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26. Age warms itself in reflected fires. I was sitting on my favorite
bench in Our Square some weeks later, meditating with a mild glow
upon the outcome of the encounter between Carlo and his Tiger (for
which, by the way, the Bonnie Lassie put in a wholly unjustified
claim of half-credit), when two figures walking quite close together
approached and stopped in front of me. They were very good to
look at, those two, as youth and joy and the splendor of love are
always good for old age to look at. I welcomed them to a corner of
my bench, facing the Varick mansion, which was poor policy.
“So you haven't gone to the Far East?” I said to Miss Paula.
“No,” she said, “father decided not to take me. He has gone for his
health.”
“Nothing serious, I trust,” I said politely.
“He is Suffering,” said Miss Paula primly, “from unrequited
objections.” Her smiling and happy regard rested on Carlo and then
passed dreamily to the squat and broad and drab old mansion facing
us.
“Why!” she cried, “the cage is still there!”
“So it is,” I answered as nonchalantly as I could.
“Then they didn't tear it down.”
“Apparently they didn't.”
“You told me they were going to. And you told Ang—Carlo they
were going to.”
“Did I? So I did. They must have changed their minds.”
“Who ordered it down?” inquired Carlo mildly.
“The fire department,” I said promptly. “On account of the
inflammable nature of steel wire, I suppose.”
“I mean the sanitary inspectors,” I hastily corrected myself.
“For fear that somebody might sleep in it and catch cold! Of
course!”
“Well, the fact is—”
27. “The fact is,” said Miss Paula Varick, “that you're a wicked old,
scheming old, blessed old fibber.”
And she then and there pounced upon me and kissed me under
the left ear, in the full and astounded sight of Our Square. Carlo's
hand covered hers as it rested on my shoulder, and we three lifted
our faces again to the cage, standing unchanged on the housetop,
gaunt and grim and lifeless. As we looked, the sun, striking through
the edges of a cloud,—such as angels descend from,—touched the
harsh, dull metal to flaming crimson and glowing gold, and made of
it a living glory, as love makes a living glory of life.
28. L
THE LITTLE RED 'DOCTOR OF OUR
SQUARE
ET me tell the worst of the Little Red Doctor at once and get it
over with. He has a hair-trigger temper and a jaw that does not
forget or forgive readily. He insists on regarding gravely many
things which most of us treat flippantly, such as love and
death. He has a brutal disregard of the finesse of illness and never
gives, even to an old man and an old patient like myself, medicine
unless one needs it. For the rest, the nickname which Our Square
gave him long since describes him. One thing more; though he is
our friend and fellow and counselor, the safe repository of our
secrets, our sturdy defender against the final enemy, yet Our Square
does not call him “Doc.” There is something about him which forbids.
You would have to see him to understand.
Seeing him, you would not see very much. Nature has done a
slack job with the Little Red Doctor's outside. Even the Bonnie
Lassie, stickler though she is for the eminence of nature as an artist,
heretically admits this. She tried to better it in sculpture, and by
force of the genius in her slim fingers she did succeed in getting at
the dominant meaning of those queer quirks in his queer face—
quirks of humor, of compassion, of sympathy—and thereby in
expressing something of his fiery tenderness, his intrepid wisdom,
his inclusive charity of heart toward good and bad alike, the half-
boyish, half-knightly valor of self-sacrifice which arms him in the lists
for the endless combat with his unconquerable antagonist, “my old
friend, Death.” With her happy sense of character she called her
miniature bronze “The Idealist,” and refused to sell it because, she
said, some day Our Square would want to put up a monument to the
Little Red Doctor and her attempt might help some bigger artist to
be worthy of the task.
29. “Do you know,” she observed to Cyrus the Gaunt the day that she
finished, “I've discovered something about that face? There's no
happiness in it. And it so deserves happiness!”
“Some fool of a girl probably turned him down and he came here
to bury himself,” surmised Cyrus the Gaunt. “We homely, good men
are never properly appreciated. Look at me!”
The Bonnie Lassie looked at him and then kissed him on the ear.
“Just the same I think you're wrong,” she said thoughtfully. “When I
first saw the Little Red Doctor, I wondered whether any woman
could possibly love him. Since I've known him I've wondered how
any woman could possibly help it.”
“That's a pleasant thing for a man to hear from his wife,” observed
Cyrus cheerfully. “Anyway, there's a photograph been scraped out of
the inside of his watch. Mendel, the watchmaker, told Polyglot Elsa
so.”
