It was neither the season nor the hour when the Park had frequenters;
and it is likely that the young lady, who was seated on one of the
benches at the side of the walk, had merely obeyed a sudden impulse to
sit for a while and enjoy a foretaste of coming Spring.
She rested there, pensive and still. A certain melancholy that touched
her countenance must have been of recent birth, for it had not yet
altered the fine and youthful contours of her cheek, nor subdued the
arch though resolute curve of her lips.
A tall young man came striding through the park along the path near
which she sat. Behind him tagged a boy carrying a suit-case. At sight
of the young lady, the man’s face changed to red and back to pale
again. He watched her countenance as he drew nearer, with hope and
anxiety mingled on his own. He passed within a few yards of her, but he
saw no evidence that she was aware of his presence or existence.
Some fifty yards further on he suddenly stopped and sat on a bench at
one side. The boy dropped the suit-case and stared at him with
wondering, shrewd eyes. The young man took out his handkerchief and
wiped his brow. It was a good handkerchief, a good brow, and the young
man was good to look at. He said to the boy:
“I want you to take a message to that young lady on that bench. Tell
her I am on my way to the station, to leave for San Francisco, where I
shall join that Alaska moose-hunting expedition. Tell her that, since
she has commanded me neither to speak nor to write to her, I take this
means of making one last appeal to her sense of justice, for the sake
of what has been. Tell her that to condemn and discard one who has not
deserved such treatment, without giving him her reasons or a chance to
explain is contrary to her nature as I believe it to be. Tell her that
I have thus, to a certain degree, disobeyed her injunctions, in the
hope that she may yet be inclined to see justice done. Go, and tell her
that.”
The young man dropped a half-dollar into the boy’s hand. The boy looked
at him for a moment with bright, canny eyes out of a dirty, intelligent
face, and then set off at a run. He approached the lady on the bench a
little doubtfully, but unembarrassed. He touched the brim of the old
plaid bicycle cap perched on the back of his head. The lady looked at
him coolly, without prejudice or favour.
“Lady,” he said, “dat gent on de oder bench sent yer a song and dance
by me. If yer don’t know de guy, and he’s tryin’ to do de Johnny act,
say de word, and I’ll call a cop in t’ree minutes. If yer does know
him, and he’s on de square, w’y I’ll spiel yer de bunch of hot air he
sent yer.”
The young lady betrayed a faint interest.
“A song and dance!” she said, in a deliberate sweet voice that seemed
to clothe her words in a diaphanous garment of impalpable irony. “A new
idea—in the troubadour line, I suppose. I—used to know the gentleman
who sent you, so I think it will hardly be necessary to call the
police. You may execute your song and dance, but do not sing too
loudly. It is a little early yet for open-air vaudeville, and we might
attract attention.”
“Awe,” said the boy, with a shrug down the length of him, “yer know
what I mean, lady. ’Tain’t a turn, it’s wind. He told me to tell yer
he’s got his collars and cuffs in dat grip for a scoot clean out to
’Frisco. Den he’s goin’ to shoot snow-birds in de Klondike. He says yer
told him not to send ’round no more pink notes nor come hangin’ over de
garden gate, and he takes dis means of puttin’ yer wise. He says yer
refereed him out like a has-been, and never give him no chance to kick
at de decision. He says yer swiped him, and never said why.”
The slightly awakened interest in the young lady’s eyes did not abate.
Perhaps it was caused by either the originality or the audacity of the
snow-bird hunter, in thus circumventing her express commands against
the ordinary modes of communication. She fixed her eye on a statue
standing disconsolate in the dishevelled park, and spoke into the
transmitter:
“Tell the gentleman that I need not repeat to him a description of my
ideals. He knows what they have been and what they still are. So far as
they touch on this case, absolute loyalty and truth are the ones
paramount. Tell him that I have studied my own heart as well as one
can, and I know its weakness as well as I do its needs. That is why I
decline to hear his pleas, whatever they may be. I did not condemn him
through hearsay or doubtful evidence, and that is why I made no charge.
But, since he persists in hearing what he already well knows, you may
convey the matter.
“Tell him that I entered the conservatory that evening from the rear,
to cut a rose for my mother. Tell him I saw him and Miss Ashburton
beneath the pink oleander. The tableau was pretty, but the pose and
juxtaposition were too eloquent and evident to require explanation. I
left the conservatory, and, at the same time, the rose and my ideal.
You may carry that song and dance to your impresario.”
“I’m shy on one word, lady. Jux—jux—put me wise on dat, will yer?”
“Juxtaposition—or you may call it propinquity—or, if you like, being
rather too near for one maintaining the position of an ideal.”
The gravel spun from beneath the boy’s feet. He stood by the other
bench. The man’s eyes interrogated him, hungrily. The boy’s were
shining with the impersonal zeal of the translator.
“De lady says dat she’s on to de fact dat gals is dead easy when a
feller comes spielin’ ghost stories and tryin’ to make up, and dat’s
why she won’t listen to no soft-soap. She says she caught yer dead to
rights, huggin’ a bunch o’ calico in de hot-house. She side-stepped in
to pull some posies and yer was squeezin’ de oder gal to beat de band.
She says it looked cute, all right all right, but it made her sick. She
says yer better git busy, and make a sneak for de train.”
The young man gave a low whistle and his eyes flashed with a sudden
thought. His hand flew to the inside pocket of his coat, and drew out a
handful of letters. Selecting one, he handed it to the boy, following
it with a silver dollar from his vest-pocket.
“Give that letter to the lady,” he said, “and ask her to read it. Tell
her that it should explain the situation. Tell her that, if she had
mingled a little trust with her conception of the ideal, much heartache
might have been avoided. Tell her that the loyalty she prizes so much
has never wavered. Tell her I am waiting for an answer.”
The messenger stood before the lady.
“De gent says he’s had de ski-bunk put on him widout no cause. He says
he’s no bum guy; and, lady, yer read dat letter, and I’ll bet yer he’s
a white sport, all right.”
The young lady unfolded the letter; somewhat doubtfully, and read it.
Dear Dr. Arnold: I want to thank you for your most kind and opportune
aid to my daughter last Friday evening, when she was overcome by an
attack of her old heart-trouble in the conservatory at Mrs. Waldron’s
reception. Had you not been near to catch her as she fell and to render
proper attention, we might have lost her. I would be glad if you would
call and undertake the treatment of her case.
Gratefully yours,
Robert Ashburton.
The young lady refolded the letter, and handed it to the boy.
“De gent wants an answer,” said the messenger. “Wot’s de word?”
The lady’s eyes suddenly flashed on him, bright, smiling and wet.
“Tell that guy on the other bench,” she said, with a happy, tremulous
laugh, “that his girl wants him.”