FROM A BENCH IN OUR SQUARE
By Samuel Hopkins Adams
1922
CONTENTS
[ FROM A BENCH IN OUR SQUARE ]
[ THE HOUSE OF SILVERY VOICES ]
[ THE GUARDIAN OF GOD’S ACRE ]
FROM A BENCH IN OUR SQUARE
A PATRONESS OF ART
I
Peter (flourish-in-red) Quick (flourish-in-green) Banta (period-in-blue) is the style whereby he is known to Our Square.
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.
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.
“What d’ye think of that?” he said triumphantly, as he sketched in a set of side-whiskers (presumably intended for antennae) upon the butterfly.
“Rotten,” was the prompt response.
“What!” said the astounded artist, rising from his knees.
“Punk.”
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:
“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.
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.
“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!
“Any fool could,” retorted the boy, which, in various forms, is almost as time-honored as the challenge.
Suspecting that only tactful intervention would forestall possible murder, I sauntered over from my bench. But the decorator of sidewalks had himself under control.
“Try it,” he said grimly.
The boy avidly seized the crayons extended to him.
“You want me to draw a picture? There?”
“If you don’t, I’ll break every bone in your body.”
The threat left its object quite unmoved. He pointed a crayon at Peter Quick Banta’s creation.
“What is that? A bool-rush?”
“It’s a laylock; that’s what it is.”
“And the little bird that goes to light—”
“That ain’t a bird and you know it.” Peter Quick Banta breathed hard. “That’s a butterfly.”
“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.
“They do, do they? Well, you put it down on the sidewalk.”
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:
“Yellow,” he said, reaching, but not looking up.
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.
“There!” said he.
It was crude. It was ill-proportioned. The colors were raw. The arrangements were false.
But—the lilac bloomed. And—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.
“Son,” said he, “you’re a wonder. Wanta keep them crayons?”
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.
“Where did you learn that?”
“Nowhere. Had a few drawing lessons at No. 19.”
“Would you like to work for me?”
“How?”
Peter Quick Banta pointed to the sidewalk.
“That?” The boy laughed happily. “That ain’t work. That’s fun.”
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.
“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’.”
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.
“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.”
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!
But five years from then Julien had gone over to the Philistines.
II
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.
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.
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?”
She straightened like a soldier. “Tell me what you want done.”
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.”
“You’re a brick,” retorted the Little Red Doctor. “I’ll send for you next time Our Square needs help.”
“I’ll come,” said she, and they shook hands solemnly.
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.
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:
“There’s a queer man making queer marks on your sidewalk.”
“That’s Peter Quick Banta. He’s a fellow artist.”
“And another man, young, with a big, maney head like an amiable lion; quite a beautiful lion. He’s making more marks.”
“Let him make all he wants.”
“They’re waving their arms at each other. At least the queer man is. I think they’re going to fight.”
“They won’t. It’s only an academic discussion on technique.”
“Who is the young one?”
“He’s the ruin of what might have been a big artist.”
“No! Is he? What did it? Drink?”
“Does he look it?”
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?”
“That’s it, Bobbie,” returned the Bonnie Lassie with a half-smile. “He needs the money.”
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?”
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.
“No; I’m not. If he were, I doubt whether he’d have let himself go so wrong.”
“Perhaps it isn’t too late,” said the amateur missionary hopefully. “Is he a man to whom one could offer money?”
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.”
“What ought he to do?”
“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!”
“Making marks on sidewalks, you mean?”
“Worse. Commercial art.”
“Designs and that sort of thing?”
“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?”
“I suppose so,” said the girl vaguely.
“He draws those.”
“Is that what you call pot-boiling?”
“One kind.”
“And I suppose it pays just a pittance.”
“Well,” replied the Bonnie Lassie evasively, “he sticks to it, so it must support him.”
“Then I’m going to help him.”
“‘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.”
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.
“Who is she?” asked Julien, staring after her.
“Bobbie Holland, a gilded butterfly from uptown.”
“What’s she doing here?”
“Good.”
“O Lord!” said he in pained tones. “Has she got a Cause?”
“Naturally.”
“Philanthropist?”
“Worse.”
“There ain’t no sich a animile.”
“There is. She’s a patron of art.”
“Wow!”
“Yes. She’s going to patronize you.”
“Not if I see her first. How do I qualify as a subject?”
“She considered you a wasted life.”
“Where does she get that idea?”
The Bonnie Lassie removed a small, sharp implement from the left eye of a stoical figurine and pointed it at herself.
“Do you think that’s fair?” demanded the indignant youth.
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?”
“It’s my only extravagance.”
“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?”
“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—”
“And because Peter Quick Banta would break his foolish old heart if you left him entirely,” supplemented the sculptress.
Julien flushed and stood looking like an awkward child. “Did you tell all this stuff to Miss Holland?” he asked.
“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.”
“Which is?” he queried with lifted brows.
“To be a great painter.”
The other winced. “As you know, I’ve meant all along, as soon as I’ve saved enough—”
“Oh, yes; I know,” broke in the Bonnie Lassie, who can be quite ruthless where Art is concerned, “and you 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.”
“Do you suppose she’d let me paint her?” he asked abruptly.
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.”
“Can’t I! Just because I’m a little out of practice—”
“Two years, isn’t it, since you’ve touched a palette?”
“Give me a chance at such a model as she is! That’s all I ask.”
“Do you think her so pretty?” inquired the sculptress disparagingly.
“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.”
“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—”
“I’m not going to play any part.”
“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.”
“Perhaps she won’t,” retorted the youth explosively.
“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.”
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.
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.
“Quite clever,” she was pleased to say. “Would you care to sell it?”
“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.
“Would ten dollars be too little?” asked the visitor with bright beneficence.
“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.)
The patroness delicately dropped a bill on the table.
“Could you some day find time to let me try you in oils?” he asked.
