<br/>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.
<br/>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.
<br/>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
<br/>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:
<br/>"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."
<br/>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.
<br/>"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."
<br/>The young lady betrayed a faint interest.
<br/>"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."
<br/>"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."
<br/>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:
<br/>"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.
<br/>"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."
<br/>"I'm shy on one word, lady. Jux—jux—put me wise
on dat, will yer?"
<br/>"Juxtaposition—or you may call it propinquity—or,
if you like, being rather too near for one maintaining the position of
<br/>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.
<br/>"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
<br/>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.
<br/>"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
<br/>The messenger stood before the lady.
<br/>"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."
<br/>The young lady unfolded the letter; somewhat doubtfully, and read it.
<span class="smallcaps">Dear Dr. Arnold</span>: 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.<br/>
<span class="smallcaps">Robert Ashburton</span>.<br/>
<br/>The young lady refolded the letter, and handed it to the boy.
<br/>"De gent wants an answer," said the messenger. "Wot's de word?"
<br/>The lady's eyes suddenly flashed on him, bright, smiling and wet.
<br/>"Tell that guy on the other bench," she said, with a happy, tremulous
laugh, "that his girl wants him."
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