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."
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