” he + muttered moodily. + </p> + <p> + The saying that no news is good news was surely concocted by some one who + never chafed through day after lengthening day for that which does not + come. But in the end it did come, in the form of a scrawl from the Weeping + Scion himself. He was mending, but very slowly, and they said it would be + a long time—months, perhaps—before he could get back to the + front. Meantime, they were still picking odds and ends, chiefly metallic, + out of various parts of his system. + </p> + <p> + “I’m one of the guys you read about that came over here to + collect souvenirs,” he commented. “Well, I’ve got all I + need of ’em. They can have the rest. All I want now is to get back + and present a few to Fritzie before the show is over.” + </p> + <p> + Thereafter the Little Red Doctor exhibited, but read to us only in small + parts, quite bulky communications from overseas. Some of them, it became + known, he was forwarding to our little Mary, out in the Far West. With her + answer came the solution. + </p> + <p> + “Some of the ‘Grass and Asphalt’ sketches are wonders; + some not so good. I am going to try out ‘Doggy’ if I can find + a poodle with enough intelligence to support me. But you need not have + been so mysterious, Doc, about your ‘young amateur writer who seems + to have some talent.’ Did you think I would not know it was David? + Why, bless your dear, silly heart, I told him some of those stories + myself. But how does he get a chance to write them? Is he back on this + side? Or is he invalided? Or what? Tell me. I want to know about him. You + do not have to worry about my—well, my infatuation for him, any + more. He was a pretty boy, though, wasn’t he? But I have seen too + many of that kind in the picture game. I’m spoiled for them. How I + would love to smear some of their pretty, smirky faces! They give me a + queer feeling in my breakfast. Excuse me: I forgot I was a lady. But don’t + say ‘pretty’ to me any more. I’m through. At that, you + were all wrong about Buddy. He was a lot decenter than you thought: only + he was brought up wrong. Give him my love as one pal to another. I hope he + don’t come back a He-ro. I’m offen he-roes, too. Excuse again!” + </p> + <p> + Wars and exiles alike come to an end in time. And in time our two + wanderers returned, but Mary first, David having been sent into Germany + with the Army of Occupation. Modest announcements in the theatrical + columns informed an indifferent theater-going world that Miss Marie + Courtenay, an actress new to Broadway, was to play the ingenue part in the + latest comedy by a highly popular dramatist. Immediately upon the + production, the theater-going world ceased to be indifferent to the new + actress; in fact, it went into one of its occasional furores about her. + Not that she was in any way a great genius, but she had a certain + indefinable and winningly individual quality. The critics discussed it + gravely and at length, differing argumentatively as to its nature and + constitution. I could have given them a hint. My predictions regarding the + ancestral potencies of the monkey-face were being abundantly justified. + </p> + <p> + No announcements, even of the most modest description, heralded the + arrival of Sergeant Major (if you please!) David Berthelin upon his native + shores. He came at once to Our Square and tackled the Little Red Doctor. + </p> + <p> + “Where is she?” he asked. + </p> + <p> + The Little Red Doctor assumed an air of incredulous surprise. “Have + you still got <i>that</i> bee in your bonnet?” said he. + </p> + <p> + “Where is she?” repeated the Weeping Scion. + </p> + <p> + Maneuvering for time and counsel, the Little Red Doctor took him to see + the Bonnie Lassie and they sent for me. We beheld a new and reconstituted + David. He was no longer pretty. The soft brown eyes were less soft and + more alert, and there were little wrinkles at their corners. He had + broadened a foot or so. That pinky-delicate complexion by which he had, in + earlier and easier days, set obvious store, was brownish and looked + hardened. The Cupid’s-bow of his mouth had straightened out. High on + one cheekbone was a not unsightly scar. His manner was unassertive, but + eminently self-respecting, and me, whom aforetime he had stigmatized as a + “white-whiskered old goat,” he now addressed as “Sir.” + </p> + <p> + “Perhaps <i>you’ll</i> tell me where she is, sir,” said + he patiently. + </p> + <p> + “Leave it to me,” said the Bonnie Lassie, who has an + unquenchable thirst for the dramatic in real life. “And keep next + Sunday night open.” + </p> + <p> + She arranged with Mary McCartney to give a reading on that evening, at her + studio, of David’s “Doggy” from the “Grass and + Asphalt” sketches which he had written in hospital. It was a quaint, + pathetic little conceit, the bewildered philosophy of a waif of the + streets, as expressed to his waif of a dog. For the supporting part we + borrowed Willy Woolly from the House of Silvery Voices, and admirably he + played it, barking accurately and with true histrionic fervor in the right + places (besides promptly falling in love with the star at the first and + only rehearsal). After the try-out, Mary came over to my bench with a + check for a rather dazzling sum in her hand, and said that now was the + time to settle accounts, but she never could repay—and so forth and + so on; all put so sweetly and genuinely that I heartily wished I might + accept the thanks if not the check. Instead of which I blurted out the + truth. + </p> + <p> + “Oh, <i>Dominie</i>!” said the girl, with such reproach that + my heart sank within me. “Do you think that was fair? Don’t + you know that I never could have taken the money?” + </p> + <p> + “Precisely. And we had to find a way to make you take it. We couldn’t + have you dying on the premises,” I argued with a feeble attempt at + jocularity. + </p> + <p> + “But from <i>him</i>!” she said. “After what had + happened—And his mother. How could you let me do it!” + </p> + <p> + “I thought you would have gotten over that feeling by this time,” + I ventured. + </p> + <p> + “Oh, there’s none of the old feeling left,” she + answered, so simply that I knew she believed her own statement. “But + to have lived on his money—Where is he?” she asked abruptly. + </p> + <p> + I told her that also and about Sunday night; the whole thing. The Bonnie + Lassie would have slain me. But I couldn’t help it. I was feeling + rather abject. + </p> + <p> + Sunday night came, and with it Miss Marie Courtenay, escorted by an + “ace” covered with decorations, whose name is a household word + and who was only too obviously her adoring slave. Already there had been + hints of their engagement. Had I been that ace, I should have felt no + small discomposure at the sight of the girl’s face when she first + saw the changed and matured Weeping Scion of three years before. After the + first flash of recognition she had developed on that expressive face of + hers a look of wonder and almost pathetic questioning, and, I thought, who + knew and loved the child, already something deeper and sweeter. Young + David, after greeting the star of the evening, took a modest rear seat as + befitted his rank. But when the Bonnie Lassie announced “Doggy,” + it was his face that was the study. + </p> + <p> + Of that performance I shall say nothing. It is now famous and familiar to + thousands of theater-goers. But if ever mortal man spent twenty minutes in + fairyland, it was David, while Mary was playing the work of his fancy. At + the close, he disappeared. I suppose he did not dare trust himself to join + in the congratulations with which she was overwhelmed. I found him, as I + rather expected, on the bench where he had sat when Mayme McCartney first + found him. And when the crowd had departed from the studio, I told the + girl. Without even stopping to put on her hat she went out to him. + </p> + <p> + He was sitting with his elbows on his knees and his fists supporting his + cheekbones. But this time he was not weeping. He was thinking. Just as of + old she put a hand on his humped shoulder. Startled, he looked up, and + jumped to his feet. She was holding something out to him. + </p> + <p> + “What’s that?” he said. + </p> + <p> + “A check. For what I owe you.” + </p> + <p> + “Who told you? The Little Red Doctor promised—” + </p> + <p> + “He’s kept his promise. The Dominie told me.” + </p> + <p> + “Oh! I suppose,” he said slowly, “I’ve got to take + this. You wouldn’t—no, of course you wouldn’t,” he + sighed. + </p> + <p> + “I’ve tried to keep strict account,” she said. + </p> + <p> + David adopted a matter-of-fact tone. “I can’t deny that it’ll + come in handy, just now,” he remarked. “At the present price + of clothing, and with my personal exchequer in its depleted state—” + </p> + <p> + “Why,” she broke in, “has anything happened? Your mother—?” + </p> + <p> + “Cut off,” said David briefly. + </p> + <p> + “She’s cut you off? On my account? Oh—” + </p> + <p> + “No. I’ve cut her off. Temporarily. She doesn’t want me + to work. I’m working. On a newspaper.” + </p> + <p> + “That’s good,” said the girl warmly. “Let’s + sit down.” + </p> + <p> + They sat down. Each, however, found it curiously hard to begin again. Mary + was aching to thank him, but had a dreadful fear that if she tried to, she + would cry. She didn’t want to cry. She had a feeling that crying + would be a highly unstrategic procedure leading to possible alarming + developments. Why didn’t David say something? Finally he did make a + beginning. + </p> + <p> + “Mayme.” + </p> + <p> + “No: not ‘Mayme’ any more.” + </p> + <p> + He flushed to his temples. “I beg your pardon, Miss Courtenay.” + </p> + <p> + “Nonsense!” she said softly. “Mary. I’ve discarded + the ‘Mayme’ long ago.” + </p> + <p> + “Mary,” he repeated in a tone of musing content. + </p> + <p> + “Buddy.” + </p> + <p> + He caught his breath. “A few thousand of the best guys in the world,” + he said, “call a fellow that. And every time they said it, it made + my heart ache with longing to hear it in your voice.” + </p> + <p> + “You’re a queer Buddy,” returned the girl, not quite + steadily. “Did you bring me home a German helmet for a souvenir?” + </p> + <p> + He shook his head. “I didn’t bring home much of anything, + except some experience and the discovery of the fact that when I had to + stand on my own feet, I wasn’t much.” + </p> + <p> + “You got your stripes, didn’t you?” suggested the girl. + </p> + <p> + “That’s all I did get,” he returned jealously. “I + didn’t get any medal, or palms or decorations or crosses of war: I + didn’t get anything except an occasional calling down and a few + scratches. If I’d had the luck to get into aviation or some of the + fancy branches—” David checked himself. “There I go,” + he said in self-disgust. “Beefing again.” + </p> + <p> + It was quite in the old, spoiled-child tone; an echo of indestructible + personality, the Weeping Scion of other days; and it went straight to Mary’s + swelling, bewildered, groping heart. She began to laugh and a sob tangled + itself in the laughter, and she choked and said: + </p> + <p> + “Buddy.” + </p> + <p> + He turned toward her. + </p> + <p> + “Don’t be dumb, Buddy,” she said, in the words of their + unforgotten first talk. “You’ve—you’ve got me—if + you still want me.” + </p> + <p> + She put out a tremulous hand to him, and it slipped over his shoulder and + around his neck, and she was drawn close into his arms. + </p> + <p> + “The Little Red Doctor,” remarked David after an interlude, in + the shaken tone of one who has had undeserved miracles thrust upon him, + “said that to want something more than anything in the world and not + get it was good for my soul, besides serving me right.” + </p> + <p> + “The Little Red Doctor,” retorted Mary McCartney, with the + reckless ingratitude of a woman in love, “is a dear little red + idiot. What does he know about <i>Us!</i>” + </p> + <p> + <br /><br /> + </p> + <hr /> + <p> + <a name="link2H_4_0008" id="link2H_4_0008"> </a> + </p> + <div style="height: 4em;"> + <br /><br /><br /><br /> + </div> + <h2> + BARBRAN + </h2> + <p> + Immediately upon hearing of my fell design MacLachan, the tailor, paid a + visit of protest to my bench. + </p> + <p> + “Is it true fact that I hear, Dominie?” + </p> + <p> + “What do you hear, MacLachan?” + </p> + <p> + “That ye’re to make one of yer silly histories about Barbran?” + </p> + <p> + “Perfectly true,” said I, passing over the uncomplimentary + adjective. + </p> + <p> + “‘Tis a feckless waste of time.” + </p> + <p> + “Very likely.” + </p> + <p> + “‘Twill encourage the pair, when a man of yer age and + influence in Our Square should be dissuadin’ them.” + </p> + <p> + “Perhaps they need a friendly word.” + </p> + <p> + MacLachan frowned. “Ye’re determined?” + </p> + <p> + “Oh, quite!” + </p> + <p> + “Then I’ll give ye a title for yer romance.” + </p> + <p> + “That’s very kind of you. Give it.” + </p> + <p> + “The Story of Two Young Fools. By an Old One,” said MacLachan + witheringly, and turned to depart. + </p> + <p> + “Mac!” + </p> + <p> + “What?” + </p> + <p> + “Wait a moment.” + </p> + <p> + I held him with my glittering eye. Also, in case that should be + inadequate, with the crook of my cane firmly fixed upon his ankle. + </p> + <p> + “I’ll waste na time from the tailorin’,” began the + Scot disdainfully, but paused as I pointed a loaded finger at his head. + “Well?” he said, showing a guilty inclination to flinch. + </p> + <p> + “Mac, was <i>I</i> an original accomplice in this affair?” + </p> + <p> + “Will ye purtend to deny—” + </p> + <p> + “Did <i>I</i> scheme and plot with Cyrus the Gaunt and young Stacey?” + </p> + <p> + MacLachan mumbled something about undue influence. + </p> + <p> + “Did <i>I</i> get arrested?” + </p> + <p> + MacLachan grunted. + </p> + <p> + “In a cellar?” + </p> + <p> + MacLachan snorted. + </p> + <p> + “With my nose painted green?” + </p> + <p> + MacLachan groaned. “There was others,” he pleaded. + </p> + <p> + “A man of your age and influence in Our Square,” I interrupted + sternly, “should have been dissuading them.” + </p> + <p> + “Arr ye designin’ to put all that in yer sil—in yer + interestin’ account?” + </p> + <p> + “Every detail.” + </p> + <p> + MacLachan dislodged my crook from his leg, gave me such a look as + mid-Victorian painters strove for in pictures of the Dying Stag, and + retired to his Home of Fashion. + </p> + <p> + <br /><br /> + </p> + <hr /> + <p> + <br /><br /> + </p> + <p> + That men of the sobriety and standing of Cyrus the Gaunt, MacLachan, Leon + Coventry, the Little Red Doctor, and Boggs (I do not count young Phil + Stacey, for he was insane at the time, and has been so, with modifications + and glorifications, ever since) should paint their noses green and + frequent dubious cellars, calls for explanation. The explanation is + Barbran. + </p> + <p> + Barbran came to us from the immeasurable distances; to wit, Washington + Square. + </p> + <p> + Let me confess at once that we are a bit supercilious in our attitude + toward the sister Square far to our West, across the Alps of Broadway. Our + Square was an established center of the social respectabilities when the + foot of Fifth Avenue was still frequented by the occasional cow whose + wanderings are responsible for the street-plan of Greenwich Village. Our + Square remains true to the ancient and simple traditions, whereas + Washington Square has grown long hair, smeared its fingers with paint and + its lips with free verse, and gone into debt for its inconsiderable + laundry bills. Washington Square we suspect of playing at life; Our Square + has a sufficiently hard time living it. We have little in common. + </p> + <p> + Nevertheless, it must be admitted that there are veritable humans, not + wholly submerged in the crowd of self-conscious mummers who crowd the + Occidental park-space, and it was at the house of one of these, a woman + architect with a golden dream of rebuilding Greenwich Village, street by + street, into something simple and beautiful and, in the larger sense + urban, that the Bonnie Lassie, whose artistic deviations often take her + far afield, met Barbran. + </p> + <p> + They went for coffee to a queer little burrow decorated with improving + sentiments from the immortal Lewis Carroll which, Barbran told the Bonnie + Lassie, was making its blue-smocked, bobbed-haired, attractive and shrewd + little proprietress quite rich. Barbran hinted that she was thinking of + improving on the Mole’s Hole idea if she could find a suitable + location, not so much for the money, of course—her tone implied a + lordly indifference to such considerations—as for the fun of the + thing. + </p> + <p> + The Bonnie Lassie was amused but not impressed. What did impress her about + Barbran was a certain gay yet restful charm; the sort of difficult thing + that our indomitable sculptress loves to catch and fix in her wonderful + little bronzes. She set about catching Barbran. + </p> + <p> + Now the way of a snake with a bird is as nothing for fascination compared + to the way of the Bonnie Lassie with the doomed person whom she has marked + down as a subject. Barbran hesitated, capitulated, came to the Bonnie + Lassie’s house, moused about Our Square in a rapt manner and stayed. + She rented a room from the Angel of Death (“Boggs Kills Bugs” + is the remainder of his sign, which is considered to lend tone and local + interest to his whole side of the Square), just over Madame Tallafferr’s + apartments, and, in the course of time, stopped at my bench and looked at + me contemplatively. She was a small person with shy, soft eyes. + </p> + <p> + “The Bonnie Lassie sent you,” said I. + </p> + <p> + She nodded. + </p> + <p> + “You’ve come here to live—Heaven only knows why—but + we’re glad to see you. And you want to know about the people; so the + Bonnie Lassie said, Ask the Dominie; he landed here from the ark.’ + Didn’t she?” + </p> + <p> + Barbran sat down and smiled at me. + </p> + <p> + “Having sought information,” I pursued, “on my own + account, I learn that you are the only daughter of a Western millionaire + ranch-owner. How does it feel to revel in millions?” + </p> + <p> + “Romantic,” said she. + </p> + <p> + “Of course you have designs upon us.” + </p> + <p> + “Yes.” + </p> + <p> + “Humanitarian, artistic, or sociological?” + </p> + <p> + “Oh, nothing long and clever like that.” + </p> + <p> + “You grow more interesting. Having designs upon us, you doubtless + wish my advice.” + </p> + <p> + “No,” she answered softly: “I’ve done it already.” + </p> + <p> + “Rash and precipitate adventuress! What have you done already?” + </p> + <p> + “Started my designs. I’ve rented the basement of Number 26.” + </p> + <p> + “Are you a rag-picker in disguise?” + </p> + <p> + “I’m going to start a coffee cellar. I was thinking of calling + it ‘The Coffee Pot.’ What do you think?” + </p> + <p> + “So you do wish my advice. I will give it to you. Do you see that + plumber’s shop next to the corner saloon?” I pointed to the + Avenue whose ceaseless stream of humanity flows past Our Square without + ever sweeping us into its current. “That was once a tea-shop. It was + started by a dear little, prim little old maiden lady. The saloon was run + by Tough Bill Manigan. The little old lady had a dainty sign painted and + hung it up outside her place, ‘The Teacup.’ Tough Bill took a + board and painted a sign and hung it up outside <i>his</i> place; ‘The + Hiccup.’ The dear little, prim little old maiden lady took down her + sign and went away. Yet there are those who say that competition is the + life of trade.” + </p> + <p> + “Is there a moral to your story, Mr. Dominie?” + </p> + <p> + “Take it or leave it,” said I amiably. + </p> + <p> + “I will not call my cellar ‘The Coffee Pot’ lest a worse + thing befall it.” + </p> + <p> + “You are a sensible young woman, Miss Barbara Ann Waterbury.” + </p> + <p> + “It is true that my parents named me that,” said she, “but + my friends call me ‘Barbran’ because I always used to call + myself that when I was little, and I want to be called Barbran here.” + </p> + <p> + “That’s very friendly of you,” I observed. + </p> + <p> + She gave me a swift, suspicious look. “You think I’m a fool,” + she observed calmly. “But I’m not. I’m going to become a + local institution. A local institution can’t be called Barbara Ann + Waterbury, unless it’s a crêche or a drinking-fountain or something + like that, can it?” + </p> + <p> + “It cannot, Barbran.” + </p> + <p> + “Thank you, Mr. Dominie,” said Barbran gratefully. She then + proceeded to sketch out for me her plans for making her Coffee Cellar and + herself a Local Institution, which should lure hopeful seekers for Bohemia + from the far parts of Harlem and Jersey City, and even such outer realms + of darkness as New Haven and Cohoes. + </p> + <p> + “That’s what I intend to do,” said Barbran, “as + soon as I get my Great Idea worked out.” + </p> + <p> + What the Great Idea was, I was to learn later and from other lips. In + fact, from the lips of young Phil Stacey, who appeared, rather elaborately + loitering out from behind the fountain, shortly after my new friend had + departed, a peculiar look upon his extremely plain and friendly face. + Young Mr. Stacey is notable, if for no other reason than that he + represents a flat artistic failure on the part of the Bonnie Lassie, who + has tried him in bronze, in plaster, and in clay with equal lack of + success. There is something untransferable in the boy’s face; + perhaps its outshining character. I know that I never yet have said to any + woman who knew him, no matter what her age, condition, or sentimental + predilections, “Isn’t he a homely cub!” that she didn’t + reply indignantly: “He’s <i>sweet</i>!” Now when women—wonderful + women like the Bonnie Lassie and stupid women like Mrs. Rosser, the twins’ + aunt, and fastidious women like Madame Tallafferr—unite in terming a + smiling human freckle “<i>sweet</i>,” there is nothing more to + be said. Adonis may as well take a back seat and the Apollo Belvedere seek + the helpful resources of a beauty parlor. Said young Phil carelessly: + </p> + <p> + “Dominie, who’s the newcomer?” + </p> + <p> + “That,” said I, “is Barbran.” + </p> + <p> + “Barbran,” he repeated with a rising inflection. “It + sounds like a breakfast food.” + </p> + <p> + “As she pronounces it, it sounds like a strain of music,” said + I. + </p> + <p> + “What’s the rest of her name?” + </p> + <p> + “I am not officially authorized to communicate that.” + </p> + <p> + “Are you officially authorized to present your friends to her?” + </p> + <p> + “On what do you base your claim to acquaintanceship, my boy?” + I asked austerely. + </p> + <p> + “Oh, claim! Well, you see, a couple of days ago, she was on the + cross-town car; and I—well, I just happened to notice her, you know. + That’s all.” + </p> + <p> + “Yet I am informed on good and sufficient authority that her + appearance is not such as to commend her, visually, if I may so express + myself, to the discriminating eye.” + </p> + <p> + “Who’s the fool—” began Mr. Stacey hotly. + </p> + <p> + “Tut-tut, my young friend,” said I. “Certain ladies whom + we both esteem can and will prove, to the satisfaction of the fair-minded, + that none of the young person’s features is exactly what it should + be or precisely where it ought to be. Nevertheless, the net result is + surprising and even gratifying.” + </p> + <p> + “She’s a peach!” asseverated my companion. + </p> + <p> + “Substantially what I was remarking. As for your other hint, you + need no introduction to Barbran. Nobody does.” + </p> + <p> + “<i>What</i>?” Phil Stacey’s plain face became ugly; a + hostile light glittered in his eyes. “What do you mean by that?” + he growled. + </p> + <p> + “Simply that she’s about to become a local institution. She’s + plotting against the peace and security of Our Square, to the extent of + starting a coffee-house at Number 26.” + </p> + <p> + “No!” cried Phil joyously. “Good news!” + </p> + <p> + “As a fad. She’s a budding millionairess from the West.” + </p> + <p> + “No!” growled Phil, his face falling. + </p> + <p> + “Bad news; eh? It occurred to me that she might want some + decorations, and that you might be the one to do them.” In his + leisure hours, my young friend, who is an expert accountant by trade (the + term “expert” appears to be rather an empty compliment, since + his stipend is only twenty-five dollars a week), perpetrates + impressionistic decorations and scenery for such minor theaters as will + endure them. + </p> + <p> + “You’re a grand old man, Dominie!” said he. “Let’s + go.” + </p> + <p> + We went. We found Barbran. We conversed. Half an hour later when I left + them—without any strenuous protests on the part of either—they + were deeply engrossed in a mutual discussion upon decorations, religion, + the high cost of living, free verse, two-cent transfers, Charley Chaplin, + aviation, ouija, and other equally safe topics. Did I say safe? Dangerous + is what I mean. For when a youth who is as homely as young Phil Stacey and + in that particular style of homeliness, and a girl who is as far from + homely as Barbran begin, at first sight, to explore each other’s + opinions, they are venturing into a dim and haunted region, lighted by + will-o’-the-wisps and beset with perils and pitfalls. Usually they + smile as they go. Phil was smiling as I left them. So was Barbran. I may + have smiled myself. + </p> + <p> + Anything but a smile was on Phil Stacey’s normally cheerful face + when, some three days thereafter, he came to my rooms. + </p> + <p> + “Dominie,” said he, “I want to tap your library. Have + you got any of the works of Harvey Wheelwright?” + </p> + <p> + “God forbid!” said I. + </p> + <p> + Phil looked surprised. “Is it as bad as that? I didn’t suppose + there was anything wrong with the stuff.” + </p> + <p> + “Don’t you imperil your decent young soul with it,” I + advised earnestly. “It reeks of poisonous piety. The world he paints + is so full of nauseating virtues that any self-respecting man would rather + live in hell. His characters all talk like a Sunday-school picnic out of + the Rollo books. No such people ever lived or ever could live, because a + righteously enraged populace would have killed ’em in early + childhood. He’s the smuggest fraud and best seller in the United + States. Wheelwright? The crudest, shrewdest, most preposterous panderer to + weak-minded—” + </p> + <p> + “Whew! Help! I didn’t know what I was starting,” + protested my visitor. “As a literary critic you’re some Big + Bertha, Dominie. I begin to suspect that you don’t care an awful lot + about Mr. Wheelwright’s style of composition. Just the same, I’ve + got to read him. All of him. Do you think I’ll find his stuff in the + Penny Circulator?” + </p> + <p> + “My poor, lost boy! Probably not. It is doubtless all out in the + hands of eager readers.” + </p> + <p> + However, Phil contrived to round it up somewhere. The awful and + unsuspected results I beheld on my first visit of patronage to Barbran’s + cellar, the occasion being the formal opening. A large and curious crowd + of five persons, including myself and Phil Stacey, were there. Outside, an + old English design of a signboard with a wheel on it creaked despairingly + in the wind. Below was a legend: “<i>At the Sign of the Wheel</i>—<i>The + Wrightery</i>.” The interior of the cellar was decorated with scenes + from the novels of Harvey Wheelwright, triumphant virtue, discomfited + villains, benignant blessings, chaste embraces, edifying death-beds, and + orange-blossoms. They were unsigned; but well I knew whose was the shame. + Over the fireplace hung a framed letter from the Great Soul. It began, + “Dear Young Friend and Admirer,” and ended, “Yours for + the Light. Harvey Wheelwright.” + </p> + <p> + The guests did as well as could be expected. They ate and drank everything + in sight. They then left; that is to say, four of them did. Finally Phil + departed, glowering at me. I am a patient soul. No sooner had the door + slammed behind him than I turned to Barbran, who was looking discouraged. + </p> + <p> + “Well, what have you to say in your defense?” + </p> + <p> + The way Barbran’s eyebrows went up constituted in itself a defense + fit to move any jury to acquittal. + </p> + <p> + “For what?” she asked. + </p> + <p> + “For corrupting my young friend Stacey. You made him paint those + pictures.” + </p> + <p> + “They’re very nice,” returned Barbran demurely. “Quite + true to the subject.” + </p> + <p> + “They’re awful. They’re an offense to civilization. They’re + an insult to Our Square. Of all subjects in the world, Harvey Wheelwright! + Why, Barbran? Why? Why? Why?” + </p> + <p> + “Business,” said Barbran. + </p> + <p> + “Explain, please,” said I. + </p> + <p> + “I got the idea from a friend of mine in Washington Square. She got + up a little cellar café built around Alice. Alice in Wonderland, you know, + and the Looking Glass. Though I don’t suppose a learned and serious + person like you would ever have read such nonsense.” + </p> + <p> + “It happened to be Friday and there wasn’t a hippopotamus in + the house,” I murmured. + </p> + <p> + “Oh,” said Barbran, brightening. “Well, I thought if she + could do it with Alice, I could do it with Harvey Wheelwright.” + </p> + <p> + “In the name of Hatta and the March Hare, <i>why</i>?” + </p> + <p> + “Because, for every one person who reads Alice nowadays, ten read + the author of ‘Reborn Through Righteousness’ and ‘Called + by the Cause.’ Isn’t it so?” + </p> + <p> + “Mathematically unimpeachable.” + </p> + <p> + “Therefore I ought to get ten times as many people as the other + place. Don’t you think so?” she inquired wistfully. + </p> + <p> + Who am I to withhold a comforting fallacy from a hopeful soul. “Undoubtedly,” + I agreed. “But do you love him?” + </p> + <p> + “Who?” said Barbran, with a start. The faint pink color ran up + her cheeks. + </p> + <p> + “Harvey Wheelwright, of course. Whom did you think I meant?” + </p> + <p> + “He is a very estimable writer,” returned Barbran primly, + quite ignoring my other query. + </p> + <p> + “Good-night, Barbran,” said I sadly. “I’m going + out to mourn your lost soul.” + </p> + <p> + One might reasonably expect to find peace and quiet in the vicinity of one’s + own particular bench at 11.45 P.M. in Our Square. But not at all on this + occasion. There sat Phil Stacey. I challenged him at once. + </p> + <p> + “What did you do it for?” + </p> + <p> + To do him justice he did not dodge or pretend to misunderstand. “Pay,” + said he. + </p> + <p> + “Phil! Did you take money for that stuff?” + </p> + <p> + “Not exactly. I’m taking it out in trade. I’m going to + eat there.” + </p> + <p> + “You’ll starve to death.” + </p> + <p> + “I haven’t got much of an appetite.” + </p> + <p> + “The inevitable effect of overfeeding on sweets. An uninterrupted + diet of Harvey Wheelwright—” + </p> + <p> + “Don’t speak the swine’s name,” implored Phil, + “or I’ll be sick.” + </p> + <p> + “You’ve sold your artistic birthright for a mess of pottage, + probably indigestible at that.” + </p> + <p> + “I don’t care,” he averred stoutly. “I don’t + care for anything except—Dominie, who told you her father was a + millionaire?” + </p> + <p> + “It’s well known,” I said vaguely. “He’s a + cattle king or an emperor of sheep or the sultan of the piggery or + something. A good thing for Barbran, too, if she expects to keep her + cellar going. The kind of people who read Har—our unmentionable + author, don’t frequent Bohemian coffee cellars. They would regard it + as reckless and abandoned debauchery. Barbran has shot at the wrong mark.” + </p> + <p> + “The place has got to be a success,” declared Phil between his + teeth, his plain face expressing a sort of desperate determination. + </p> + <p> + “Otherwise the butterfly will fly back West,” I suggested. The + boy winced. + </p> + <p> + What man could do to make it a success, Phil Stacey did and heroically. + Not only did he eat all his meals there, but he went forth into the + highways and byways and haled in other patrons (whom he privately paid + for) to an extent which threatened to exhaust his means. + </p> + <p> + Our Square is conservative, not to say distrustful in its bearing toward + innovations. Thornsen’s Élite Restaurant has always sufficed for our + inner cravings. We are, I suppose, too old to change. Nor does Harvey + Wheelwright exercise an inspirational sway over us. We let the little + millionairess and her Washington Square importation pretty well alone. She + advertised feebly in the “Where to Eat” columns, catching a + few stray outlanders, but for the most part people didn’t come. + Until the first of the month, that is. Then too many came. They brought + their bills with them. + </p> + <p> + Evening after evening Barbran and Phil Stacey sat in the cellar almost or + quite alone. So far as I could judge from my occasional visits of + patronage (Barbran furnished excellent sweet cider and cakes for late + comers), they endured the lack of custom with fortitude, not to say + indifference. But in the mornings her soft eyes looked heavy, and once, as + she was passing my bench deep in thought, I surprised a look of blank + terror on her face. One can understand that even a millionaire’s + daughter might spend sleepless nights brooding over a failure. But that + look of mortal dread! How well I know it! How often have I seen it, + preceding some sordid or brave tragedy of want and wretchedness in Our + Square! What should it mean, though, on Barbran’s sunny face? + Puzzling over the question I put it to the Bonnie Lassie. + </p> + <p> + “Read me a riddle, O Lady of the Wise Heart. Of what is a child of + fortune, young, strong, and charming, afraid?” + </p> + <p> + At the time we were passing the house in which the insecticidal Angel of + Death takes carefully selected and certified lodgers. + </p> + <p> + “I know whom you mean,” said the Bonnie Lassie, pointing up to + the little dormer window which was Barbran’s outlook on life. + “Interpret me a signal. What do you see up there?” + </p> + <p> + “It appears to be a handkerchief pasted to the window,” said I + adjusting my glasses. + </p> + <p> + “Upside down,” said the Bonnie Lassie. + </p> + <p> + “How can a handkerchief be upside down?” I inquired, in what + was intended to be a tone of sweet reasonableness. + </p> + <p> + Contempt was all that it brought me. “Metaphorically, of course! It’s + a signal of distress.” + </p> + <p> + “In what distress can Barbran be?” + </p> + <p> + “In what kind of distress are most people who live next under the + roof in Our Square?” + </p> + <p> + “She’s doing that just to get into our atmosphere. She told me + so herself. A millionaire’s daughter—” + </p> + <p> + “Do millionaires’ daughters wash their own handkerchiefs and + paste them on windows to dry? Does any woman in or out of Our Square <i>ever</i> + soak her own handkerchiefs in her own washbowl except when she’s + desperately saving pennies? Did you ever wash one single handkerchief in + your rooms, Dominie?” + </p> + <p> + “Certainly not. It isn’t manly. Then you think she isn’t + a millionairess?” + </p> + <p> + “Look at her shoes when next you see her,” answered the Bonnie + Lassie conclusively. “<i>I</i> think the poor little thing has put + her every cent in the world into her senseless cellar, and she’s + going under.” + </p> + <p> + “But, good Heavens!” I exclaimed. “Something has got to + be done.” + </p> + <p> + “It’s going to be.” + </p> + <p> + “Who’s going