“Does that take long?” she said doubtfully. “I’m very busy.”
“You really should try it, Bobbie,” put in the crafty Bonnie Lassie. “It might give him the start he needs.”
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.
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!
“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.”
“What then?” asked the Bonnie Lassie, not looking up from her work.
“She’ll go away.”
“Let her go. Your portrait will be finished meantime, won’t it?”
“Oh, yes. That’ll be finished.”
This time the Bonnie Lassie did look up. Immediately she looked back again.
“In any case she’ll have to go away some day—won’t she?”
“I suppose so,” returned he in a gloomy growl.
“I warned you at the outset, ‘Dangerous,’” she pointed out.
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.
“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?”
“Malice ill becomes one of your age, Dominie,” said the Bonnie Lassie with dignity.
“I’m quite serious,” I protested.
“And very unjust. Bobbie is an adorable little person, when you know her.”
“Does Julien know her well enough to have discovered a self-evident fact?”
“Only,” pursued my companion, ignoring the question, “she is bored and a little spoiled.”
“So she comes down here to escape being bored and to get more spoiled.”
“Julien won’t spoil her.”
“He certainly doesn’t appear to bore her.”
“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.”
“Lassie,” said I, “what, if I may so express myself, is the big idea?”
“Slang is an execrable thing from a professed scholar,” she reproved. “However, the big idea is that Julien is really painting. And it’s mine, that big idea.”
“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?”
“Pooh! Don’t be an oracular sphinx,” was all that I got for my pains.
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:
“Dans un grenier qu’on est bien á vingt ans!”
“Did you write that there?” asked the girl.
“Seven long years ago. And meant it, every word.”
“How did you come to know Béranger?”
“I’m French born.”
“‘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.”
“It has,” was the rejoinder. “But never so good as now.”
“I’ve often wondered—you seem to know so many things—where you got your education?”
“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.)
“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.)
To her went the patroness of Art, on leaving Julien’s “grenier” that day.
“Cecily,” she said, in the most casual manner she could contrive, “who is Julien Tenney?”
“Nobody.”
“You know what I mean,” pleaded the girl. “What is he?”
“A brand snatched from the pot-boiling,” returned the Bonnie Lassie, quite pleased with her next turn, which was more than her companion was.
“Please don’t be clever. Be nice and tell me—”
“‘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.”
“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.”
“All due to my influence and training,” bragged the Bonnie Lassie. “I helped bring him up.”
“Then you must know something of his antecedents.”
“Ask the Dominie. He says that Julien crawled out of a gutter with the manners of a preux chevalier. Anyway, he never swallowed any of my knives. Though he’s had plenty of opportunity.”
“It’s very puzzling,” lamented Bobbie.
“Why let it prey like a worm i’ the bud of your mind? You’re not going to adopt him, perhaps?”
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.
“Umph!” said the Bonnie Lassie.
And continued sculpting.
III
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.
“Oh!” she cried out, as if something had hurt her.
Julien, for once startled out of his accustomed poise, uncovered and looked at her apprehensively.
Her voice quivered a little as she asked, very low, “Do you have to do that?”
“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.
“I should think you might have let me help before taking a—servant’s position.”
“It’s an honest occupation,” he averred.
“Do you do this—regularly?” she pursued with an effort.
“Off and on. There’s good money in it.”
“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!”
“I’d do worse than this for that,” he declared valiantly.
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.
Miss Holland suddenly lost a perfectly good and hitherto reliable appetite.
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.
“Why not swear out loud, Caspar?” asked Bobbie presently. “It’ll do you less harm.”
“D’you see that chap over yonder? The big, fine-looking one fixing the forks?”
“Yes,” said Bobbie faintly.
“Well, that’s—No, by thunder, it can’t be!—Yes, by the red-hot hinges, it is!”
“Do you think you know him?”
“Know him! I know 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!”
“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?”
“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—”
“Caspar! What are you going to do? Don’t. You’ll embarrass him frightfully.”
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.
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.
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.
“Isn’t he the funny man that you were with the first time I saw you?”
“The very same,” responded Julien with twinkling eyes.
“What is he doing?”
“He’s one of the few remaining examples of the sidewalk or public-view school of art.”
“Yes, but what does he do it for?”
“His living.”
“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.
“I think he’d be tickled pink.”
She took a quarter from her purse, hesitated, then slipped it into her companion’s hand.
“You give it to him. I think he’d like it better.”
“Oh, no; I don’t think he’d like it at all. In fact, I doubt if he’d take it from me.”
“Why not?”
“Well, you see,” explained Julien blandly, “we’re rather intimately connected.” He raised his voice. “Hello, Dad!”
The decorator furled his tongue, lifted his head, changed his crayon, replied, “Hello, Lad,” and continued his work. “What d’ you think of that?” he added, after a moment, triumphantly pointing a yellow crayon at the green-headed red-bird.
“Some parrot!” enthused Julien.
“‘T ain’t a parrot. It’s a nightingale,” retorted the artist indignantly. “You black-and-white fellows never do understand color.”
“It’s a corker, anyway,” said Julien. “Dad here’s a—an art patron who wants to contribute to the cause.”
The girl, whose face had become flushed and almost frightened, held out her quarter.
“I—I—don’t know,” she began. “I was interested in your picture and I thought—Mr. Tenney said—”
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 is sand-modeling—‘s much as five dollars a day I’ve taken in there.”
Miss Holland recovered her social poise.
“I’d like to very much,” she said cheerfully.
She and Julien walked on in silence. Suddenly he laughed, a little jarringly. “Well,” he said, “does that help you to place me?”
“I’m not trying to place you,” she answered.
“Is that quite true?” he mocked.
“No; it isn’t. It’s a downright lie,” said Bobbie finding courage to raise her eyes to his.
“And now, I suppose, I shall be ‘my good man’ or something like that, to you.”
“Do you think it likely?”
“You called MacLachan that, you know,” he reminded her.
“Long ago. When I was—when I didn’t understand Our Square.”
“And now, of course, our every feeling and thought is an open book to your penetrating vision.”
Her lip quivered. “I don’t know why you should want to be so hateful to me.”
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.
“How many more sittings do you think it will take to finish the picture?” she asked, striving to get on safer ground.
“Only one or two, I suppose,” he answered morosely.
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.
“He’s done it!” she exclaimed. “Flower and flame! Why did I ever take to sculpture? One can’t get that in the metal.”
“He’s done it,” I echoed.
“Of course, technically, it’s rather a sloppy picture.”
“It’s a glorious picture!” I cried.
“Naturally that,” returned the exasperating critic. “It always will be—when you paint with your heart’s blood.”
“Do you think your friend Bobbie appreciates the medium in which she’s presented?”
“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.”
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.
“What have you been doing to my artistic ward?”
“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.
“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—”
“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.”
“Did you look like that while you were telling him?”
“Like what? I suppose so.”
“And what did he do?”
“Do? He didn’t do anything.”
“Then,” pronounced the Bonnie Lassie, “he’s a stick of wood—hardwood—with a knot-hole for a heart.”
“He isn’t! Well, perhaps he is. He was very horrid at the last.”
“About what?”
“About taking money.”
“I’m a prophetess! And you’re a patroness. Born in us, I suppose. You did try to give him money.”
“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?”
“Not in the head, necessarily. What did he say?”
“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—”
“Back from where? Are you going away?”
“Yes; didn’t I tell you? On a three months’ cruise.”
“Had you told him that?”
“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 must keep on painting?”
“Why? Doesn’t he intend to?”
“He said he’d painted himself out and he didn’t think he’d ever look at color again.”
“He will,” said the Bonnie Lassie wisely and comfortably. “Grief is just as driving a taskmaster as lo—as other emotions.”
“Grief!” The girl’s color ebbed. “Cecily! You don’t think I’ve hurt him?”
The Bonnie Lassie caught her in a sudden hug.
“Bobbie, do you know what I’d do in your place?”
“No. What?”
“I’d go right—straight—back to Julien Tenney’s studio.” She paused impressively.
“Yes?” said the other faintly.
“And I’d walk right—straight—up to Julien Tenney—” Another pause, even more impressive.
“I d-d-don’t think I’d—he’d—”
“And I’d say to him: ‘Julien, will you marry me?’ Like that.”
“Oh!” said Bobbie in outraged amazement.
“And maybe—” continued the Bonnie Lassie judicially: “maybe I’d kiss him. Yes. I think I would.”
Suddenly all the bright softness of Bobbie’s large eyes dissolved in tears. “You ought to be ashamed of yourself,” she sobbed.
“You won’t be ashamed of yourself,” prophesied the other, “if you do just as I say, quickly and naturally.”
“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.”
“Roberta,” said the sculptress sternly, “did you see his portrait of you?”
“Y-y-yes.”
“And you have the presumption to say that he doesn’t care? Why, that picture doesn’t simply tell his secret. It yells it!”
“I don’t care,” said the hard-pressed Bobbie. “It hasn’t yelled it to me. Nobody’s yelled it to me. And I c-c-can’t ask a m-m-man to—to—”
“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.”
“But, Cecily—”
“You would 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.”
“Own up to what?”
“Never mind.”
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.
A voice raised in vehement protest, echoing through the open door of the studio, checked her on the landing below as she mounted.
“And you’re actually going to let thirty-five thousand a year slip through your fingers, just to pursue a fad?”
To which Julien’s equable accents replied:
“That’s it, Merrill. I’m going to paint.”
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.
“Would you think me inexcusably rude,” she said softly, “if I asked who you are?”
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.”
“And Mr. Tenney has been doing drawings for you?”
“He has. For several years.”
“So that,” said the girl, half to herself, “is his pot-boiling.”
“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.”
“Yes, I overheard what you said to him. Thank you so much.”
“In return, may I ask you something?”
“Certainly.”
“Will you not, for his own good, dissuade Mr. Tenney from throwing away his career?”
“Why should you suppose me to have any influence with Mr. Tenney?”
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.
Julien opened the door to her knock. She stepped inside, facing him with bright, inscrutable eyes.
“Why have you been fooling me about your circumstances?” she demanded.
“D—-n Merrill!” said Julien with fervor.
“It’s true that your ‘pot-boiling’ brings you a big income?”
“Yes.”
“Then why do you take employment as a chauffeur?”
“I don’t. That car belongs to me.”
“And your being a waiter? I don’t suppose the Taverne Splendide belongs to you?”
“An impromptu bit of acting,” confessed the abashed Julien.
“And this attic? Was that hired for the same comedy?”
“No. This is mine, really.”
“I don’t understand. Why have you done it all?”
“If you want to know the truth,” he said defiantly, “so that I could keep on seeing you.”
“That’s a very poor excuse,” she retorted.
“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.”
“How you must have laughed at me all the time!”
He flushed to his angry eyes. “Do you think that is fair?” he retorted. “Or kind? Or true?”
“I—I don’t know,” she faltered. “You let me offer you money. And you’ve probably got as much as I have.”
“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.”
“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!”
She turned toward the door.
“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.”
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.
“Suppose,” she said, “I asked you to give it up.”
“You wouldn’t,” he retorted quickly.
“No, I wouldn’t. But—but—” Her glance, wandering away from him, fell on the joyous line of Béranger bold above the door.
“‘How good is life in an attic at twenty,’” she murmured. Then, turning to him, she held out her hands.
“I could find it good,” she said with a soft little falter in her voice, “even at twenty-two.”
Everything passes in review before my bench, sooner or later. The two, going by with transfigured faces, stopped.
“Let’s tell Dominie,” said Julien.