to do it?” + </p> + <p> + “Me,” returned the Bonnie Lassie, who is least grammatical + when most purposeful. + </p> + <p> + “Then,” said I, “the Fates may as well shut up shop and + Providence take a day off; the universe has temporarily changed its + management. Can I help?” + </p> + <p> + The Bonnie Lassie focused her gaze in a peculiar manner upon the exact + center of my countenance. A sort of fairy grin played about her lips. + “I wonder if—No,” she sighed. “No. I don’t + think it would do, Dominie. Anyway, I’ve got six without you.” + </p> + <p> + “Including Phil Stacey?” + </p> + <p> + “Of course,” retorted the Bonnie Lassie. “It was he who + came to me for help. I’m really doing this for him.” + </p> + <p> + “I thought you were doing it for Barbran.” + </p> + <p> + “Oh; she’s just a transposed Washington Squarer,” + answered the tyrant of Our Square. “Though she’s a dear + kiddie, too, underneath the nonsense.” + </p> + <p> + “Do I understand—” + </p> + <p> + “I don’t see,” interrupted the Bonnie Lassie sweetly, + “how you could. I haven’t told you. And the rest are bound to + secrecy. But don’t be unduly alarmed at anything queer you may see + in Our Square within the next few days.” + </p> + <p> + Only by virtue of that warning was I able to command the emotions aroused + by an encounter with Cyrus the Gaunt some evenings later. He was hurrying + across the park space in the furtive manner of one going to a shameful + rendezvous, and upon my hailing him he at first essayed to sheer off. When + he saw who it was he came up with a rather swaggering and nonchalant + effect. I may observe here that nobody has a monopoly of nonchalance in + this world. + </p> + <p> + “Good-evening, Cyrus,” I said. + </p> + <p> + “Good-evening, Dominie.” + </p> + <p> + “Beautiful weather we’re having.” + </p> + <p> + “Couldn’t be finer.” + </p> + <p> + “Do you think it will hold?” + </p> + <p> + “The paper says rain to-morrow.” + </p> + <p> + “Why is the tip of your nose painted green?” + </p> + <p> + “Is it green?” inquired Cyrus, as if he hadn’t given the + matter any special consideration, but thought it quite possible. + </p> + <p> + “Emerald,” said I. “It looks as if it were mortifying.” + </p> + <p> + “It would be mortifying,” admitted Cyrus the Gaunt, “if + it weren’t in a good cause.” + </p> + <p> + “What cause?” I asked. + </p> + <p> + “Come out of there!” said Cyrus the Gaunt, not to me, but to a + figure lurking in the shrubbery. + </p> + <p> + The Little Red Doctor emerged. I took one look at his most distinctive + feature. + </p> + <p> + “You, too!” I said. “What do you mean by it?” + </p> + <p> + “Ask Cyrus,” returned the Little Red Doctor glumly. + </p> + <p> + “It’s a cult,” said Cyrus. “The credit of the + notion belongs not to me, but to my esteemed better half. A few chosen + souls—” + </p> + <p> + “Here comes another of them,” I conjectured, as a bowed form + approached. “Who is it? MacLachan!” + </p> + <p> + The old Scot appeared to be suffering from a severe cold. His handkerchief + was pressed to his face. + </p> + <p> + “Take it down, Mac,” I ordered. “It’s useless.” + He did so, and my worst suspicions were confirmed. + </p> + <p> + “He bullied me into it,” declared the tailor, glowering at + Cyrus the Gaunt. + </p> + <p> + “It’ll do your nose good,” declared Cyrus jauntily. + “Give it a change. Complementary colors, you know. What ho! Our + leader.” + </p> + <p> + Phil Stacey appeared. He appeared serious; that is, as serious as one can + appear when his central feature glows like the starboard light of an + incoming steamship. Following him were Leon Coventry, huge and shy, and + the lethal Boggs looking unhappy. + </p> + <p> + “Where are you all going?” I demanded. + </p> + <p> + “To the Wrightery,” said Phil. + </p> + <p> + “Is it a party?” + </p> + <p> + “It’s a gathering.” + </p> + <p> + “Am I included?” + </p> + <p> + “If you’ll—” + </p> + <p> + “Not on any account,” I declared firmly. It had just occurred + to me why the Bonnie Lassie had centered her gaze upon my features. + “Follow your indecent noses as far as you like. I stay.” + </p> + <p> + Still lost in meditation, I may have dozed on my bench, when heavy, + measured footsteps aroused me. I looked up to see Terry the Cop, guardian + of our peace, arbiter of differences, conservator of our morals. I peered + at him with anxiety. + </p> + <p> + “Terry,” I inquired, “how is your nose?” + </p> + <p> + “Keen, Dominie,” said Terry. He sniffed the air. “Don’t + you detect the smell of illegal alcohol?” + </p> + <p> + “I can’t say I do.” + </p> + <p> + “It’s very plain,” declared the officer wriggling his + nasal organ which, I was vastly relieved to observe, retained its original + hue. “Wouldn’t you say, Dominie, it comes from yonder cellar?” + </p> + <p> + “Barbran’s cellar? + </p> + <p> + “I am informed that a circle of dangerous char-<i>ack</i>ters with + green noses gather there and drink cider containing more than + two-seventy-five per cent of apple juice. I’m about to pull the + place.” + </p> + <p> + “For Heaven’s sake, Terry; don’t do that! You’ll + scare—” + </p> + <p> + “Whisht, Dominie!” interrupted Terry with an elaborate wink. + “There’ll be no surprise, except maybe to the Judge in the + morning. You better drop in at the court.” + </p> + <p> + Of the round-up I have no details, except that it seemed to be quietly + conducted. The case was called the next day, before Magistrate Wolf Tone + Hanrahan, known as the “Human Judge.” Besides being human, his + Honor is, as may be inferred from his name, somewhat Irish. He heard the + evidence, tested the sample, announced his intention of coming around that + evening for some more, and honorably discharged Barbran. + </p> + <p> + “And what about these min?” he inquired, gazing upon the + dauntless six. + </p> + <p> + “Dangerous suspects, Yeronner,” said Terry the Cop. + </p> + <p> + “They look mild as goat’s milk to me,” returned the + Magistrate, “though now I get me eye on the rid-hidded wan [with a + friendly wink at the Little Red Doctor] I reckonize him as a desprit + charackter that’d save your life as soon as look at ye. What way are + they dang’rous?” + </p> + <p> + “When apprehended,” replied Terry, looking covertly about to + see that the reporters were within hearing distance, “their noses + were painted green.” + </p> + <p> + “Is this true?” asked the Magistrate of the six. + </p> + <p> + “It is, your Honor,” they replied. + </p> + <p> + “An’, why not!” demanded the Human Judge hotly. “‘Tis + a glorious color! Erin go bragh! Off’cer, ye’ve exceeded yer + jooty. D’ ye think this is downtrodden an’ sufferin’ + Oireland an’ yerself the tyrant Gineral French? Let ’em paint + their noses anny color they loike; but green for preference. I’m + tellin’ ye, this is the land of freedom an’ equality, an’ + ivery citizen thereof is entitled to life, liberty, and the purshoot of + happiness, an’ a man’s nose is his castle, an’ don’t + ye fergit it. Dis-charrrrged! Go an’ sin no more. I mane, let the + good worruk go awn!” + </p> + <p> + “Now watch for the evening papers,” said young Phil Stacey + exultantly. “The Wrightery will get some free advertising that’ll + crowd it for months.” + </p> + <p> + Alas for youth’s golden hopes! The evening papers ignored the + carefully prepared event. One morning paper published a paragraph, + attributing the green noses to a masquerade party. The conspirators, + gathered at the cellar with their war-paints on (in case of reporters), + discussed the fiasco in embittered tones. Young Stacey raged against a + stupid and corrupt press. MacLachan expressed the acidulous hope that + thereafter Cyrus the Gaunt would be content with making a fool of himself + without implicating innocent and confiding friends. The Bonnie Lassie was + not present, but sent word (characteristically) that they must have done + it all wrong; men had no sense, anyway. The party then sent out for + turpentine and broke up to reassemble no more. Only Phil Stacey, inventor + of the great idea, was still faithful to and hopeful of it. Each evening + he conscientiously greened himself and went to eat with Barbran. + </p> + <p> + Time justified his faith. One evening there dropped in a plump man who + exhaled a mild and comforting benevolence, like a gentle country parson. + He smiled sweetly at Phil, and introduced himself as a reporter for the + “Sunday World Magazine”—and where was the rest of the + circle? In a flurry of excitement, the pair sent for Cyrus the Gaunt to do + the talking. Cyrus arrived, breathless and a trifle off color (the Bonnie + Lassie had unfortunately got a touch of bronze scenic paint mixed with the + green, so that he smelled like an over-ripe banana), and proceeded to + exposition. + </p> + <p> + “This,” he explained, “is a new cult. It is based on the + back-to-the-spring idea. The well-spring of life, you know. The—er—spring + of eternal youth, and—and so forth. You understand?” + </p> + <p> + “I hope to,” said the reporter politely. “Why on the + nose?” + </p> + <p> + “I will explain that,” returned Cyrus, getting his second + wind; “but first let me get the central idea in your mind. It’s + a nature movement; a readjustment of art to nature. All nature is green. + Look about you.” Here he paused for effect, which was unfortunate. + </p> + <p> + “Quite so,” agreed the reporter. “The cable-car, for + instance, and the dollar bill, not to mention the croton bug and the polar + bear. But, pardon me, I interrupt the flow of your eloquence.” + </p> + <p> + “You do,” said Cyrus severely. “Inanimate nature I speak + of. All inanimate nature is green. But we poor fellow creatures have + gotten away from the universal mother-color. We must get back to it. We + must learn to think greenly. But first we must learn to see greenly. How + shall we accomplish this? Put green in our eyes? Impossible, + unfortunately. But, our noses—there is the solution. In direct + proximity to the eye, the color, properly applied, tints one’s + vision of all things. Green shadows in a green world,” mooned Cyrus + the Gaunt poetically. “As the bard puts it: + </p> +<pre xml:space="preserve"> + “‘Annihilating all that’s made + To a green thought in a green shade.’” + </pre> + <p> + “Wait a minute,” said the visitor, and made a note on an + envelope-back. + </p> + <p> + “Accordingly, Miss Barbran, the daughter and heiress of a + millionaire cattle owner in Wyoming [here the reporter made his second + note], has established this center where we meet to renew and refresh our + souls.” + </p> + <p> + “Good!” said the benevolent reporter. “Fine! Of course + it’s all bunk—” + </p> + <p> + “Bunk!” echoed Barbran and Phil, aghast, while Cyrus sat with + his lank jaw drooping. + </p> + <p> + “You don’t see any of your favorite color in my eye, do you?” + inquired the visitor pleasantly. “Just what you’re putting + over I don’t know. Some kind of new grease paint, perhaps. Don’t + tell me. It’s good enough, anyway. I’ll fall for it. It’s + worth a page story. Of course I’ll want some photographs of the + mural paintings. They’re almost painfully beautiful.... What’s + wrong with our young friend; is he sick?” he added, looking with + astonishment at Phil Stacey who was exhibiting sub-nauseous symptoms. + </p> + <p> + “He painted ’em,” explained Cyrus, grinning. + </p> + <p> + “And he’s sorry,” supplemented Barbran. + </p> + <p> + “Yes; I wouldn’t wonder. Well, I won’t give him away,” + said the kindly journalist. “Now, as to the membership of your + circle....” + </p> + <p> + The Sunday “story” covered a full page. The “millionairess” + feature was played up conspicuously and repeatedly, and the illustrations + did what little the text failed to do. It was a “josh-story” + from beginning to end. + </p> + <p> + “I’ll kill that pious fraud of a reporter,” declared + Phil. + </p> + <p> + “Now the place <i>is</i> ruined,” mourned Barbran. + </p> + <p> + “Wait and see,” advised the wiser Cyrus. + </p> + <p> + Great is the power of publicity. The Wrightery was swamped with custom on + the Monday evening following publication, and for the rest of that week + and the succeeding week. + </p> + <p> + “I never was good at figures,” said the transported Barbran to + Phil Stacey at the close of the month, “but as near as I can make + out, I’ve a clear profit of eight dollars and seventy cents. My + fortune is made. And it’s all due to you.” + </p> + <p> + Had the Bonnie Lassie been able to hold her painted retainers in line, the + owner’s golden prophecy might have been made good. But they had + other matters on hand for their evenings than sitting about in a dim + cellar gazing cross-eyed at their own scandalous noses. MacLachan was the + first defection. He said that he thought he was going crazy and he knew he + was going blind. The Little Red Doctor was unreliable owing to the + pressure of professional calls. He complained with some justice that a + green nose on a practicing physician tended to impair confidence. Then + Leon Coventry went away, and Boggs discovered (or invented) an important + engagement with a growing family of clothes-moths in a Connecticut country + house. So there remained only the faithful Phil. One swallow does not make + a summer; nor does one youth with a vernal proboscis convince a skeptical + public that it is enjoying the fearful companionship of a subversive and + revolutionary cult. Patronage ebbed out as fast as it had flooded in. + Barbran’s eyes were as soft and happy as ever in the evenings, when + she and Phil sat in a less and less interrupted solitude. But in the + mornings palpable fear stalked her. Phil never saw it. He was preoccupied + with a dread of his own. + </p> + <p> + One evening of howling wind and hammering rain, when all was cosy and + home-like for two in the little firelit Wrightery, she nerved herself up + to facing the facts. + </p> + <p> + “It’s going to be a failure,” she said dismally. + </p> + <p> + “Then you’re going away?” he asked, trying to keep his + voice from quaking. + </p> + <p> + She set her little chin quite firmly. “Not while there’s a + chance left of pulling it out.” + </p> + <p> + “Well; it doesn’t matter as far as I’m concerned,” + he muttered. “I’m going away myself.” + </p> + <p> + “You?” She sat up very straight and startled. “Where?” + </p> + <p> + “Kansas City.” + </p> + <p> + “Oh! What for?” + </p> + <p> + “Do you remember a fat old grandpa who was here last month and came + back to ask about the decorations?” + </p> + <p> + “Yes.” + </p> + <p> + “He’s built him a new house—he calls it a mansion—and + he wants me to paint the music-room. He likes”—Phil gulped a + little—“my style of art.” + </p> + <p> + “Isn’t that great!” said Barbran in the voice of one + giving three cheers for a funeral. “How does he want his music-room + decorated?” + </p> + <p> + Young Phil put his head in his hands. “Scenes from Moody and Sankey,” + he said in a muffled voice. + </p> + <p> + “Good gracious! You aren’t going to do it?” + </p> + <p> + “I am,” retorted the other gloomily. “It’s good + money.” Almost immediately he added, “Damn the money!” + </p> + <p> + “No; no; you mustn’t do that. You must go, of course. Would—will + it take long?” + </p> + <p> + “I’m not coming back.” + </p> + <p> + “I don’t <i>want</i> you not to come back,” said + Barbran, in a queer, frightened voice. She put out her hand to him and + hastily withdrew it. + </p> + <p> + He said desperately: “What’s the use? I can’t sit here + forever looking at you and—and dreaming of—of impossible + things, and eating my heart out with my nose painted green.” + </p> + <p> + “The poor nose!” murmured Barbran. + </p> + <p> + With one of her home-laundered handkerchiefs dipped in turpentine, she + gently rubbed it clean. It then looked (as she said later in a feeble + attempt to palliate her subsequent conduct) very pink and boyish and + pathetic, but somehow faithful and reliable and altogether lovable. + </p> + <p> + So she kissed it. Then she tried to run away. The attempt failed. + </p> + <p> + It was not Barbran’s nose that got kissed next. Nor, for that + matter, was it young Phil’s. Then he held her off and shut his eyes, + for the untrammeled exercise of his reasoning powers, and again demanded + of Barbran and the fates: + </p> + <p> + “What’s the use?” + </p> + <p> + “What’s the use of what?” returned Barbran tremulously. + </p> + <p> + “Of all this? Your father’s a millionaire, and I won’t—I + can’t—” + </p> + <p> + “He isn’t!” cried Barbran. “And you can—you + will.” + </p> + <p> + “He isn’t?” ejaculated Phil. “What is he?” + </p> + <p> + “He’s a school-teacher, and I haven’t got a thing but + debts.” + </p> + <p> + Phil received this untoward news as if a flock of angels, ringing joy + bells, had just brought him the gladdest tidings in history. After an + interlude he said: + </p> + <p> + “But, why—” + </p> + <p> + “Because,” said Barbran, burrowing her nose in his coat: + “I thought it would be an asset. I thought people would consider it + romantic and it would help business. See how much that reporter made of + it! Phil! Wh-wh-why are you treating me like a—a—a—dumbbell?” + </p> + <p> + For he had thrust her away from him at arm’s-length again. + </p> + <p> + “There’s one other thing between us, Barbran.” + </p> + <p> + “If there is, it’s your fault. What is it?” + </p> + <p> + “Harvey Wheelwright,” he said solemnly. “Do you really + like that sickening slush-slinger?” + </p> + <p> + She raised to him eyes in which a righteous hate quivered. “I loathe + him. I’ve always loathed him. I despise the very ink he writes with + and the paper it’s printed on.” + </p> + <p> + When I happened in a few minutes later, they were ritually burning the + “Dear Friend and Admirer” letter in a slow candle-flame, and + Harvey Wheelwright, as represented by his unctuously rolling