I waved a jaunty hand. “I know already,” said I, “even if it hadn’t been announced to a waiting world.”
“Wh-wh-why,” stammered Bobbie with a blush worth a man’s waiting a lifetime to see, “it—it only just happened.”
“Bless your dear, innocent hearts, both of you! It’s been happening for weeks. Come with me.”
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.”
“O Lord! Dad!” cried the horrified Julien, scuffing it out with frantic feet. “How long has this been there?”
“What’re you doing? Leave it be!” cried the anguished artist. “It’s been there since noon.”
“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?”
“Artistic intuition,” said Peter Quick Banta with profound complacency. “I’m an artist.”
THE HOUSE OF SILVERY VOICES
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.
“BHONG! BHONG! BHONG!” solemn and churchly, in rebuke of its own levity.
“Kung-glang! Kung-glang! Kung-glang! Kung-glang! Kung-glang!” That was a duet in the middle register.
Then from some far-off aerie would ring the tocsin of an elfin silversmith, fast, furious, and tiny:
“Ping-ping-ping-ping-ping-ping-ping-ping!”
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.
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.
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.
“Maybe,” returned the Estate, whereupon the stranger introduced himself, with a stiff little bow, as Mr. Winslow Merivale.
Mr. Wagboom was favorably impressed with this, as possessing aristocratic implications.
“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.
“Yes, sir.”
“How many of you?”
“Two.”
“Wife?”
“No, sir,” said the little man, very low.
“Son? Daughter? What age?”
“I have never been blessed with a child.”
“Then who—”
“Willy Woolly would share the house with me, sir.”
For the first time the Mordaunt Estate noticed a small, fluffy poodle, with an important expression, seated behind the railing.
“I don’t like dogs,” said the Mordaunt Estate curtly.
“Willy Woolly”—Mr. Winslow Merivale addressed his companion—“this gentleman does not like dogs.”
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.
The Estate promptly capitulated.
“Some pup!” he exclaimed. “When did you want to move in?”
“At once, if you please.”
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.
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.
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.
“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.”
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.
“It isn’t the way it plays tricks on time alone,” said she. “There’s one clock in there that’s worse than conscience.”
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:
“Clacketty-whirr-rr-rr! Back-to-yer-worr-rr-rrk! Yerr-rr-rr-rr wrong! wrong! wrong! wrong!”
“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.”
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.
“What might they call you, sir, if I may ask?” he inquired with timid courtesy.
“They might call me the Dominie hereabouts. And they do.”
“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?”
“Long.”
From some interminable distance a voice of time mocked me with a subtle and solemn mockery: “Long. Long. Long.”
My host waited for the clock to finish before he spoke again. As I afterward discovered, this was his invariable custom.
“I, too, am an old man,” he murmured.
“A hardy sixty, I should guess.”
“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?”
I was a little taken aback. “We are not an intrusive people.”
“No one,” he said, “has been to see my clocks.”
I began to perceive that this was a sad little man, and to mislike my errand. “You live here quite alone?” I asked.
“Oh, no!” said he quickly. “You see, I have Willy Woolly. Pardon me. I have not yet presented him.”
At his call the fluffy poodle ambled over to me, sniffed at my extended hand, and, rearing, set his paws on my knee.
“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?”
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.”
“A physician?” he said eagerly. “Would he come in, do you think? Willy Woolly has been quite feverish to-day.”
“I’ll ask him,” I replied, and escaped with that excuse.
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!
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.
“For a man of sixty,” I began, “Mr. Merivale—”
“Who?” interrupted the Little Red Doctor; “I’m speaking of the dog.”
“Have you, then,” I inquired in insinuating accents, “become a dash-binged vet?”
“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—”
“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.
“Just the same, he’s a fool dog.”
“On the contrary, he is a person of commanding intellect and nice social discrimination,” I asserted, recalling Willy Woolly’s flattering acceptance of myself.
“A faker,” asseverated my friend. “He pretends to see things.”
I sat up straight on my bench. “Things? What kind of things?”
“Things that aren’t there,” returned the Little Red Doctor, and fell to musing. “They couldn’t be,” he added presently and argumentatively.
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.
“I didn’t have time,” said he doggedly.
“Time? Why, there’s nothing but time in that house.”
The Little Red Doctor chose to take my feeble joke at par. “No time at all. None of the clocks keep it.”
“How does he manage his life, then?”
“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.”
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.
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.
“The dog,” I broke in upon the stream of erudition. “Surely, Mr. Merivale—”
“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?”
“Oh, no,” I answered, a little confused. “I only thought—it seemed that he is uneasy about something.”
“There are finer sensibilities than we poor humans have,” said my host gravely.
“Then you have noticed how he watches and follows?”
“He is always like that. Always, since.”
His “since” was one of the strangest syllables that ever came to my ears. It implied nothing to follow. It was finality’s self.
“It is”—I sought a word—“interesting and curious,” I concluded lamely, feeling how insufficient the word was.
“She comes back to him,” said my host simply.
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:
“She never comes back to me.”
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:
“I suppose I was the happiest man in the world.”
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.
“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—”
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.
“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.”
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.
The hand fondled him. “Yes, little dog,” murmured the man. His eyes, sad as those of the animal, quested the dimness.
“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?”
“You have said yourself that there are finer sensibilities than ours,” I suggested.
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.”
“Willy’s a stout young thing,” I asserted, “with years of life before him.”
“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 he’s coming soon, mistress. Your Old Boy is coming soon.’”
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.
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.
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.
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.
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.
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.
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.
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.
“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?”
“The man,” said Stepfather Time gently, “is dead.”
“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.”
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?”
“But I don’t like him,” declared Willy Woolly in unequivocal dog language.
“I think from his face that he has suffered much,” said the gentle collector, wise in human pain.
“Me; I suppose I don’t suffer!” pointed out the landlord vehemently. “Fourteen dollars out. Two months’ rent. A bum clock.”
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.
“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.”
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.
“It is a very fine clock,” he declared.
“It is a bum clock,” Stepfather Time reminded him mildly.
“Stepnadel, the auctioneer, would pay me much money for it.”
“I will pay you much money for it.”
“How much?”
“Seven dollars. That is one month’s rent that he owed.”
“Two months’ rent I must have.”
“One,” said Stepfather Time firmly.
“Two,” said the landlord insistently.
“Urff! Grr—rr—rr—rrff!” said Willy Woolly in emphatic dissuasion.
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.
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.
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.
Together they came across the park space opposite the House of Silvery Voices in time to witness the final scene.
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.
“You hear?” said Stepfather Time anxiously to the Little Red Doctor. “The dog is not himself.”
They saw him rear up against the clock case. He seemed to be trying to tear it open with his teeth.
“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!”
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—
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.
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.
“He’s gone,” said Stepfather Time.
The Clock of Conscience took up the tale. “Gone. Gone. Gone,” it pealed.
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.
Only once that night did Stepfather Time speak, and then not to me.
“Tell her,” he said in an assured murmur, “that I shan’t be long.”
“Not-long. Not-long. Not-long. Not-long. Not-long,” confirmed Grandfather from his stance on the stairway.
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.
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.
“The clocks have stopped,” said he gently.
So I turned to cross the park with him.
“I shall certify,” said he, “heart disease.”
“You may certify what you please,” said I. “But what do you believe?”
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.
“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.
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.
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!
It never keeps time.
HOME-SEEKERS’ GOAL
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.
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.
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.
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.
“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.
“So I understand,” said I, rising.
“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?”
“He is a proud and reserved ex-butcher, named Wagboom, now doing a limited but high-class business in rentals as the Mordaunt Estate.”
“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.”
“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.”
“Shall we go back and try a counter-irritant?” asked the young man of his companion.
“With a view to renting?” I inquired.
“Yes.”
“Do you keep dogs?”
“No,” said the young man.
“Or clocks by the hundred?”
“Certainly not,” answered the butterfly.
“Or bombs?”
Upon their combined and emphatic negative they looked at each other with a wild surmise which said plainly: “Are they all crazy down here?”
“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.”
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.
“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?”
“We’re house-hunters,” explained the young man.
“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.”
“We’re not married,” said the young man.
“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.”
“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.”
Bewilderment spread like a gray mist across the painty features of the Mordaunt Estate. “Nothin’ doin’,” he began, “until—”
“Don’t decide hastily,” adjured the young man. “Take this coin.” He forced a half-dollar into the reluctant hand of the decorator.
“Nothin’ doin’ on account, either. Pay as you enter.”
“Only one of us is going to enter. The coin decides. Spin it. Your call,” he said to the butterfly.
“Heads,” cried the butterfly.
“Tails,” proclaimed the arbiter, as the silver shivered into silence on the flagging.
“Then the house is yours,” said the butterfly. “Good luck go with it.” She smiled, gamely covering her disappointment.
“I don’t want it,” returned the young man.
“Play fair,” she exhorted him. “We both agreed solemnly to stand by the toss. Didn’t we?”
“What did we agree?”
“That the winner should have the choice.”
“Very well. I won, didn’t I?”
“You certainly did.”
“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.”
“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.
“See!” said the young man to the butterfly. “Fate decides for you.”
“But what will you do?” she asked solicitously.
“Perhaps I can find some other place in the Square.”
She held out her hand. “You’ve been very nice and helpful, but—I think not. Good-bye.”
He regarded the hand blankly. “Not—what?”
“Not here in this Square, if you don’t mind.”
“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.”
“Try Jersey. Or Brooklyn,” was her hopeful suggestion.
“‘And bade betwixt their shores to be
The unplumb’d, salt, estranging sea,’”
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.
A little decided frown crept between her eyebrows. “I’ve accepted you as a gentleman on trust,” she began, when he broke in:
“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—”
“Oh, do stop!” she implored. “I don’t think you’re sane.”
“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.”
Here the Mordaunt Estate, who had been doing some shrewd thinking on his own behalf, interposed.
“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—”
“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.”
“Am what?” queried the Estate.
“Married.”
“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?”
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!
“We—ell,” the Mordaunt Estate was saying, “that’s too bad. Ain’t a widdah lady are you?”
“My husband is in France.”
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.
“What!”
In a musical but unappreciated barytone he hummed the initial line of “The Girl I Left Behind Me.”
“‘The maids of France are fond and free.’
“Besides,” he added, “it’s quite unhealthy there at this season. I wouldn’t be surprised”—he halted—“at anything,” he finished darkly.
Outraged by this ruthless if hypothetical murder of an equally hypothetical spouse, she groped vainly for adequate words. Before she could find them—
“I’ll wait around—in hopes,” he decided calmly.
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!”
“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.
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:
“I wish nothing more to do with you whatever.”
“Then I needn’t quit the Garden of Ed—I mean, Our Square?”
“You may do as you see fit,” she replied loftily.
“Act the gent, can’t chuh?” reproved the Mordaunt Estate. “You’re makin’ the lady cry.”
“He isn’t,” denied the lady, with ferocity. “He couldn’t.”
“He’ll find no spot to lay his head in Our Square, ma’am,” the polite Estate assured her.
“If he wants to stay, he’ll have to live in his van.”
“Grand little idea! I’ll do it. I’ll be a van hermit and fast and watch and pray beneath your windows.”
“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, never!”
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:
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.”
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.
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.
“Oh, glory!” he murmured faintly, with staring eyes.
“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.
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.”
“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.
“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.”
She wrinkled dainty brows at him. “Well, you don’t know who I am now, do you?”
“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 are you?” The question was put with an expression of sweet and innocent simplicity.