signature, + was writhing in merited torment. Between them they told me their little + romance. + </p> + <p> + “And he’s not going to Kansas City,” said Barbran + defiantly. + </p> + <p> + “I’m not going anywhere, ever, away from Barbran,” said + young Phil. + </p> + <p> + “And he’s going to paint what he wants to.” + </p> + <p> + “Pictures of Barbran,” said young Phil. + </p> + <p> + “And we’re going to burn the Wheel sign in effigy, and wipe + off the walls and <i>make</i> the place a success,” said Barbran. + </p> + <p> + “And we’re going to be married right away,” said Phil. + </p> + <p> + “Next week,” said Barbran. + </p> + <p> + “What do you think?” said both. + </p> + <p> + Now I know what I ought to have said just as well as MacLachan himself. I + should have pointed out the folly and recklessness of marrying on + twenty-five dollars a week and a dowry of debts. I should have preached + prudence and caution and delay, and have pointed out—The wind blew + the door open: Young Spring was in the park, and the wet odor of little + burgeoning leaves was borne in, wakening unwithered memories in my + withered heart. + </p> + <p> + “Bless you, my children!” said I. + </p> + <p> + It was actually for this, as holding out encouragement to their reckless, + feckless plans, that Wisdom, in the person of MacLachan, the tailor, + reprehended me, rather than for my historical intentions regarding the + pair. + </p> + <p> + “What’ll they be marryin’ on?” demanded Mac Wisdom—that + is to say, MacLachan. + </p> + <p> + “Spring and youth,” I said. “The fragrance of lilac in + the air, the glow of romance in their hearts. What better would you ask?” + </p> + <p> + “A bit of prudence,” said MacLachan. + </p> + <p> + “Prudence!” I retorted scornfully. “The miser of the + virtues. It may pay its own way through the world. But when did it ever + take Happiness along for a jaunt?” + </p> + <p> + I was quite pleased with my little epigram until the Scot countered upon + me with his observation about two young fools and an old one. + </p> + <p> + Oh, well! Likely enough. Most unwise, and rash and inexcusable, that + headlong mating; and there will be a reckoning to pay. Babies, probably, + and new needs and pressing anxieties, and Love will perhaps flutter at the + window when Want shows his grim face at the door; and Wisdom will be + justified of his forebodings, and yet—and yet—who am I, old + and lonely and uncompanioned, yet once touched with the spheral music and + the sacred fire, that I should subscribe to the dour orthodoxies of + MacLachan and that ilk? + </p> + <p> + Years and years ago a bird flew in at my window, a bird of wonderful and + flashing hues, and of lilting melodies. It came; it tarried—and I + let the chill voice of Prudence overbear its music. It left me. But the + song endures; the song endures, and all life has been the richer for its + echoes. So let them hold and cherish their happiness, the two young fools. + </p> + <p> + As for the old one, would that some good fairy, possessed of the pigment + and secret of perishable youth, might come down and paint his nose green! + </p> + <p> + <br /><br /> + </p> + <hr /> + <p> + <a name="link2H_4_0009" id="link2H_4_0009"> </a> + </p> + <div style="height: 4em;"> + <br /><br /><br /><br /> + </div> + <h2> + PLOOIE OF OUR SQUARE + </h2> + <p> + Whenever Plooie went shuffling by my bench, I used to think of an old and + melancholy song that my grandfather sang: + </p> +<pre xml:space="preserve"> + “And his skin was so thin + You could almost see his bones + As he ran, hobble—hobble—hobble + Over the stones.” + </pre> + <p> + Before I could wholly recapture the quaint melody, my efforts would + invariably be nullified by the raucous shriek of his trade which had + forever fixed the nickname whereby Our Square knew Plooie: + </p> + <p> + “Parapluie-ee-ee-ee-ees à raccommoder!” He would then + recapitulate in English, or rather that unreproducible dialect which was + his substitute for it. “Oombrella for mend? Annie oombrella for + mend?” + </p> + <p> + So he would pass on his way, shattering the peaceful air at half-minute + intervals with his bilingual disharmonies. He was pallid, meagerly built, + stoop-shouldered, bristly-haired, pock-marked, and stiff-gaited, with a + face which would have been totally insignificant but for an obstinate chin + and a pair of velvet-black, pathetically questioning eyes; and he was + incurably an outlander. For five years he had lived among us, occupying a + cubbyhole in Schepstein’s basement full of ribs, handles, crooks, + patches, and springs, without appreciably improving his speech or his + position. It was said that his name was Garin—nobody really knew or + cared—and it was assumed from his speech that he was French. + </p> + <p> + Few umbrellas came his way. Those of us affluent enough to maintain such + non-essentials patch them ourselves until they are beyond reclamation. Why + Plooie did not starve is one of the mysteries of Our Square, though by no + means the only one of its kind. I have a notion that the Bonnie Lassie, to + whom any variety of want or helplessness is its own sufficient + recommendation, drummed up trade for him among her uptown friends. + Something certainly enlisted his gratitude, for he invariably took off his + frowsy cap when he passed her house, whether or not she was there to see, + and he once unbosomed himself to me to the extent of declaring that she + was a kind lady. This is the only commentary I ever heard him make upon + any one in Our Square, which in turn completely ignored him until the + development of his love affair stimulated our condescending and + contemptuous interest. + </p> + <p> + The object of Plooie’s addresses was a little Swiss of unknown + derivation and obscure history. She appeared to be as detached from the + surrounding world as the umbrella-mender himself. An insignificant bit of + a thing she was, anaemic and subdued, with a sad little face, soft hazel + eyes slightly crossed, and the deprecating manner of those who scrub other + people’s doorsteps at fifteen cents an hour. + </p> + <p> + For a year their courtship, if such it might be termed, ran an uneventful + course. I had almost said unromantic. But who shall tell where is fancy + bred or wherein romance consists? Whenever Plooie saw the drabbled little + worker busy on a doorstep, he would cross over and open the conversation + according to an invariable formula. + </p> + <p> + “Annie oombrella for mend? Annie oombrella?” Thereby the + little Swiss became known as, and ever will be called locally, “Annie + Oombrella.” Like most close-knit, centripetal communities, we have a + fatal penchant for nicknames in Our Square. + </p> + <p> + She would look up and smile wanly, and shake her head. Where, indeed, + should the like of her get an umbrella to be mended! + </p> + <p> + Then would he say—I shall not attempt to torture the good English + alphabet into a reproduction of his singular phonetics: “It makes + fine to-day, it do!” + </p> + <p> + And she would reply “Yes, a fine day”; and look as if the sun + were a little warmer upon her pale skin because of Plooie’s + greeting, as, perhaps, indeed, it was. + </p> + <p> + After that he would nod solemnly, or, if feeling especially loquacious, + venture some prophecy concerning the morrow, before resuming his + unproductive rounds and his lugubrious yawp. One day he discovered that + she spoke French. From that time the relationship advanced rapidly. On + Christmas he gave her a pair of red woolen gloves. On New Year’s he + took her walking among the tombstones in God’s Acre, which is a + serious and sentimental, not to say determinative, social step. Twice in + the following week he carried her bucket from house to house. And in the + glowing dusk of a crisp winter afternoon they sat together hand in hand, + on a bench back of my habitual seat, and looked in each other’s + eyes, and spoke, infrequently, in their own language, forgetful of the + rest of the world, including myself, who was, perhaps, supposed not to + understand. But even without hearing their words, I could have guessed. It + was very simple and direct, and rather touching. Plooie said: + </p> + <p> + “If one marries themselves?” + </p> + <p> + And she replied: “I believe it well.” + </p> + <p> + They kissed solemnly, and their faces, in the gleam of the electric light + which at that moment spluttered into ill-timed and tactless activity, were + transfigured so that I marveled at the dim splendor of them. + </p> + <p> + But the Bonnie Lassie was scandalized. On general principles she mistrusts + that any marriage is really made in heaven unless she acts as earthly + agent of it. What had those two poverty-stricken little creatures to marry + on? She put the question rhetorically to Our Square in general and to the + two people most concerned in particular. Courts of law might have rejected + their replies as irrelevant. Humanly, however, they were convincing + enough. + </p> + <p> + Said Plooie: “Who will have a care of that little one if I have not?” + </p> + <p> + Said Annie Oombrella: “He is so lonely!” + </p> + <p> + So those two unfortunates united their misfortunes, and lo! happiness came + of it. Luckily that is all that did come of it. What disposition the pair + would have made of children, had any arrived, it is difficult to + conjecture. Only by miraculous compression of ribs, handles, and fabrics + was space contrived in the basement cubbyhole for Annie Oombrella to + squeeze in. However, she set up housekeeping cheerily as a bird, with an + odd lot of pots and pans which Schepstein had picked up at an auction and + resold to them at not more than two hundred per cent profit, plus a + kerosene stove, the magnificent wedding gift of the Bonnie Lassie and her + husband, Cyrus the Gaunt. Twice a week they had meat. They were rising in + the social scale. + </p> + <p> + Habitude is the real secret of tolerance. As we became accustomed to + Plooie, Our Square ceased to resent his invincible outlandishness; we + endured him with equanimity, although it would be exaggeration to say that + we accepted him, and we certainly did not patronize him professionally. + Nevertheless, in a minor degree, he nourished. Annie Oombrella must have + lavished care upon him. His pinched-in shoulders broadened perceptibly. + His gait, still a halting shuffle, grew noticeably brisker. There was even + a heartier note in his lamentable trade cry: + </p> + <p> + “Parapluie-ee-ee-ee-ees à raccommoder!” + </p> + <p> + As for Annie Oombrella, having some one to look after quite transformed + her. She grew plump and chirpy, and bustling as a blithe little sparrow, + though perhaps duck would be a happier comparison, for she was dabbling + and splashing in water all the day long, making the stairs and porches of + her curatorship fairly glisten with cleanliness. Her rates went up to + twenty cents an hour. There were rumors that she had started a savings + account. Life stretched out before the little couple, smooth and peaceful + and sunny with companionship. + </p> + <p> + Then came the war. + </p> + <p> + The calamitous quality of a great world tragedy is that it brings to so + many helpless little folk bitter and ignoble tragedies of shame and + humiliation and misunderstanding. With a few racial exceptions, Our Square + was vehemently pro-Ally. In spirit we fought with valiant France and + prayed for heroic Belgium. What a Godspeed we gave to the few sons of Gaul + who, in those early days, left us to fight the good fight! How sourly we + looked upon Plooie continuing his peaceful rounds. Whence arose the rumor, + I cannot say, but it was noised about just at that time of wrath and + tension that Plooie was born in Liège. Liège, that city of fire and + slaughter and heroism, upon which the eyes and hopes of the world were + turned in wonder and admiration. Somebody had seen the entry on the + marriage register! The Bonnie Lassie told me of it, pausing at my bench + with a little furrow between her bright eyes. + </p> + <p> + “Dominie, you know Emile Garin pretty well?” + </p> + <p> + “Not at all,” I replied, failing to identify the rickety + Plooie by his rightful name. + </p> + <p> + “Of course you do! Never a morning but he stops at your bench and + asks if you have an umbrella to mend.” + </p> + <p> + “I never have. What of him?” + </p> + <p> + “Have you any influence with him?” + </p> + <p> + “Not compared with yours.” + </p> + <p> + The Bonnie Lassie made a little gesture of despair. “I can’t + find him. And Annie Oombrella won’t tell me where he is. She only + cries.” + </p> + <p> + “That’s bad. You think he—he is—” + </p> + <p> + “Why don’t you say it outright, Dominie? <i>You</i> think he’s + hiding.” + </p> + <p> + “Really!” I expostulated. “You come to me with + accusations against the poor fellow and then undertake to make me + responsible for them.” + </p> + <p> + “I don’t believe it’s true at all,” averred the + Bonnie Lassie loyally. “I don’t believe Plooie is a coward. + There’s some reason why he doesn’t go over and help! I want to + know what it is.” + </p> + <p> + Perceiving that I was expected to provide excuses for the erring one, I + did my best. “Over age,” I suggested. + </p> + <p> + “He’s only thirty-two.” + </p> + <p> + “Bless me! He looks sixty. Well—physical infirmity.” + </p> + <p> + “He can carry a load all day.” + </p> + <p> + “He won’t leave Annie Oombrella, then. Or perhaps she won’t + let him.” + </p> + <p> + “When I asked her, she cried harder than ever and said that her + mother was French and she would go and fight herself, if they’d have + her.” + </p> + <p> + “Then I give it up. What does your Olympian wisdom make of it?” + </p> + <p> + “I don’t know. But I’m afraid the Garins are going to + have trouble.” + </p> + <p> + Within a few days Plooie reappeared and his strident falsetto appeal for + trade rang shrill in the space of Our Square. Trouble developed at once. + Small boys booed at him, called him “yellow,” and advised him + to go carefully, there was a German behind the next tree. Henri Dumain, + our little old French David who fought the tragic duel of tooth and claw + with his German Jonathan in Thornsen’s Élite Restaurant, stung him + with that most insulting word in any known tongue—“Lâche!”—and + threatened him with uplifted cane; and poor Plooie slunk away. But I think + it was the fact that he who stayed at home when others went forward had + set a picture of Albert of Belgium in the window of his cubbyhole that + most exasperated us against him. Tactless, to say the least! His call grew + quavery and furtive. Annie Oombrella ceased to sing at work. Matters + looked ill for the Garins. + </p> + <p> + The evil came to a head the week after David and Jonathan broke off all + relations. Perhaps that tragedy of shattered friendship (afterward + rejoined through the agency of the great peacemaker, Death) had got on our + nerves. Ordinarily, had Plooie chased a small boy who had tipped a barrel + down his basement steps, nothing would have come of it. But the chase took + him into the midst of a group of the younger and more boisterous element, + returning from a business meeting of the Gentlemen’s Sons of Avenue + B, and before he could turn, they had surrounded him. + </p> + <p> + “Here’s our little ‘ee-ro!” “Looka the + Frenchy that won’t fight!” “Safety first, hey, Plooie?” + “Charge umbrellas—backward, march!” + </p> + <p> + Plooie did his best to break for a run through, which was the worst thing + he could have tried. They collared him. By that contact he became their + captive, their prey. What to do with him? To loose a prisoner, once in the + hand, is an unthinkable anti-climax. Somebody developed an inspirational + thought: “Ride him on a rail!” + </p> + <p> + Near by, a house front under repair supplied a scantling. Plooie was + hustled upon it. He fell off. They jammed him back again. He clung, + wide-eyed, white-faced, and silent. The mob, for it was that now, bore him + with jeers and jokes and ribaldry along the edge of the park. + </p> + <p> + When they came within my ken he was riding high, and the mob was being + augmented momentarily from every quarter. I looked about for Terry the + Cop. But Terry was elsewhere. It is not beyond the bounds of reasonable + probability that he had absented himself on purpose. “God hates a + coward” is a tenet of Terry’s creed. I confess to a certain + sympathy with it myself. After all, a harsh lesson might not be amiss for + Plooie, the recusant. Composing my soul to a non-intervention policy, I + leaned back on my bench, when a pitiful sight ruined my neutrality. + </p> + <p> + Along the outer edge of the compact mob trotted little Annie Oombrella. + From time to time she dashed herself blindly against that human wall, + which repulsed her not too roughly and with indulgent laughter. Their + concern was not with her. It was with the coward; their prisoner, + delivered by fate to the stern decrees of mob justice. I could hear his + voice now, calling out to her in their own language across the supervening + heads: + </p> + <p> + “Do not have fear, my little one. They do me no harm. Go you home, + little cat. Soon I come also. Do not fear.” + </p> + <p> + From his forehead ran a little stream of blood. But there was that in his + face which told me that if he was fearful it was only for her. His voice, + steady and piercing, overrode the clamor of the crowd. I began to + entertain doubts as to his essential cowardice. + </p> + <p> + Annie Oombrella, dumb with misery and terror, only dashed herself the more + hopelessly against the barrier of bodies. + </p> + <p> + Even the delight of rail-riding a victim becomes monotonous in time. The + many-headed sought further measures of correction and reprobation. + </p> + <p> + “Le’s tar-and-feather him.” + </p> + <p> + “White feathers!” + </p> + <p> + “Where’ll we gettum?” + </p> + <p> + “Satkins’s kosher shop on the Av’noo.” + </p> + <p> + “Where’s yer tar?” + </p> + <p> + This was a poser; Satkins was saved from a raid. A more practical + expedient now evolved from the collective brain. + </p> + <p> + “Duck’m in the fountain!” + </p> + <p> + “<i>Drown</i> him in the fountain!” amended an enthusiast. + </p> + <p> + Whooping with delight, the mob turned toward the gate. This was becoming + dangerous. That there was no real intent to drown the unfortunate + umbrella-mender I was well satisfied. But mob intent is subject to mob + impulse. If they once got him into the water, the temptation of the + playful to push his head under just once more might be too strong. Plainly + the time was ripe for intervention. + </p> + <p> + Owing to some enthusiastically concerted but ill-directed engineering, the + scantling with its human burden had jammed crosswise of the posts. Now, if + ever, was the opportunity for eloquence of dissuasion. + </p> + <p> + For the heroic rôle of Horatius at the Bridge I am ill-fitted both by + temperament and the fullness of years. Nevertheless, I advanced into the + imminent deadly breach and raised the appeal to reason. + </p> + <p> + The result was unsatisfactory. Some hooted. Others laughed. + </p> + <p> + “Never mind the Dominie,” yelled Inky Mike, laying hold of the + rail by an end and hauling it around. “He don’t mean nothin’.” + </p> + <p> + Old bones are no match for young barbarism. The rush through the gate + brushed me aside like a feather. I saw the tragi-comic parade go by, as I + leaned against a supporting tree: the advance guard of clamorous urchins, + the rail-bearers, the white-faced figure of Plooie, jolted aloft, bleeding + but calm, self-forgetful, and still calling out reassurances to his wife; + the jostling rabble, and upon the edge of it a frantic woman, clawing, + sobbing, imploring. On they swept. I listened for the splash. + </p> + <p> + It did not come. + </p> + <p> + A lion had risen in the path. To be more accurate, a lioness. To my + unsuccessful rôle of Horatius, a Horatia better fitted for the fray had + succeeded, in the austere and superb person of Madame Rachel Pinckney + Pemberton Tallafferr, aforetime of the sovereign State of Virginia. + </p> + <p> + Where all my eloquence had failed, she checked that joyously anticipative + rabble by the simple query, set in the chillest and most peremptory of + aristocratic tones, as to what they were doing. + </p> + <p> + I like to think—the Bonnie Lassie says that I am flattering myself + thereby—that it was the momentary halt caused by my abortive effort + to hold the gate, which gave time for a greater than my humble self to + intervene. + </p> + <p> + Madame Tallafferr, in the glory of black silk, the Pinckney lace, the + Pemberton diamond, and accompanied by that fat relic of slavery, Black + Sally, had been taking the air genteelly on a bench when the disturbance + grated upon her sensitive ear. + </p> + <p> + “What is that rabble about, Sally?” she inquired. + </p> + <p> + The aged negress reconnoitered. “Reckon dey’s ridin’ a + gentmun on a rail,” she reported. + </p> + <p> + “A <i>gentleman</i>, Sally? Impossible. No gentleman would endure + such an affront. Look again.” + </p> + <p> + “Yessum. It’s dat po’ white trash dey call Plooie. + Mainded yo’ umbrella oncet.” + </p> + <p> + “My umbrella-mender!” (The mere fact that the victim had once + tinkered for her a decrepit parasol entitled him in her feudal mind to the + high protection of the Tallafferr tradition.) “Tell them to desist + at once.” + </p> + <p> + Apologetically but shrewdly Sally opined that the neighborhood of the + advancing mob was “no place foh a niggah.” + </p> + <p> + With perfect faith in the powers of her superior she added: “You + desist em, mist’ess.” + </p> + <p> + Sally’s confidence in her mistress was equaled or perhaps even + excelled by her mistress’s confidence in herself. + </p> + <p> + Leaning upon her cane and attended by the faithful though terrified + servitor, Madame Tallafferr rustled forward. She took her stand upon the + brink of the fountain in almost the exact spot where she had disarmed + MacLachan, the tailor, drunk, songful, and suicidal, two years before. + Since that feat an almost mythologic awe had attached itself to her + locally. + </p> + <p> + She waited, small and thin, hawk-eyed, imperious, and tempered like steel. + The ring of tempered steel, too, was in her voice when, at the proper + moment, she raised it. + </p> + <p> + “What are you doing?” + </p> + <p> + The clamor of the mob died down. The sight of Horatia (I beg her pardon + humbly, Madame Tallafferr) in the path smote them with misgivings. As in + Macaulay’s immortal, if somewhat jingly epic, “those behind + cried Forward’ and those before cried ‘Back’!” + That single hale and fiery old lady held them. No more could those two + hundred ruffians have defied the challenge of her contemptuous eyes than + they could have advanced into the flaming doors of a furnace. + </p> + <p> + A cautious voice from the rear inquired: “Who’s the dame?” + </p> + <p> + “She’s a witch,” conjectured some one. + </p> + <p> + “It’s the Duchess,” said another, giving her the local + title of veneration. + </p> + <p> + “It’s the lady that shot the tailor,” proclaimed an + awe-stricken bystander. (Legend takes strange twists in Our Square as + elsewhere.) Some outlander, ignorant of our traditions, prescribed in a + malevolent squeak: + </p> + <p> + “T’row ‘er in the drink.” + </p> + <p> + “Who spoke?” said Madame Tallafferr, crisp and clear. + </p> + <p> + Silence. Then the sound of objurgations as the advocate frantically + resisted well-meant efforts to thrust him into undesirable prominence. + Finally a miniature eruption outward from the mob’s edge, followed + by a glimpse of a shadowy figure departing at full speed. The Duchess + leveled a bony finger at Inky Mike, the nearest figure personally known to + her, who began a series of contortions suggestive of a desire to crawl + into his own pocket. + </p> + <p> + “Michael,” said the Duchess. + </p> + <p> + “Yessum,” said Inky Mike, whose name happens to be Moe + Sapperstein. + </p> + <p> + “What are you doing to that unfortunate person?” + </p> + <p> + “J-j-just a little j-j-joke,” replied the other in what was + doubtless intended for a light-hearted and care-free tone. + </p> + <p> + “Let him down.” Inky Mike hesitated. “At once!” + snapped the Duchess and stamped her foot. + </p> + <p> + “Yessum,” said Inky Mike meekly. + </p> + <p> + Loosing his hold on the scantling, he retreated upon the feet of those + behind. They let go also. Plooie slid forward to the ground. Madame + Tallafferr’s bony finger (backed by the sparkle of an authoritative + diamond) swept slowly around a half-circle, with very much the easy and + significant motion of a machine gun and something of the effect. A subtle + suggestion of limpness manifested itself in the mass before her. + Addressing them, she raised her voice not a whit. She had no need to. + </p> + <p> + “Go about your business,” she said. “Rabble!” she + added in precisely the tone which one might expect of a well-bred but + particularly deadly snake. + </p> + <p> + The mob wilted to a purposeless and abashed crowd. The crowd disintegrated + into individuals. The individuals asked themselves what they were doing + there, and, finding no sufficient answer, slunk away. Plooie was + triumphantly escorted by Madame Tallafferr and Black Sally, and (less + triumphantly) by my limping self, to the nearest haven, which chanced to + be the Bonnie Lassie’s house. Annie Oombrella pattered along beside + him, fumbling his hand and trying not to cry. + </p> + <p> + But when the Bonnie Lassie saw the melancholy wreck, <i>she</i> cried, as + much from fury as from pity, and said that men were brutes and bullies and + cowards and imbeciles—and why hadn’t her Cyrus been at home to + stop it? Whereto Madame Tallafferr complacently responded that Mr. Cyrus + Staten had not been needed: the <i>canaille</i> would always respect a + proper show of authority from its superiors; and so went home, rustling + and sparkling. + </p> + <p> + After all, Plooie was not much hurt. Perhaps more frightened than anything + else. Panic was, in fact, the reason generally ascribed in Our Square for + his quiet departure, with his Annie, of course, on the following Sunday. + Only the Bonnie Lassie dissented. But as the Bonnie Lassie reasons with + her heart instead of her head, we accept her theories with habitual and + smiling indulgence rather than respect—until the facts bear them + out. She had, it appeared, called on the Plooies to inquire as to their + proposed course, and had rather more than hinted that if the head of the + house wished to respond to his country’s call, Our Square would look + after Annie Oombrella. To this he returned only a stubborn and somber + silence. The Bonnie Lassie said afterward that he seemed ashamed. She + added that he had left good-bye for me and hoped the Dominie would not + think too hard of him. Recalling that I had rather markedly failed to + acknowledge his salute on the morning before his departure, I felt a qualm + of misgiving. After all, judging your neighbor’s soul is a kittle + business. There is such an insufficiency of data. + </p> + <p> + So Schepstein lost a renter. The basement cubbyhole remained vacant, with + only the picture of Albert of the Kingdom of Sorrows in the window as a + memento. Nothing further was seen or heard of Plooie. But Schepstein, + wandering far afield in search of tenement sales a full year after, + encountered Annie Oombrella washing down the steps of an office far over + in Lewis Street, nearly to the river. All the plumpness which she had + taken on in the happy days was gone. She looked wistful and haggard. + </p> + <p> + Schepstein, doing the polite (which, as he accurately states, costs + nothing and might get you something some time), asked after Plooie. Where + was he? Annie Oombrella shook her head. + </p> + <p> + “Left you, has he?” asked Schepstein, astonished at this + evidence of iniquity. + </p> + <p> + “Yes,” said Annie Oombrella. But there was a ring in her voice + that Schepstein failed to understand. It sounded almost like defiance. Her + eyes were deep-hollowed and sorrowful, but they met his as squarely as + they could, considering their cast. Schepstein was quite shocked to + observe that there was no shame in them. I suppose the shock temporarily + unbalanced his principles, for, having caught sight of one of her shoes, + he offered to lend her three dollars, indefinitely and without interest, + on her bare note-of-hand. (When he saw the other shoe, he made it five.) + She looked at the money anxiously, but shook her head. + </p> + <p> + “Well, if you ever need a home, the basement’s vacant and + there ain’t a better basement in Our Square.” + </p> + <p> + Annie Oombrella began to cry quietly, and Schepstein went on about his + business. + </p> + <p> + Through the ensuing years many women cried quietly or vehemently, + according to their natures, and many men went away from places that had + known them, to be no more known of those places; and the little Kingdom of + Sorrows, shattered, blood-soaked, and unconquerable, stood fast, a bulwark + between the ravager of the world and his victory until there sped across + the death-haunted seas the army that was to turn the scales. Our Square + gave to that sacrifice what it can never recover: witness the simple + memorials in Our Square. + </p> + <p> + Many people see ghosts; Our Square is well haunted, as befits its ancient + and diminished glories. Few hear ghosts. This is as it ought to be. In + their very nature, ghosts should be seen, not heard. Yet, in the year of + grace, 1919, under a blazing September sun, with a cicada, vagrant from + heaven knows whence, frying his sizzling sausages in our lilac bush, and + other equally insistent sounds of reality filling the air, my ears were + smitten with a voice from the realm of wraiths. + </p> + <p> + “Parapluie-ee-ee-ee-ees,” it cried on a faint and cluttering + note. “Parapluie-ee-ee-ee-ees à raccommoder.” + </p> + <p> + Over in the far corner of the park an apparition moved into my visual + range. It looked like Plooie. It moved like Plooie. It was loaded like + Plooie. It opened a mouth like Plooie’s and emitted again the + familiar though diminished falsetto shriek. No doubt of it now; it <i>was</i> + Plooie. He had come back to us who never thought to see him again, who + never wished to see him again, still unpurged of his stigma. + </p> + <p> + As he passed me, I acknowledged his greeting, somewhat stiffly, I fear, + and walked over to Schepstein’s. There in the basement, amid the + familiar wreckage as of a thousand umbrellas, sat little Annie. + </p> + <p> + “Bonjour, Dominie,” said she wistfully. + </p> + <p> + “Good-morning, Annie. So you are back.” + </p> + <p> + “Yes, Dominie. Is there need that one wash the step at your house?” + </p> + <p> + “There is need that one explain one’s self. What have you been + doing these three years?” + </p> + <p> + “I work. I work hard.” + </p> + <p> + “And your husband? What has he been doing?” I asked sternly. + </p> + <p> + Annie Oombrella’s soft face drooped. “Soyez gentil, Dominie,” + she implored. “Be a kind, good man and ask him not. That make him so + triste—so sad.” + </p> + <p> + “He doesn’t look well, Annie.” + </p> + <p> + “He have been ver’ seeck. Now we come home he is already + weller.” + </p> + <p> + “But do you think it is wise for you to come back here?” I + demanded, feeling brutal as I put the question. Annie Oombrella’s + reply did not make me feel any less so. She sent a quivering look around + that unspeakably messy, choked-up little hole in the wall that was home to + Plooie and her. + </p> + <p> + “We have loved each other so much here,” said she. + </p> + <p> + Our Square is too poor to be enduringly uncharitable, either in deed or + thought. War’s resentments died out quickly in us. No longer was + Plooie in danger of mob violence. By common consent we let him alone; he + made his rounds unmolested, but also unpatronized. But for Annie Oombrella’s + prodigies of industry with pail and brush, the little couple in Schepstein’s + basement would have fared ill. + </p> + <p> + Annie earned for both. In the process, happiness came back to her face. + </p> + <p> + To the fat Rosser twin accrues the credit of a pleasurable discovery about + Plooie. This was that, if you sneaked softly up behind him and shouted: + “Hey, Plooie! What was <i>you</i> doing in the war?” his jaw + would drop and his whole rackety body begin to quiver, and he would heave + his burden to his shoulder and break into a spavined gallop, muttering and + sobbing like one demented. As the juvenile sense of humor is highly + developed in Our Square, Plooie got a good deal of exercise, first and + last. + </p> + <p> + Eventually he foiled them by coming out only in school hours. This didn’t + help his trade. But then his trade had dwindled to the vanishing point + anyway. Even Madame Tallafferr had dropped him. She preferred not to deal + with a poltroon, as she put it. + </p> + <p> + On the day of the great exodus, Plooie put in some extra hours. He was in + no danger from his youthful persecutors, because they had all gone up to + line Fifth Avenue and help cheer the visiting King of the Belgians. So had + such of the rest of Our Square as were not at work. The place was + practically deserted. Nevertheless, Plooie prowled about, uttering his + cracked and lugubrious cry in the forlorn hope of picking up a parapluie + to raccommode. I was one of the few left to hear him, because Mendel, the + jeweler, had most inconsiderately gone to view royalty, leaving my + unrepaired glasses locked in his shop; otherwise I, too, would have been + on the Fifth Avenue curb shouting with the best of them. Do not + misinterpret me. For the divinity that doth hedge a king I care as little + as one should whose forbears fought in the Revolution. But for the + divinity of high courage and devotion that certifies to the image of God + within man, I should have been proud to take off my old but still glossy + silk hat to Albert of the Belgians. So I was rather cross, and it was well + for my equanimity that the Bonnie Lassie, who had remained at home for + reasons which are peculiarly her own affair and that of Cyrus the Gaunt, + should have come over to my favorite bench to cheer me up. Said the Bonnie + Lassie: + </p> + <p> + “I wonder why Plooie didn’t go to see his king.” + </p> + <p> + “Sense of shame,” I suggested acidly. + </p> + <p> + “Yes?” said the Bonnie Lassie in a tone which I mistrusted. + </p> + <p> + “It is no use,” I assured her, “for you to favor me with + that pitying and contemptuous smile of yours, for I can’t see it. + Mendel has my nearer range of vision locked in his shop.” + </p> + <p> + “I was just thinking,” said the Bonnie Lassie in ruminant + accents, “how nice it must be to look back on a long life of + unspotted correctness with not an item in it to be ashamed of. It gives + one such a comfortable basis for sitting in judgment.” + </p> + <p> + “Her lips drip honey,” I observed, “and the poison of + asps is under her tongue.” + </p> + <p> + “Your quotations are fatally mixed,” retorted my companion. + </p> + <p> + From across the park sounded Plooie’s patient falsetto: “Parapluie-ee-ee-ee-ees! + Annie Oombrella for mend? Parapluie-ee-ee-” The call broke off in a + kind of choke. + </p> + <p> + “What’s happened to Plooie?” I asked. “The + youngsters can’t have got back from the parade already, have they?” + </p> + <p> + “A very tall man