The girl looked at him hard and straight. “I don’t think that introductions are necessary.”
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.”
“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.”
“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?”
“What’ll become of your van, then? Besides, I haven’t any idea where I want to go.”
“What! Are you, too, like myself, a wandering home-seeker on the face of an overpopulated earth, Miss?”
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?
“Yes, I am,” she admitted.
“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.”
The girl surrendered to helpless and bewildered laughter. “You ask the most personal questions as if they were a matter of course.”
“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 think he is.”
“But I can’t move on,” she said pathetically.
“Couldn’t you work my van, Miss? It’s quite simple.”
She gave it a swift examination. “Yes,” said she. “It’s almost like my own car.”
“Then I’ll lead, and you follow, Miss.”
“But I can’t—I don’t know who—I don’t want your van. Where shall we—”
“Go?” he supplied. “To jail, I judge, unless we go somewhere else and do it now. Come on! We’re off!”
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.
“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?”
“No,” said the girl dolefully. “I want to go home.”
“But on your own showing, you haven’t any home.”
“I’ve got to find one. Immediately.”
“You’ll need help, Miss. It’ll take some finding.”
“I wish you wouldn’t call me Miss,” she said with evidences of petulance.
“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—”
“Why are you calling me Lady, now?”
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—”
“Are you a gentleman or are you a—a—”
“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’?”
“We haven’t even been introduced,” she pointed out.
“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—”
“Wait. Promise me not to call me any of those awful things during luncheon, and afterward I may tell you my name. It depends.”
“A test! I’m on. We’re off.”
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.”
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:
“What’s my share, please?”
“Two-ten,” he replied promptly and without protest.
“My name,” said she, “is Anne Leffingwell.”
“Thank you,” he replied gravely. But the twinkle reappeared in his eye as he added: “Of course, that was rudimentary about the check.”
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.
“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?”
“The title,” replied Anne Leffingwell, indicating a line of insignificant lettering, “is ‘Swedish Wedding Feast.’”
“Wedding feast,” he repeated thoughtfully, looking from the picture to his companion. “Well,” he raised an imaginary glass high, “prosit omen!”
The meaning was not to be mistaken. “Well, really,” she began indignantly. “If you are going to take advantage—”
“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.
“We must be going on,” she said.
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:
“Sister of Budge Leffingwell, the Princeton half-back?”
“No. Cousin.”
“I knew Old Man Chance had a happy coincidence up his sleeve somewhere,” he declared with profound and joyous conviction.
“Are you a friend of Budge’s?”
“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.”
“Will you tell me one thing, please?” pleaded Anne Leffingwell desperately. “Have you ever been examined for this sort of thing?”
“Not yet. But then, you see, I’m only a beginner. This is my first attempt. I’ll get better as I go on.”
“Will you please crank my car?” requested Anne Leffingwell faintly.
Not until they reached Our Square did they speak again.
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.
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.”)
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.
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. Never!” 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.)
“That lady in Number 37,” said the Mordaunt Estate bitterly, “ain’t the lady I thought she was.”
Martin Dyke, under the impulse of his persistent obsession, looked up hopefully. “You mean that she isn’t really Mrs. Leffingwell?”
“I mean I’m disappointed in her; that’s what I mean. She wants the house front painted over.”
“No!” I protested with polite incredulity.
“Where’s her artistic sense? I thought she admired your work so deeply.”
“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.”
“No; don’t do that!” cried the young man. “Here! I’ll repaint the whole wall for you free of charge.”
“What do you know about R. Noovo art? Besides, paints cost money.”
“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.”
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.
“That’s going to be ever so much nicer,” she called graciously, not recognizing him from the view of his industrious-appearing back.
“Thank you for those few kind words.”
“You!” she exclaimed indignantly as he turned a mild and benevolent beam of the eye upon her. “What are you doing to my house?”
“Art. High art.”
“How did you get up there?”
“Ladder. High ladder.”
“You know that isn’t what I mean at all.”
“Oh! Well, I’ve taken a contract to tone down the Midway aspect of your highly respectable residence. One hour per day.”
“If you think that this performance is going to do you any good—” she began with withering intonation.
“It’s done that already,” he hastened to assert. “You’ve recognized my existence again.”
“Only through trickery.”
“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—”
“We haven’t made up. There’s nothing to make up.”
“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—”
“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—”
“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!)
For the moment she was beguiled by the plausibility of his manner.
“How should he know that pink roses are my favorites?” she said uncertainly.
“How should 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.”
“Now you’re beginning again,” she complained. “You see, it’s impossible to treat you as an ordinary acquaintance.”
“But what do you think of me as a painter-man?” inquired the bewildering youth.
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?”
“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—”
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?”
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.
“I think you’re doing it very nicely,” was the demure reply.
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.
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:
“Could you tell me if Miss Leffingwell lives here?”
The painter turned upon his precarious plank so sharply that he was all but precipitated into the area. “Who?” he said.
“Miss Leffingwell.”
“You don’t mean Mrs. Leffingwell?” queried the aerial operator in a strained tone.
“No; I don’t. I mean Miss Anne Leffingwell.”
The painter flourished the implement of his trade to the peril of the immaculate garments below. “Toora-loo!” he warbled.
“I beg your pardon,” said the new arrival.
“I said ‘Toora-loo.’ It’s a Patagonian expression signifying satisfaction and relief; sort of I-thought-so-all-the-time effect.”
“You seem a rather unusual and learned sort of house painter,” reflected the stalwart Adonis. “Is that Patagonian art?”
“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—”
The opening door below him cut short the disquisition.
“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?”
To which the young giant responded in gallingly protective tones: “You little idiot!”
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.
“Are you going?” he demanded.
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.
“Yes,” she replied.
“With him?”
“Ye—es.”
“He isn’t your husband.”
“No.”
“You haven’t any husband.”
She hung her head guiltily.