has stopped him,” said the Bonnie Lassie. + “Plooie has dropped his kit.... He’s trying to salute.... It + must be one of the Belgian officers.... Oh, Dominie!” + </p> + <p> + “Well, what?” I demanded impatiently and cursed the recreant + Mendel in my heart. + </p> + <p> + “It can’t be ... you don’t think they can be arresting + poor Plooie at this late day for evading service?” + </p> + <p> + “Serve him right if they did,” said I. + </p> + <p> + “I believe they are. The big man has taken him by the arm and is + leading him along. Poor Plooie! He’s all wilted down. It’s a + shame!” cried the Bonnie Lassie, beginning to flame. “It ought + not to be allowed.” + </p> + <p> + “Probably they’re taking him away. Do you see an + official-looking automobile anywhere about?” + </p> + <p> + “There’s a strange car over on the Avenue. Oh, dear! Poor + Annie Oombrella! But—but they’re not going there. They’re + going into Schepstein’s basement.” + </p> + <p> + I could feel the Bonnie Lassie fidgeting on the bench. For a moment I + endured it. Then I said: + </p> + <p> + “Well, Lassie, why don’t you?” + </p> + <p> + “Why don’t I what?” + </p> + <p> + “Take your usual constitutional, over by the railings. Opposite + Schepstein’s.” + </p> + <p> + “That isn’t my usual constitutional, and you know it, Dominie,” + said the Bonnie Lassie with dignity. + </p> + <p> + “Isn’t it? Well, curiosity killed a cat, you know.” + </p> + <p> + “How shamelessly you garble! It was—” + </p> + <p> + “Never mind; the quotation is erroneous, anyway. It should be: <i>suppressed</i> + curiosity killed a cat.” + </p> + <p> + The Bonnie Lassie sniffed. + </p> + <p> + “Rather than be dislodged from my precarious perch on this bench,” + I pursued, “through the trembling imparted to it by your clinging to + the back to restrain yourself from going to see what is up, I should + almost prefer that you would go—and peek.” + </p> + <p> + “Dominie,” said the Bonnie Lassie, “you are a despicable + old man.... I’ll be back in a minute.” + </p> + <p> + “Don’t stay long,” I pleaded. “Pity the blind.” + </p> + <p> + Her golden laughter floated back to me. But there was no mirth in her + voice when she returned. + </p> + <p> + “It’s so dark in there I can hardly see. But the big man is + sitting on a pile of ribs talking to Plooie, and Annie Oombrella’s + face is all swollen with crying. I saw it in the window for a minute.” + </p> + <p> + Pro and con we argued what the probable event might be and how we could + best meet it. So intent upon our discussion did we become that we did not + note the approach of a stranger until he was within a few paces of the + bench. With my crippled vision I apprehended him only as very tall and + straight and wearing a loose cape. The effect upon the Bonnie Lassie of + his approach was surprising. I heard her give a little gasp. She got up + from the bench. Her hand fell upon my shoulder. It was trembling. Where, I + wondered, had those two met and in what circumstances, that the mere sight + of the stranger caused such emotion in the unusually self-controlled wife + of Cyrus Staten. The man spoke quickly in a deep and curiously melancholy + voice: + </p> + <p> + “Madame perhaps does me the honor to remember me?” + </p> + <p> + “I—I—I—” began the Bonnie Lassie. + </p> + <p> + “The Comte de Tournon. At Trouville we met, was it not? Several + years since?” + </p> + <p> + “Y-yes. Certainly. At Trouville.” + </p> + <p> + (Now I happen to know that the Bonnie Lassie has never been at Trouville, + which did not assuage my suspicions.) + </p> + <p> + “You are friends of my—countryman, Emile Garin, are you not?” + he pursued in his phraseology of extreme precision, with only the faint + echo of an accent. + </p> + <p> + “Who?” I said. “Oh, Plooie, you mean. Friends? Well, + acquaintances would be more accurate.” + </p> + <p> + “He tells me that you, Monsieur, befriended him when he had great + need of friends. And you, Madame, always. So I have come to thank you.” + </p> + <p> + “You are interested in Plooie?” I asked. + </p> + <p> + “Plooie?” he repeated doubtfully. I explained to him and he + laughed gently. “Profoundly interested,” he said. “I + have here one of his finest umbrellas which his good wife presented to me. + There was also a lady of whom he speaks, a <i>grande dame</i>, of very + great authority.” For all the sadness of the deep voice, I felt that + his eyes were twinkling. + </p> + <p> + “Madame Tallafferr,” supplied the Bonnie Lassie. “She is + away on a visit.” + </p> + <p> + “I should like to have met that queller of mobs. She ought to be + knighted.” + </p> + <p> + “Knighthood would add nothing to her status,” said I, dryly. + “She is a Pinckney and a Pemberton besides being a Tallafferr, with + two <i>f</i>s, two <i>l</i>s, and two <i>r</i>s.” + </p> + <p> + “Doubtless. I do not comprehend the details of your American orders + of merit,” said the big sad-voiced man courteously. “But I + should have been proud to meet her.” + </p> + <p> + “May I tell her that?” asked the Bonnie Lassie eagerly. + </p> + <p> + “By all means—when I am gone.” Again I felt the smile + that must be in the eyes. “But there were others here, not so + friendly to the little Garin. That is true, is it not?” + </p> + <p> + “Yes,” said the Bonnie Lassie. + </p> + <p> + “There is at least a strong suspicion that he is not a deserving + case,” I pointed out defensively. + </p> + <p> + “Then it is only because he does not explain himself well,” + returned the Belgian quickly. + </p> + <p> + “He does not explain himself at all,” I corrected. “Nor + does Annie Oom—his wife.” + </p> + <p> + “Ah? That will clarify itself, perhaps, in time. If you will bear + with me, I should like to tell you a little story to be passed on to those + who are not his friends. Will you not be seated, Madame?” + </p> + <p> + The Bonnie Lassie resumed her place on the bench. Standing before us, the + big man began to speak. Many times since have I wished that I might have + taken down what he said verbatim; so gracious it was, so simple, so straightly + the expression of a great and generous personality. + </p> + <p> + “Emile Garin,” he said, “was a son of Belgium. He was + poor and his people were little folk of nothing-at-all. Moreover, they + were dead. So he came to your great country to make his living. When our + enemies invaded my country and the call went out to all sons of Belgium, + the little Garin was ashamed because he knew that he was physically unfit + for military service. But he tried. He tried everywhere. In the mornings + they must sweep him away from our Consul-General’s doorsteps here + because otherwise he would not—You spoke, Monsieur?” + </p> + <p> + “Nothing. I only said, ‘God forgive us!’” + </p> + <p> + “Amen,” said the narrator gravely. “Everywhere they + rejected him as unfit. So he became morbid. He hid himself away. Is it not + so?” + </p> + <p> + “That is why they left Our Square so mysteriously,” confirmed + the Bonnie Lassie. + </p> + <p> + “After that he hung about the docks. He saw his chance and crawled + into the hold of a vessel as a stowaway. He starved. It did not matter. He + was kicked. It did not matter. He was arrested. It did not matter. Nothing + mattered except that he should reach Belgium. And he did reach my country + at the darkest hour, the time when Belgium needed every man, no matter who + he was. But he could not be a soldier, the little Garin, because he was + unable to march. He had weak legs.” + </p> + <p> + At this point the eternal feminine asserted itself in the Bonnie Lassie. + “I <i>told</i> you there was something,” she murmured + triumphantly. + </p> + <p> + “Hush!” said I. + </p> + <p> + “I am glad to find that he had one true defender here,” + pursued the biographer of Plooie. “Though he could not fight in the + ranks there was use for him. There was use for all true sons of Belgium in + those black days. He was made driver of a—a charette; I do not know + if you have them in your great city?” He paused, and I guessed that + the rumble of heavy wheels on the asphalt, heard near by, had come + opportunely. “Ah, yes; there is one.” + </p> + <p> + “A dump-cart,” supplied the Bonnie Lassie. + </p> + <p> + “Merci, Madame. A dump-cart. It is perhaps not an evidently glorious + thing to drive a dump-cart for one’s country—unless one makes + it so. But it was the best the little Garin could do. His legs were what + you call quaint—I have already told you. He was faithful and + hard-working. They helped build roads near the front, the little Garin and + his big cart.” + </p> + <p> + “Not precisely safety-first,” whispered the Bonnie Lassie to + me, maliciously. + </p> + <p> + “You are interrupting the story,” said I with dignity. + </p> + <p> + “One day he was driving a load of mud through a village street. Here + on this side is a hospital. There on that side is another hospital. Down + the middle of the road walks an idiot of a sergeant carrying a new type of + grenade with which we were experimenting. One moves a little lever—so. + One counts; one, two, three, four, five. One throws the grenade, and at + the count of ten, all about it is destroyed, for it is of terrible power. + The idiot sergeant sets down the grenade in the middle of the road between + the two hospitals full of the helplessly wounded. For what? Perhaps to + sneeze. Perhaps to light a cigarette. Heaven only knows, for the sergeant + has the luck to be killed next day by a German shell, before he can be + court-martialed. As he sets down the grenade, the little lever is moved. + The sergeant loses his head. He runs, shouting to everybody to run also. + </p> + <p> + “But the hospitals, they cannot run. And the wounded, they cannot + run. They can only be still and wait. In the nearest hospital there is a + visitor. A great lady. A great and greatly loved lady.” The sad + voice deepened and softened. + </p> + <p> + “I know,” whispered the Bonnie Lassie; “I can guess.” + </p> + <p> + “Yes. But the little Garin, approaching on his big dump-cart, does + not know. He knows the danger, for he hears the shouts and sees the people + escaping. He sees the grenade, too. A man running past him shouts, ‘Turn + your cart, you fool, and save yourself.’ Oh, yes; he can save + himself. That is easy. But what of the people in the hospitals? Who can + save them? The little Garin thinks hard and swiftly. He drives his big + dump-cart over the grenade. He pulls the lever which dumps the mud. The + mud buries the grenade; much mud, very soft and heavy. The grenade + explodes, nevertheless. + </p> + <p> + “One mule blows through one hospital, one through another. + Everything near is covered with mud. The great lady is thrown to the + floor, but she is not hurt. She rises and attends the injured and calms + the terrified. The hospitals are saved. It is a glorious thing to have + driven a dump-cart for one’s country—so.” + </p> + <p> + “But what became of our Plooie?” besought the Bonnie Lassie. + </p> + <p> + The big man spread his arms in a wide, Gallic gesture. “They looked + for him everywhere. No sign. But by and by some one saw a quite large + piece of mud on the hospital roof begin to wriggle. The little Garin was + that large piece of mud. They brought him down and put him in the hospital + which he had saved. For a long time he had shell-shock. Even now he cannot + speak of the war without his nerves being affected. When he got out of + hospital, he did not seem to know who he was. Or perhaps he did not care. + Shell-shock is a strange thing. He went away, and his records were lost in + the general confusion. Afterward we sought for him. The great lady wished + very much to see him. But we could find nothing except that he had come + back to this country. Official inquiry was made here and he was traced to + Our Square. So I came to see him. Because he cannot speak for himself and + will not allow his wife to tell his story—it is part of the + shell-shock which will wear off in time—I came to speak for him.” + </p> + <p> + “Does your—do you do this sort of thing often?” asked + the Bonnie Lassie with a queer sort of resonance in her voice. + </p> + <p> + The big man answered, in a tone which suggested that he was smiling: + “One cannot visit all the brave men who suffered for Belgium. But + there is a special reason here, the matter of the great and greatly loved + lady whom the little Garin saved.” + </p> + <p> + “I see,” said the Bonnie Lassie softly. + </p> + <p> + After the big man had made his adieux, we sat silent for some minutes. + Presently she spoke; there was wonder and something else in her voice. + </p> + <p> + “Plooie!” she said, and that was all. + </p> + <p> + “You are crying,” I said. + </p> + <p> + “I’m not,” she retorted indignantly. “But you + ought to be. For your injustice.” + </p> + <p> + “If we all bewept our injustices,” said I oracularly, “Noah + would have to come back and build a new ark for a bigger flood than his.” + </p> + <p> + “What do you think of him?” said the Bonnie Lassie. + </p> + <p> + “As a weather-prophet, he was unequaled. As an expert + animal-breeder, his selections were at times ill-advised.” + </p> + <p> + “Don’t be tiresome, Dominie. You know that I’m not + interested in Noah.” + </p> + <p> + “As to our romantic visitant,” I said, “I think that + Cyrus the Gaunt would better be watchful. I’ve never known anyone + else except Cyrus to produce such an emotional effect upon you.” + </p> + <p> + “Don’t be school-girlish!” admonished the Bonnie Lassie + severely. “Poor old Dominie! He doesn’t know what’s + going on under his very nose. Where are your eyes?” + </p> + <p> + “In Mendel’s top drawer, I suppose.... The question is how are + we going to make it up to Plooie?” + </p> + <p> + “I don’t think you need worry about that,” returned the + Bonnie Lassie loftily. + </p> + <p> + Nor was there any occasion for worry. Two days later there occurred an + irruption of dismaying young men with casual squares of paper in their + pockets, upon which they scratched brief notes. They were, I was + subsequently given to understand, the pick and flower of the city’s + reportorial genius. (I could imagine the ghost of Inky Mike with his + important notebook and high-poised pencil, regarding with wonder and + disdain their quiet and unimpressive methods.) A freshly painted sign + across the front of Plooie’s basement, was the magnet that drew + them: + </p> +<pre xml:space="preserve"> + Emile Garin & Wife + Umbrella Mender & Porch Cleanser + + to + + His Majesty + + The King of the Belgians + (By Royal Warranty) +</pre> + <p> + No; Plooie and Annie Oombrella need no help from the humble now. Their + well-deserved fortune is made. + </p> + <p> + <br /><br /> + </p> + <hr /> + <p> + <a name="link2H_4_0010" id="link2H_4_0010"> </a> + </p> + <div style="height: 4em;"> + <br /><br /><br /><br /> + </div> + <h2> + TRIUMPH + </h2> +<pre xml:space="preserve"> + The months go by—bleak March and May-day heat— + Harvest is over—winter well-nigh done— + And still I say, “To-morrow we shall meet.” + + MAY PROBYN +</pre> + <p> + The Little Red Doctor sat on the far end of my bench. Snow fringed the + bristling curve of his mustache. He shivered. + </p> + <p> + “Dominie,” said he, “it’s a wild day.” + </p> + <p> + I assented. + </p> + <p> + “Dominie,” said the Little Red Doctor, “it is no kind of + a day for an old man to be sitting on a bench.” + </p> + <p> + I dissented. + </p> + <p> + “Dominie,” persisted the Little Red Doctor, “you can’t + deny that you’re old.” + </p> + <p> + “Whose fault is that but yours?” I retorted. + </p> + <p> + “Don’t try to flatter me,” said the Little Red Doctor. + “You’d have licked my old friend, Death, in that bout you had + with him, without any help of mine. And, anyway, you were already old, + then. You’re a tough old bird, Dominie. Otherwise you wouldn’t + be sitting here in a March blizzard staring at the Worth mansion and + wondering what really happened there three years ago.” + </p> + <p> + “Your old friend, Death, beat you that time,” said I + maliciously. + </p> + <p> + The Little Red Doctor chose to ignore my taunt. “Look your fill, + Dominie,” he advised. “You won’t have much more chance.” + </p> + <p> + “Why?” I asked, startled. + </p> + <p> + “The wreckers begin on it next month. Also a nice, new building is + going up next door to it on that little, secret, walled jungle that Ely + Crouch used to misname his garden. I’m glad of it, too. I don’t + like anachronisms.” + </p> + <p> + “I’m an anachronism,” I returned. “You’ll be + one pretty soon. Our Square is one solid anachronism.” + </p> + <p> + “It won’t be much longer. The tide is undermining us. Other + houses will go as the Worth place is going. You’ll miss it, Dominie. + You love houses as if they were people.” + </p> + <p> + It is true. To me houses are the only fabrications of man’s hands + that are personalities. Enterprise builds the factory, Greed the tenement, + but Love alone builds the house, and by Love alone is it maintained + against the city’s relentless encroachments. Once hallowed by + habitation, what warm and vivid influences impregnate it! Ambition, pride, + hope, joys happily shared; suffering, sorrow, and loss bravely endured—the + walls outlive them all, gathering with age, from grief and joy alike, kind + memories and stanch traditions. Yes, I love the old houses. Yet I should + not be sorry to see the Worth mansion razed. It has outlived all the lives + that once cherished it and become a dead, unhuman thing. + </p> + <p> + That solid square of brown, gray-trimmed stone had grown old honorably + with the honorable generations of the Worths. Then it had died. In one + smiting stroke of tragedy the life had gone out of it. Now it stood + staring bleakly out from its corner with filmed eyes, across the busy + square. Passing its closed gates daily, I was always sensible of a qualm + of the spirit, a daunting prescience that the stilled mansion still + harbored the ghost of an unlaid secret. + </p> + <p> + The Little Red Doctor broke in upon my reverie. + </p> + <p> + “Yes; you’re old, Dominie. But you’re not wise. You’re + very foolish. Foolish and obstinate.” + </p> + <p> + Knowing well what he meant, I nevertheless pampered him by asking: “Why + am I foolish and obstinate?” + </p> + <p> + “Because you refuse to believe that Ned Worth murdered Ely Crouch. + Don’t you?” + </p> + <p> + “I do.” + </p> + <p> + “Then why did Ned commit suicide?” + </p> + <p> + “I don’t know.” + </p> + <p> + “How do you explain away his written confession?” + </p> + <p> + “I don’t. I only know that it was not in Ned Worth’s + character willfully to kill an old man. You were his friend; you ought to + know it as well as I do.” + </p> + <p> + “Ah, that’s different,” said the Little Red Doctor, + giving me one of his queer looks. “Yes; you’re a pig-headed + old man, Dominie.” + </p> + <p> + “I’m a believer in character.” + </p> + <p> + “I don’t know of any other man equally pig-headed, except + possibly one. He’s old, too.” + </p> + <p> + “Gale Sheldon,” said I, naming the gentle, withered librarian + of a branch library a few blocks to the westward, the only other resident + of Our Square who had unfailingly supported me in my loyalty to the memory + of the last of the Worths. + </p> + <p> + “Yes. He’s waiting for us now in his rooms. Will you come?” + </p> + <p> + Perceiving that there was something back of this—there usually is, + in the Little Red Doctor’s maneuvers—I rose and we set out. As + we passed the Worth house it seemed grimmer and bleaker than ever before. + There was something savage and desperate in its desolation. The cold curse + of abandonment lay upon it. At the turn of the corner the Little Red + Doctor said abruptly. + </p> + <p> + “She’s dead.” + </p> + <p> + “Who?” I demanded. + </p> + <p> + “The girl. The woman in the case.” + </p> + <p> + “In the Ely Crouch case? A woman? There was never any woman hinted + at.” + </p> + <p> + “No. And there never would have been as long as she was alive. Now—Well, + I’ll leave Sheldon to explain her. He loved her, too, in his way.” + </p> + <p> + In Gale Sheldon’s big, still room, crowded with the friendly ghosts + of mighty books, a clear fire was burning. One shaded lamp at the desk was + turned on, for though it was afternoon the blizzard cast a gloom like + dusk. The Little Red Doctor retired to a far corner where he was all but + merged in the shadows. + </p> + <p> + “Have you seen this?” Sheldon asked me, pointing to the table. + </p> + <p> + Thereon was spread strange literature for the scholarly taste of our local + book-worm, a section from the most sensational of New York’s Sunday + newspapers. From the front page, surrounded by a barbarous conglomeration + of headlines and uproarious type, there smiled happily forth a face of + such appealing loveliness as no journalistic vulgarity could taint or + profane. I recognized it at once, as any one must have done who had ever + seen the unforgettable original. It was Virginia Kingsley, who, two years + before, had been Sheldon’s assistant. The picture was labeled, + “Death Ends Wanderlust of Mysterious Heiress,” and the article + was couched in a like style of curiosity-piquing sensationalism. Stripped + of its fulsome verbiage, it told of the girl’s recent death in + Italy, after traveling about Europe with an invalid sister; during which + progress, the article gloated, she was “vainly wooed by the Old + World’s proudest nobility for her beauty and wealth,” the + latter having been unexpectedly left her by an aged relative. Her + inexorable refusals were set down, by the romantic journalist, as due to + some secret and prior attachment. (He termed it an “affair de court”!) + </p> + <p> + Out of the welter of words there stood forth one sentence to tempt the + imagination: “She met death as a tryst.” For that brief flash + the reporter had been lifted out of his bathos and tawdriness into a + clearer element. One could well believe that she had “met death as a + tryst.” For if ever I have beheld unfaltering hope and unflagging + courage glorified and spiritualized into unearthly beauty, it was there in + that pictured face, fixed by the imperishable magic of the camera. + </p> + <p> + “No; I hadn’t seen it,” I said after reading. “Is + it true?” + </p> + <p> + “In part.” Then, after a pause, “You knew her, didn’t + you, Dominie?” + </p> + <p> + “Only by sight. She had special charge of the poetry alcove, hadn’t + she?” + </p> + <p> + “Yes. She belonged there of right. She was the soul and fragrance of + all that the singers of springtime and youth have sung.” He sighed, + shaking his grizzled head mournfully. “‘And all that glory now + lies dimmed in death.’ It doesn’t seem believable.” + </p> + <p> + He rose and went to the window. Through the whorls of snow could be + vaguely seen the outlines of the Worth house, looming on its corner. He + stared at it musing. + </p> + <p> + “I’ve often wondered if she cared for him,” he murmured. + </p> + <p> + “For him? For Worth!” I exclaimed in amazement. “Were + they friends?” + </p> + <p> + “Hardly more than acquaintances, I thought. But she left very + strangely the day of his death and never came back.” + </p> + <p> + From the physician’s corner there came an indeterminate grunt. + </p> + <p> + “If that is a request for further information, Doctor, I can say + that on the few occasions when they met here in the library, it was only + in the line of her duties. He was interested in the twentieth-century + poets. But even that interest died out. It was months before the—the + tragedy that he stopped coming to the Library.” + </p> + <p> + “It was months before the tragedy that he stopped going anywhere, + wasn’t it?” I asked. + </p> + <p> + “Yes. Nobody understood it; least of all, his friends. I even heard + it hinted that he was suffering from some malady of the brain.” He + turned inquiringly to the far, dim corner. + </p> + <p> + Out of it the Little Red Doctor barked: “Death had him by the + throat.” + </p> + <p> + “Death? In what form?” + </p> + <p> + “Slow, sure fingers, shutting off his breath. Do you need further + details or will the dry, scientific term, epithelioma, be enough?” + The voice came grim out of the gloom. No answer being returned, it + continued: “I’ve had easier jobs than telling Ned Worth. It + was hopeless from the first. My old friend, Death, had too long a start on + me.” + </p> + <p> + “Was it something that affected his mind?” + </p> + <p> + “No. His mind was perfectly clear. Vividly clear. May I take my last + verdict, when it comes, with a spirit as clear and as noble.” + </p> + <p> + Silence fell, and in the stillness we heard the Little Red Doctor + communing with memories. Now and then came a muttered word. “Suicide!” + in a snarl of scornful rejection. “Fool-made definitions!” + Presently, “Story for a romancer, not a physician.” He seemed + to be canvassing an inadequacy in himself with dissatisfaction. Then, more + clearly: “Love from the first. At a glance, perhaps. The contagion + of flame for powder. But in that abyss together they saw each other’s + soul.” + </p> + <p> + “The Little Red Doctor is turning poet,” said Sheldon to me in + an incredulous whisper. + </p> + <p> + There was the snap and crackle of a match from the shadowed corner. The + keen, gnarled young face sprang from the darkness, vivid and softened with + a strange triumph, then receded behind an imperfect circle, clouded the + next instant by a nimbus of smoke. The Little Red Doctor spoke. + </p> + <p> + Ned Worth was my friend as well as my patient. No need to tell you men, + who knew him, why I was fond of him. I don’t suppose any one ever + came in contact with that fantastic and smiling humanity of his without + loving him for it. “Immortal hilarity!” The phrase might have + been coined for him. + </p> + <p> + It wasn’t as physician that I went home with Ned, after pronouncing + sentence upon him, but as friend. I didn’t want him to be alone that + first night. Yet I dare say that any one, seeing the two of us, would have + thought me the one who had heard his life-limit defined. He was as steady + as a rock. + </p> + <p> + “No danger of my being a miser of life,” he said. “You’ve + given me leave to spend freely what’s left of it.” Well, he + spent. Freely and splendidly! + </p> + <p> + The spacious old library on the second floor—you know it, Dominie, + smelt of disuse, as we entered, Ned’s servant bringing up the rear + with a handbag. Dust had settled down like an army of occupation over + everything. The furniture was shrouded in denim. The tall clock in the + corner stood voiceless. Three months of desertion will change any house + into a tomb. And the Worth mansion was never too cheerful, anyway. Since + the others of the family died, Ned hadn’t stayed there long enough + at a time to humanize it. + </p> + <p> + Ned’s man set down the grip, unstrapped it, took his orders for some + late purchases, and left to execute them. I went over to open the two + deep-set windows on the farther side of the room. It was a still, close + October night, and the late scent of warmed-over earth came up to me out + of Ely Crouch’s garden next door. From where I stood in the broad + embrasure of the south window, I was concealed from the room. But I could + see everything through a tiny gap in the hangings. Ned sat at his desk + sorting some papers. A sort of stern intentness had settled upon his face, + without marring its curious faun-like beauty. I carry the picture in my + mind. + </p> + <p> + “What’s become of you, Chris?” he demanded presently. I + came out into the main part of the room. “Oh, there you are! You’ll + look after a few little matters for me, won’t you?” He + indicated a sheaf of papers. + </p> + <p> + “You needn’t be in such a hurry,” said I with illogical + resentment. “It isn’t going to be to-morrow or next week.” + </p> + <p> + “Isn’t it?” Something in his tone made me look at him + sharply. “Six months or three months or to-morrow,” he added, + more lightly; “what does it matter as long as it’s sure! You + know, what I appreciate is that you gave me the truth straight.” + </p> + <p> + “It’s a luxury few of my patients get. Their constitutions won’t + stand it.” + </p> + <p> + “It’s a compliment to my nerve. Strangely enough I don’t + feel nervous about it.” + </p> + <p> + “I do. Damnably! About something, anyway. There’s something + wrong with this room, Ned. What is it?” + </p> + <p> + “Don’t you know?” he laughed. “It’s the + sepulchral silence of Old Grandfather Clock, over there. You’re + looking right at him and wondering subconsciously why he doesn’t + make a noise like Time.” + </p> + <p> + “That’s easily remedied.” Consulting my watch I set and + wound the ancient timepiece. Its comfortable iteration made the place at + once more livable. Immediately it struck the hour. + </p> + <p> + “Ten o’clock,” I said, and parted the draperies at the + lower window to look out again. “Ten o’clock of a still, + cloudy night and—and the devil is on a prowl in his garden.” + </p> + <p> + “Meaning my highly respected neighbor and ornament to the local bar, + the Honorable Ely Crouch?” + </p> + <p> + “Exactly. Preceded by a familiar spirit in animal form.” + </p> + <p> + “Oh, that’s his pet ferret and boon companion.” + </p> + <p> + “Not his only companion. There’s some one with him,” I + said. “A woman.” + </p> + <p> + “I don’t admire her taste in romance,” said Ned. + </p> + <p> + “Nor her discretion. You know what they say: ‘A dollar or a + woman never safe alone with Ely Crouch.’” + </p> + <p> + “My dollars certainly weren’t,” observed Ned. + </p> + <p> + “How did he ever defend your suit for an accounting?” I asked. + </p> + <p> + “Heedlessness on my side, a crooked judge on his. Stop spying on my + neighbor’s flirtations and look here.” + </p> + <p> + I turned and got a shock. The handbag lay open on the desk, surrounded by + a respectable-sized fortune in bank-notes. + </p> + <p> + “Pretty much all that the Honorable Ely has left me,” he + added. + </p> + <p> + “Is it enough to go on with, Ned?” I asked. + </p> + <p> + He smiled at me. “Plenty for my time. You forget.” + </p> + <p> + For the moment I had forgotten. “But what on earth are you going to + do with all that ready cash?” + </p> + <p> + “Carry out a brilliant idea. I conceived it after you had handed + down your verdict. Went around to the bank and quietly drew out the lot. I’ve + planned a wild and original orgy. A riot of dissipation in giving. Think + of the fun one can have with that much tangible money. Already to-day I’ve + struck one man dumb and reduced another to mental decay, by the simple + medium of a thousand-dollar bill. Miracles! Declare a vacation, Chris, and + come with me on my secret and jubilant bat, and we’ll work wonders.” + </p> + <p> + “And after?” I asked. + </p> + <p> + “Oh, after! Well, there’ll be no further reason for the + ‘permanent possibility of sensation’ on my part. That’s + your precious science’s best definition of life, I believe. It doesn’t + appeal to one as alluring when the sensation promises to become—well, + increasingly unpleasant.” + </p> + <p> + There was no mistaking his meaning. “I can’t have that, my + son,” I protested. + </p> + <p> + “No? That’s a purely professional prejudice of yours. Look at + it from my point of view. Am I to wait to be strangled by invisible hands, + rather than make an easy and graceful exit? Suicide! The word has no + meaning for a man in my condition. If you’ll tell me there’s a + chance, one mere, remote human chance—” He paused, turning to + me with what was almost appeal in his glance. How I longed to lie to him! + But Ned Worth was the kind that you can’t lie to. I looked at him + standing there so strong and fine, with all the mirthful zest of living in + his veins, sentenced beyond hope, and I thought of those terrible lines of + another man under doom: + </p> +<pre xml:space="preserve"> + “I never saw a man who looked + So wistfully at the day.” + </pre> + <p> + We medical men learn to throw a protective film over our feelings, like + the veil over the eagle’s eye. We have to. But I give you my word, I + could not trust my voice to answer him. + </p> + <p> + “You see,” he said; “you can’t.” His hand + fell on my arm. “I’m sorry, Chris,” he said in that + winning voice of his; “I shouldn’t plague you for something + that you can’t give me.” + </p> + <p> + “I can tell you this, anyway,” said I: “that it’s + something less than courage to give up until the time comes. You didn’t + give your life. You haven’t the right to take it; anyway, not until + its last usefulness is over.” + </p> + <p> + He made a movement of impatience. + </p> + <p> + “Oh, I’m not asking you to endure torture. I’d release + you myself from that, if it comes to it, in spite of man-made laws. But + how can you tell that being alive instead of dead next week or next month + may not make an eternal difference to some other life? Your part isn’t + played out yet. Who are you to say how much good you may yet do before the + curtain is rung down?” + </p> + <p> + “Or how much evil! Well, as a suitable finish, suppose I go down + into that garden and kill Ely Crouch,” he suggested, smiling. + “That would be a beneficial enough act to entitle me to a prompt and + peaceful death, wouldn’t it?” + </p> + <p> + “Theoretically sound, but unfortunately impracticable,” I + answered, relieved at his change of tone. + </p> + <p> + “I suppose it is.” He looked at me, still smiling, but intent. + “Chris, what do you believe comes after?” + </p> + <p> + “Justice.” + </p> + <p> + “A hard word for cowards. What do I believe, I wonder? At any rate, + in being sport enough to play the game through. You’re right, old + hard-shell. I’ll stick it out. It will only mean spending <i>this</i>”—he + swept the money back into its repository—“a little more + slowly.” + </p> + <p> + “I was sure I could count on you,” I said. “Now I can + give you the talisman.” I set on the desk before him a small + pasteboard box. “Pay strict attention. You see that label? That’s + to remind you. One tablet if you can’t sleep.” + </p> + <p> + “I couldn’t last night.” + </p> + <p> + “Two if the pain becomes more than you can stand.” + </p> + <p> + He nodded. + </p> + <p> + “But three at one time and you’ll sleep so sound that nothing + will ever awaken you.” + </p> + <p> + “Good old Chris!” Opening the box, he fingered the pellets + curiously. “A blessed thing, your science! Three and the sure sleep.” + </p> + <p> + “On trust, Ned.” + </p> + <p> + “On honor,” he agreed. “Then I mustn’t expunge old + Crouch? It’s a disappointment,” he added gayly. + </p> + <p> + He pushed the box away from him and crossed over to the upper window. His + voice came to me from behind the enshrouding curtains. + </p> + <p> + “Our friend has finished his promenade. The air is the sweeter for + it. I’ll stay here and breathe it.” + </p> + <p> + “Good!” said I. “I’ve five minutes of telephoning + to do. Then I’ll be back.” + </p> + <p> + Nobody can ever tell me again that there’s an instinct which feels + the presence of persons unseen. On my way to the door I passed within arm’s-length + of a creature tense and pulsating with the most desperate emotions. I + could have stretched out a hand and touched her as she crouched, hidden in + the embrasure of the lower window. It would seem as if the whole + atmosphere of the room must have been surcharged with the terrific passion + of her newborn and dreadful hopes. And I felt—nothing. No sense, as + I brushed by, of the tragic and concentrated force of will which nerved + and restrained her. I