“Why did you invent one?”
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.
“I see. The invention was for my special benefit.”
“Safety first,” she murmured.
“I never really believed it—except when you took me by surprise,” he pursued. “That’s why I—I went ahead.”
“You certainly went ahead,” she confirmed. “What are speed laws to you!”
“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.”
“Fate,” she said, “is the ghost around the corner.”
“A dark green, sixty-horse-power ghost, operated by a matinée hero, a movie close-up, a tailor’s model—”
“If you mean Reg, it’s just as well for you he isn’t here.”
“Pooh!” retorted the vengeful and embittered Dyke. “I could wreck his loveliness with one flop of my paint-brush.”
“Doubtless,” she agreed with a side glance at the wall, now bleeding from every pore. “It’s a fearful weapon. Spare my poor Reg.”
“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.”
She lowered her eyes, possibly to hide the mischief in them. “No,” she returned hesitantly and consciously. “He isn’t—exactly my brother.”
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.
“Surely you’re not going to quit your job unfinished,” she protested.
Dyke said something forcible and dismissive about the job.
“What will the Mordaunt Estate think?”
Dyke said something violent and destructive about the Mordaunt Estate.
“Perhaps you’d like to take the house, now that it’s vacant.”
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.
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.
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:
“Dominie, I have been dreaming.”
Fearing to break the spell, I stood silent.
“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?”
“Always.”
“I think her name is Happiness. Is there such a fairy in this world, Dominie?”
“There has been.”
“Then there will always be. I think it was Happiness because she went away so quickly.”
“Happiness does. Did you try to hold her?”
“So hard! But I was clumsy and rough. She slipped through my arms.”
“Did she leave nothing?”
“Nothing.”
“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.
“The fairy’s kiss,” he said dreamily. “That’s for farewell.”
The moon, dipped beyond a cloud, dissolved the spell. Youth straightened up brusquely on its bench, rubbing enchantment from its eyes.
“Have I been talking in my sleep, Dominie?”
“Possibly.”
“What kind of talk? Nonsense?”
“Nonsense—or wisdom. How should I know?”
“Dominie, is there a perfume in the air? A smell of roses?”
“Look in your hand.”
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?”
“Perhaps you’ll bring Happiness with you,” I said.
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.
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.
“Empty,” said I.
“Then he didn’t take my advice and rent it. The painter-man, I mean.”
“He’s gone.”
“Where?”
“I haven’t an idea.”
“Doesn’t he ever come back?”
“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—”
“Dominie! Has he?”
“Has he what?”
“G-g-g-gained ten pounds. I mean, lost ten years.”
“I haven’t said so.”
“Dominie, you are a cruel old man,” accused the butterfly.
“And you are a wicked woman.”
“I’m not. I’m only twenty,” was her irrelevant but natural defense.
“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?
“Y-y-yes, your Honor.”
“In the immediate vicinity of this bench?”
“Benches are very alike in the dark.”
“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?”
“The honorable court has nothing to do with my face,” said the witness defiantly.
“On the contrary, your face is the corpus delicti. 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—”
“No! No! No! No! No!” cried the butterfly with great and unconvincing fervor. “How dare you accuse me of such a thing?”
“On the circumstantial evidence of a pink rose petal. But worse is coming. The charge is unprovoked and willful murder.”
Butterflies are strange creatures. This one seemed far less concerned over the latter than the former accusation. “Of whom?” she inquired.
“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.
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: that 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.
“Is that a message?” I asked.
“No,” answered the butterfly with a suspicion of panic in her eyes.
“Then?” I queried.
“He’s so—so awfully go-aheadish,” she complained.
“I’ll drop him a hint,” I offered kindly.
“It might do some good. I’m afraid of him,” she confessed.
“And a little bit of yourself?” I suggested.
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—”
“I guarantee nothing; but I’m a pedagogue by profession and have taught some hard subjects in my time.”
“Then do you think you could give him a little message, word for word as I give it to you?”
“Senile decay,” I admitted, “may have paralyzed most of my faculties, but as a repeater of messages verbatim, I am faithful as a phonograph.”
“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.’”
“Is this an occasion for mathematical axioms?” I demanded. But she had already gone, with a parting injunction to be precise.
When, three days thereafter, I retailed that banality to young Mr. Dyke, it produced a startling though not instantaneous effect.
“I’ve got it!” he shouted.
“Don’t scare me off my bench! What is it you’ve got?”
“The answer. She said he was not exactly her brother.”
“Who?”
“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.”
“For Patagonia it sounds reasonable. What next?”
“Next and immediately,” said Mr. Dyke, “I am obtaining an address from the Mordaunt Estate, and I am then taking this evening off.”
“Take some advice also, my boy,” said I, mindful of the butterfly’s alarms. “Go slow.”
“Slow! Haven’t I lost time enough already?”
“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.”
“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.”
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.
“What have you been doing here all night?” I asked.
“Thinking.”
I pointed to the flower. “Where did you get that?”
“A fairy gift.”
“Martin,” said I, “did you abide by my well-meant and inspired advice?”
“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—”
“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—”
“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.”
Rushing across the street, he intercepted that institutional gentleman in the act of dipping a brush into a can in front of Number 37.
“Don’t, for Heaven’s sake, touch that front!” implored the improver of it.
“Why not?” demanded the Estate.
“I want to rent it. As it is. From to-day.”
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.”
“I’ll take your lease,” insisted Martin Dyke.
“For how long a period?” inquired the other, in terms of the Estate again.
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.
“Say a million years,” he answered softly.
THE GUARDIAN OF GOD’S ACRE
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.
“Nice day,” said the stranger, shifting a patent-leathered foot out of a puddle.
“Very,” I agreed. Finical over-accuracy about the weather is likely to discourage a budding acquaintanceship.
“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.
“Whiplash win in the fi’th,” he volunteered presently.