went on, and out unconscious. Afterward she was + unable to tell me how long she had been there. It must have been for some + minutes, for what roused her from her stupor of terror was the word + “Suicide.” It was like an echo, a mockery to her, at first; + and then, as she listened with passionate attention to what followed, my + instructions about the poison took on the voice of a ministering + providence. The draperies had shut off the view of Ned, nor had she + recognized his voice, already altered by the encroachments of the disease. + But she heard him walk to the upper window, and saw me pass on my way to + the telephone, and knew that the moment had come. From what she told me + later, and from that to which I was a mazed witness on my return, I piece + together the events which so swiftly followed. + </p> + <p> + A wind had risen outside or Ned might have heard the footsteps sooner. As + it was, when he stepped out from behind the draperies of the upper window + those of the lower window were still waving, but the swift figure had + almost reached the desk. The face was turned from him. Even in that moment + of astonishment he noticed that she carried her left arm close to her + body, with a curious awkwardness. + </p> + <p> + “Hello!” he challenged. + </p> + <p> + She cried out sharply, and covered the remaining distance with a rush. Her + hand fell upon the box of pellets. She turned, clutching that little box + of desperate hopes to her bosom. + </p> + <p> + “Good God! Virginia!” he exclaimed. “Miss Kingsley!” + </p> + <p> + “Mr. Worth! Was it you I heard? Why—how are you here?” + </p> + <p> + “This is my house.” + </p> + <p> + “I didn’t know.” Keeping her eyes fixed upon him like a + watchful animal, she slowly backed to interpose the table between herself + and a possible interference. Her arm, still stiffly pressed to her side, + impeded her fumbling efforts to open the box. Presently, however, the + cover yielded. + </p> + <p> + He measured the chances of intervention, and abandoned the hope. His brain + hummed with a thousand conjectures, a thousand questions centering upon + her obvious and preposterous purpose. Suddenly, as her fingers trembled + among the tablets, his thoughts steadied and his stratagem was formed. + </p> + <p> + “What do you want with my tonic?” he asked coolly. + </p> + <p> + “Tonic? I—I thought—” + </p> + <p> + “You thought it was the poison. Well, you’ve got the wrong + box. The poison box is in the drawer.” + </p> + <p> + “In the drawer,” she repeated. She spoke in the mechanical + voice of one desperately intent upon holding the mind to some vital + project. Her nerveless hands fumbled at the side of the desk. + </p> + <p> + He crossed quickly, caught up the box which she had just relinquished, and + dropped it into his pocket. + </p> + <p> + “Oh!” she moaned, and stared at him with stricken and accusing + eyes. “Then it <i>was</i> the poison!” + </p> + <p> + “Yes.” + </p> + <p> + “Give it back to me!” she implored, like a bereft child. + “Oh, give it to me!” + </p> + <p> + “Why do you want to kill yourself?” + </p> + <p> + She looked at him in dumb despair. + </p> + <p> + “How did you get here?” he demanded. + </p> + <p> + “Your fire escape.” + </p> + <p> + “And to that from the garden wall, I suppose? So <i>you</i> were Ely + Crouch’s companion,” he cried with a changed voice. + </p> + <p> + “Don’t,” she shuddered, throwing her right arm over her + face. + </p> + <p> + “I beg your pardon,” he said gently. “Take a swallow of + this water. What’s the matter with your arm? Are you hurt?” + </p> + <p> + “No.” Her eyes would not meet his. They were fixed obstinately + upon the pocket into which he had dropped the poison. + </p> + <p> + “It’s incredible!” he burst out. “You with your + youth and loveliness! With everything that makes life sweet for yourself + and others. What madness—” He broke off and his voice softened + into persuasion. “We were almost friends, once. Can’t I—won’t + you let me help? Don’t you think you can trust me?” + </p> + <p> + She raised her eyes to his, and he read in them hopeless terror. “Yes, + I could trust you. But there is only one help for me now. And you’ve + taken it from me.” + </p> + <p> + “Who can tell? You’ve been badly frightened,” he said in + as soothing a tone as he could command. “Try to believe that no harm + can come to you here, and that I—I would give the blood of my heart + to save you from harm or danger. You said you could trust me. What was + your errand with Ely Crouch?” + </p> + <p> + “Money.” + </p> + <p> + “Money!” he repeated, drawing back. + </p> + <p> + “It was our own; my sister’s and mine. Mr. Crouch had it. He + had managed our affairs since my father’s death. I could never get + an accounting from him. To-day the doctor told me that Alice must go away + at once for an operation. And to-day Mr. Crouch made this appointment for + to-night.” + </p> + <p> + “Didn’t you know his reputation? Weren’t you afraid?” + </p> + <p> + “I didn’t think of fear. When I told him how matters stood, he + offered me money, but—but—Oh, I can’t tell you!” + </p> + <p> + “No need,” he said quickly. “I know what he is. I was + joking when I spoke of killing him, a little while ago. By God, I wish I + had killed him! It isn’t too late now.” + </p> + <p> + “It <i>is</i> too late.” + </p> + <p> + Her eyes, dilated, were fixed upon his. + </p> + <p> + “Why? How—too late?” he stammered. + </p> + <p> + “I killed him.” + </p> + <p> + “<i>You</i>! You—killed—Ely—Crouch?” + </p> + <p> + “He had a cane,” she said, in a hurried, flat, half-whisper. + “When he caught at me, I tried to get it to defend myself. The + handle pulled out. There was a dagger on it. He came at me again. I didn’t + realize what I was doing. All I could see was that hateful face drawing + nearer. Then it changed and he seemed to dissolve into a hideous heap. I + didn’t mean to kill him.” Her voice rose in the struggle + against hysteria. “God knows, I didn’t mean to kill him.” + </p> + <p> + “Hush!” + </p> + <p> + His hands fell on her shoulders and held her against the onset. Energy and + resolution quickened in his eyes. “Who knows of your being in the + garden?” + </p> + <p> + “No one.” + </p> + <p> + “Any one see you climb the wall and come here?” + </p> + <p> + “No.” + </p> + <p> + “Or know that you had an appointment with him?” + </p> + <p> + “No.” + </p> + <p> + “Will you do exactly as I tell you?” + </p> + <p> + “What is the use?” she said dully. + </p> + <p> + “I’m going to get you out of here.” + </p> + <p> + “I should have to face it later. I couldn’t face it—the + horror and shame of it. I’d rather die a thousand times.” She + lifted her arms, the coat opened, and the cane-handled blade dropped to + the floor, and rolled. She shuddered away from it. “I kept that for + myself, but I couldn’t do it. It’s got his blood on it. When I + heard the doctor speak of the poison, it seemed like a miracle of + Providence sent to guide me. Oh, give it to me! Is it”—she + faltered—“is it quick?” + </p> + <p> + “Steady!” Stooping he picked up the weapon. “It needn’t + come to that, if you can play your part. Have you got the courage to walk + out of this house and go home to safety? Absolute safety!” + </p> + <p> + She searched his face in bewilderment. “I—don’t know.” + </p> + <p> + “If I give you my word of honor that it depends only on yourself?” + </p> + <p> + “How?” + </p> + <p> + “Pull yourself together. Go downstairs quietly. Turn to your left. + You’ll see a door. It opens on the street. Walk out with your head + up, and go home. You’re as safe as though you’d never seen Ely + Crouch. There’s no clue to you.” + </p> + <p> + “No clue! Look down the fire escape!” + </p> + <p> + He crossed the room at a bound. Beneath him, its evil snout pointed + upwards, sat the dead man’s familiar spirit. + </p> + <p> + “Good God! The ferret!” + </p> + <p> + “It’s been sitting there, watching, watching, watching.” + </p> + <p> + “The more reason for haste. Pull yourself together. Forward, <i>march</i>!” + he cried, pressing his will upon her. + </p> + <p> + “But you? When they come what will you say to them?” + </p> + <p> + “I’ll fix up something.” He drew back from the window, + lowering his voice. “Men in the garden. A policeman.” + </p> + <p> + “They’ve found him!” She fell into Ned’s chair, + dropping her head in her hands. For an instant he studied her. Then he + took his great and tender resolution. His hand fell warm and firm on her + shoulder. + </p> + <p> + “Listen; suppose they suspect some one else?” + </p> + <p> + “Who?” + </p> + <p> + “Me.” + </p> + <p> + “You? Why should they?” + </p> + <p> + “Circumstances. The place. The weapon here in my possession. My + known trouble with Ely Crouch. Don’t you see how it all fits in?” + </p> + <p> + She recovered from the stupor of surprise into which his suggestion had + plunged her. “Are you mad? Do you think that I’d let you + sacrifice yourself? What am I to you that you should do this for me?” + </p> + <p> + “The woman I love,” he said quietly. “I have loved you + from the first day that I saw you.” + </p> + <p> + It was at this moment that I returned and halted at the door, an unwilling + witness to the rest, only half understanding, not daring to move. I saw + the splendid color mount and glorify her beauty. I saw her hands go out to + him half in appeal, half in rejection. + </p> + <p> + “Oh, it’s madness!” she cried. “It’s your + life you’re offering me.” + </p> + <p> + “What else should I offer you—you who have given life its real + meaning for me?” + </p> + <p> + He caught her hands in his and held them. He caught her eyes in his and + held them. Then he began speaking, evenly, soothingly, persuasively, + binding her to his will. + </p> + <p> + “What does my life amount to? Think how little it means. A few more + weeks of waiting. Then the suffering: then the release. You heard Dr. + Smith. You know. You understand. Didn’t you understand?” + </p> + <p> + “Yes,” she breathed. + </p> + <p> + “Then you must see what a splendid way out this is for me. No more + waiting. No pain. Death never came to any one so kindly before. It’s + my chance, if only you’ll make it worth while. Will you?” he + pleaded. + </p> + <p> + “Oh, the wonder of it!” she whispered, gazing on him with + parted lips. But he did not understand, yet. He pressed what he thought to + be his advantage. + </p> + <p> + “Here,” he cried, suddenly dropping her hands and catching up + the bills from the valise. “Here’s safety. Here’s life. + For you and your sister, both. You spoke of Providence a moment ago. Here’s + Providence for you! Quick! Take it.” + </p> + <p> + “What is it?” she asked, drawing away as he sought to thrust + the money into her hands. + </p> + <p> + “Twenty thousand dollars. More. It doesn’t matter. It’s + life for both of you. Have you the right to refuse it? Take it and go.” + </p> + <p> + She let the bank-notes fall from her hands unnoticed. + </p> + <p> + “Do you think I would leave you <i>now</i>?” she cried in a + voice of thrilled music. “Even if they weren’t sure to trace + me, as they would be.” + </p> + <p> + This last she uttered as an unimportant matter dismissed with + indifference. + </p> + <p> + “There will be nothing to trace. My confession will cover the + ground.” + </p> + <p> + “Confession? To what?” + </p> + <p> + “To the murder of Ely Crouch.” + </p> + <p> + Some sort of sound I was conscious of making. I suppose I gasped. But they + were too engrossed to hear. + </p> + <p> + “You would do even that? But the penalty—the shame—” + </p> + <p> + “What do they matter to a dying man?” he retorted impatiently. + </p> + <p> + She had fallen back from him, in the shock of his suggestion, but now she + came forward again slowly, her glorious eyes fixed on his. So they stood + face to face, soul to soul, deep answering unto deep, and, as I sit here + speaking, I saw the wonder and the miracle flower in her face. When she + spoke again, her words seemed the inevitable expression of that which had + passed silently between them. + </p> + <p> + “Do you love me?” + </p> + <p> + “Before God I do,” he answered. + </p> + <p> + “Take me away! There’s time yet. I’ll go with you + anywhere, anywhere! I’m all yours. I’ve loved you from the + first, I think, as you have loved me. All I ask is to live for you, and + when you die, to die with you.” + </p> + <p> + Fire flashed from his face at the call. He took a step toward her. A + shout, half-muffled, sounded from outside the window. Instantly the light + and passion died in his eyes. I have never seen a face at once so stern + and so gentle as his was when he caught the outreaching hands in his own. + </p> + <p> + “You forget that they must find one of us, or it’s all no use. + Listen carefully, dear one. If you truly love me, you must do as I bid + you. Give me my chance of fooling fate; of making my death worth while. It + won’t be hard.” He took the little box from his pocket. + “It will be very easy.” + </p> + <p> + “Give it to me, too,” she pleaded like a child. “Ah, + Ned, we can’t part now! Both of us together.” + </p> + <p> + He shook his head, smiling. The man’s face was as beautiful as a god’s + at that moment or an angel’s. “You must go back to your + sister,” he said simply. “You haven’t the right to die.” + </p> + <p> + He turned to the table, drew a sheet of paper to him and wrote four words. + You all know what they were; his confession. Then his hand went up, a + swift movement, and a moment later he was setting back the glass of water + upon the desk whence he had taken it. + </p> + <p> + “Love and glory of my life, will you go?” he said. + </p> + <p> + “Yes,” she whispered. + </p> + <p> + Not until then did the paralysis, which had gripped me when I saw Ned turn + the pellets into his hand, relax. I ran forward. The girl cried out. Ned + met me with his hand against my breast. + </p> + <p> + “How much have you heard?” he said quickly. + </p> + <p> + “Enough.” + </p> + <p> + “Then you’ll understand.” His faith was more + irresistible than a thousand arguments. “Take her home, Chris.” + </p> + <p> + I held out my hand. “Come,” I said. + </p> + <p> + She turned and faced him. “Must I? Alone?” What a depth of + desolation in that word! + </p> + <p> + “There is no other way, dearest one.” + </p> + <p> + “Good-bye, then, until we meet,” she said in the passionate + music of her voice. “Every beat of my heart will bring me nearer to + you. There will be no other life for me. Soon or late I’ll come to + you. You believe it. Say you believe it!” + </p> + <p> + “I believe it.” He bent and kissed her lips. Then his form + slackened away from the arms that clasped it, and sank into the chair. A + policeman’s whistle shrilled outside the window. The faintest + flicker of a smile passed over the face of the sleeper. + </p> + <p> + I took her away, still with that unearthly ecstasy on her face. + </p> + <p> + <br /><br /> + </p> + <hr /> + <p> + <br /><br /> + </p> + <p> + The glow of the narrator’s cigar waxed, a pin-point of light in a + world of dimness and mystery. Subdued breathing made our silence rhythmic. + When I found my voice, it was hardly more than a whisper. + </p> + <p> + “Good God! What a tragedy!” + </p> + <p> + “Tragedy? You think it so?” The Little Red Doctor’s + gnarled face gleamed strangely behind the tiny radiance. “Dominie, + you have a queer notion of this life and little faith in the next.” + </p> + <p> + “‘She met death as a tryst,’” murmured the old + librarian. “And he! Trailing clouds of glory!’ The triumph of + that victory over fate! One would like to have seen the meeting between + them, after the waiting.” + </p> + <p> + The Little Red Doctor rose. “When some brutal and needless tragedy + of the sort that we medical men witness so often shakes my faith in my + kind, I turn to think of those two in the splendor of their last meeting + on earth, the man with the courage to face death, the woman with the + courage to face life.” + </p> + <p> + He strode over to the table and lifted the newspaper, which had slipped to + the floor unnoticed. The girlish face turned toward us its irresistible + appeal, yearning out from amidst the lurid indignities of print. + </p> + <p> + “You heard from her afterward?” I asked. + </p> + <p> + “Often. The sister died and left her nothing to live for but her + promise. Always in her letters sounded the note of courage and of waiting. + It was in the last word I had from her—received since her death—set + to the song of some poet, I don’t know who. You ought to know, Mr. + Sheldon.” + </p> + <p> + His deep voice rose to the rhythm. + </p> +<pre xml:space="preserve"> + “Ah, long-delayed to-morrow! Hearts that beat + Measure the length of every moment gone. + Ever the suns rise tardily or fleet + And light the letters on a churchyard stone.— + And still I say, ‘To-morrow we shall meet!’” + </pre> + <p> + “May Probyn,” the librarian identified. “Too few people + know her. A wonderful poem!” + </p> + <p> + Silence fell again, folding us and our thoughts in its kindly refuge. + Rising, I crossed to the window and drew the curtain aside. A surging wind + had swept the sky clear, all but one bank of low-lurking, western cloud + shot through with naming crimson. In that luminous setting the ancient + house across Our Square, grim and bleak no longer to my eyes, gleamed, + through eyes again come to life, with an inconceivable glory. Behind me in + the shadow, the measured voice of the witness to life and death repeated + once more the message of imperishable hope: + </p> +<pre xml:space="preserve"> + “And still I say, ‘To-morrow we shall meet.’” + </pre> + <h3> + THE END + </h3> + <div style="height: 6em;"> + <br /><br /><br /><br /><br /><br /> + </div> + + <div>*** END OF THE PROJECT GUTENBERG EBOOK 10944 ***</div> +</body> +</html> |