“Yes?” said I with a polite but spurious show of interest.
“Under a pull. Spread-eagled his field.”
“Who is Whiplash, may I ask?”
“Oh, Gaw!” said the pink man, appalled. He searched my face suspiciously. “A hoss,” he stated at length, satisfied of my ignorance.
After several reflective puffs, the smoke of which insufficiently veiled his furtive appraisal of myself, he tried again:
“They give O’Dowd a shade, last night.”
“Indeed? Who did?”
“The sporting writers.”
“As a testimonial?” I inquired, adding that a shade, whether of the lamp or sun species seemed an unusual sort of gift.
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.
“The Reds copped again yesterday.”
“If you are referring to the raid on Anarchist Headquarters in Avenue C, I should have inferred that the Reds were copped, to use your term.”
Curt and contemptuous laughter was his response. “Don’t you ever read the papers, down here?”
“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.”
“Yeh?” said the hard, pink man politely.
“For example, in this issue I find the following apostrophe.” I proceeded to read aloud:
“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.”
“Swell stuff,” commented the sharer of my bench, with determined interest. “Poetry’s a little out of my line, but I’m for it. Who wrote that?”
“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.”
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.
“Do I get you right?” he queried. “Does he write those hymns for other folks to sign?”
“He does.”
“What does he do that for?”
“Money. He gets as high as five dollars per stanza.”
“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 his grouch?”
“Conscience.”
“He must have a bum one!”
“He has a busy one. He expends a great amount of time and sorrow repenting of our sins.”
“Whose sins?” asked the other, opening wider his dull and weary eyes.
“Ours. His neighbors. Everybody in Our Square.”
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.
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.”
“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.
“That frown,” I explained to my companion, after returning the salutation, “means that I failed to attend church yesterday.”
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.”
“You know the Little Red Doctor?”
“I met him,” he replied evasively. “He told me to look you up. ‘You talk to the Dominie,’ he says.”
“About what?”
“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.”
“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—”
“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 know hosses. I’ve owned ’em.”
“Thank you, but I can’t afford such luxuries as betting.”
“You can’t afford not to have something down on this if it’s only a shoestring. No? Oh—well!”
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.
“Mm-m-m! Snmmff!” inhaled the Orphan, wrinkling ecstatic nostrils. “Mister, lemme smell it some more!”
Graciously the dispenser of fragrance waved his balm-laden handkerchief. “Like it, kiddie?” he said.
“Oh, it’s grand!” She stretched out her little grimy paws. “Please, Mister,” she entreated, “would you flop it over ’em, just once?”
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.”
“Oh, gracious!” said the Orphan, incredulous at this bounty. “Can I have it till to-morrah?”
“Sure! What’s the big idea for to-morrow?”
“I’m goin’ to a funeral. I want it to cry in,” said the Orphan importantly.
“A funeral?” I asked. “In Our Square? Whose?”
“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.
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:
“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!”
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:
“Very pretty. Something more in the local line?”
“Hardly.” I smiled. Between Bartholomew Storr’s elegies and William Young’s “Wish-makers’ Town” stretches an infinite chasm.
“What’s this—now—God’s Acre the kid was talking about?” was his next question.
“An old local graveyard.”
“Anything interesting?” he asked carelessly.
“If you’re interested in that sort of thing. Are you an antiquary?”
“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.
“Come along, then. I’ll take you there.”
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.
“What’s that?” he muttered fiercely.
“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.
“That,” I answered the strong, pink man, trying to shake loose his grip, “is a sculpture by Cecily Willard, otherwise Mrs. Cyrus Staten.”
“What’ll she take for it?”
“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.
“Anything can be bought,” he retorted, with his quiet, hoarse persuasiveness, “at a price. I’ve got the price, no matter what it is.”
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.
“What was little Minnie to you?” I asked, and answered myself. “You’re Hines. You’re the man she married.”
“Yes. I’m Chris Hines.”
“You’ve brought her back to us,” I said stupidly.
“She made me promise.”
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.
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.
“It’s crowded,” he muttered.
“We lie close, as we lived close, in Our Square. I am glad for her father’s sake that Minnie wished to come back.”
“She said she couldn’t rest peaceful anywhere else. She said she had some sort of right to be here.”
“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.”
“That sour-faced prohibitionist?” growled Mr. Hines, employing what I suspect to be the blackest anathema in his lexicon. “Is he the sexton?”
“The same. Our mortuary genius,” I confirmed.
“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.
I waited.
“What did they say about her, down here?” he asked jealously.
“Oh, there were rumors. They didn’t reach her father.”
“No: tell me,” he persisted. “I gotta know.”
Because Mr. Hines had already impressed himself upon me as one with whom straight talk would serve best, I acceded.
“Bartholomew Storrs said that her feet took hold on hell.”
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.
“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.”
“And you, Dominie,” said the hard, pink Mr. Hines.
“My dear sir, old men cannot afford harsh judgments. They are too near their own time.”
“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.
“You want to see Bartholomew Storrs?” I interpreted.
“Sure. I gotta deliver the death certificate to him if he runs the graveyard, haven’t I?”
“Such is the procedure, I believe.”
“Besides,” he added with a leer, “I want to get some of that weepy poetry of his.”
“Well; he’ll sell it to you readily.”
“I’ll say he’ll sell it to me,” returned Mr. Hines with a grimness which I failed to comprehend.
“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.
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.
“Perhaps you’d like me to introduce you to Mr. Storrs,” I hazarded.
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.”
We went. At the doorstep of Bartholomew Storrs’s office he paused.
“This sexton-guy,” he said anxiously, “he don’t play the ponies, ever, I wouldn’t suppose?”
“No more often than he commits murder or goes to sleep in church,” I smiled.
“Yeh?” he answered, disheartened. “I gotta get to him some other way. On the poetry—and that’s out of my line.”