Barring this tenuous evidence, whatever may have passed in the
Little Red Doctor's former existence was wholly unknown to Our
Square, even after he became one of us. He trailed no clouds of
glory and apparently no clues from his previous existence. All that
we knew was that he landed from a long voyage in tropical lands
and set up his shingle, “Dr. Smith,” at No. 11. Business did not rush
to him. We are a conservative and cautious community in Our
Square. We watched and weighed him. Presently he got a little
foothold in the reeking slum tenements which surround our
struggling and cherished respectability. It could not have been a
profitable practice. But it afforded experience. Sometimes he came
back with triumph in his face; sometimes with stern gloom;
sometimes with a black eye, for the practice of medicine as carried
on in our immediate environment involves sundry departments not
taught in the schools, and branches out into strange and eclectic
activities. In those early days I overheard Terry the Cop assert that
the new physician could “lick his weight in wildcats.” But when I
informed Terry that this would mean at least five of the species,
Terry replied airily that he was no Zoo attendant, but he knew a
scrapper when he saw one.
30. If one may credit the Murphy family, the Little Red Doctor gained
his real foothold in Our Square through force, invasion, violence, and
brutal assault. The Murphys occupy the ground floor of the corner
house abutting on Our Alley, under the workroom of Dead-Men's-
Shoes, who, through their unwitting instrumentality, became sponsor
for the Little Red Doctor. Dead-Men's-Shoes comes by his name from
his business, which is the purchase and resale of the apparel of the
recently deceased, collected on wagon trips over a wide radius about
New York. Thus it comes about that the feet of the mighty have
been represented in Our Square, and more than one of us has worn
the giant's robe as tailored on Fifth Avenue. The ol'-clo' man's real
name is Dadmun Schütz, and he is a Yankee from Connecticut where
there are many Dadmuns and more Schutzes, but how and why he
came to Our Square is a story that I do not care to tell. The slight
alteration in his name to fit his trade was so logical as to be
inevitable. Dead-Men's-Shoes is tall and rugged and powerful and
slow, and he always wears an extinct species of silk hat on his
business rounds. In the day which introduced him to the Little Red
Doctor, the Murphys had declared holiday and gone fishing and
caught fish. Naturally they held alcoholic celebration in the evening.
Passing the house, the Little Red Doctor heard the sounds of revelry;
also another sound which checked his progress. He stuck his head in
at the window, took a hasty survey, followed the head into the room
and laid hands upon Timmy Murphy aetat ten. Astonished but in no
way dismayed by the invasion, Paterfamilias Murphy immediately
threw a whiskey bottle at the intruder and rushed to the rescue,
followed by the partner of his bosom. It was no time for diplomacy
or fine distinctions as to the rights of the non-combatant sex. The
Little Red Doctor acted with promptitude and both hands, and the
Murphys came to in the kitchen with the door barred against reëntry.
Thereupon they raised such lamentable outcry that Dad-mun Schütz
loped downstairs to the rescue. Seeing a stranger in the act of
throttling the scion of the house of Murphy, the ol'-clo' man
undertook to dissuade him by fixing a bony hand in his collar; but in
so doing forgot the existence of what is technically termed, I
understand, the pivot blow. Upon discovering its uses he lay down in
31. the hallway to meditate upon it. The Little Red Doctor finished his
job before Terry the Cop's substitute arrived to arrest him. He went
peacefully. Dead-Men's-Shoes followed to the court, escorting
Murphy senior, who was extensively bandaged. The bench was
occupied and ornamented by Magistrate Wolfe Tone Hanrahan, the
Irish Solon of Avenue B. Judge Hanrahan possesses a human
stratum in his judicial temperament. His examination of the prisoner
(suppressed from the stenographer's official notes) proceeded as
follows:—
The Judge—What were you doing in Murphys' flat?
The Accused—I was there professionally.
The Judge—Professionally, say ye? (With a look at the ill-repaired
Murphys.) Are ye a prize-fighter?
The Accused—I am a physician and surgeon.
The Judge—Mostly surgeon, I'm thinkin'. Ye seem to have
removed three teeth from the patient an' partly ampytated an ear.
Besides, he swears ye tried to murder the boy. Is such yer usual
practice?
The Accused—The boy had a fish bone in his throat. He was
strangling. Here is the bone. The boy is in bed. I ought to be with
him now.
The Judge—Officer, ye're a fool. Murphy, y' oughta get ten days.
Mrs. Murphy, back to yer child! Defendant, cud ye come to my
house, No. 36, to-morra mornin'? My cook has a bile on her neck. I
like yer style. Yere discharged.
Dead-Men's-Shoes escorted the physician back apologizing at
every step, and thenceforth touted for him (greatly to his
embarrassment) until Our Square grew afraid to call in any other
practitioner lest the partisan ol'-clo' man should accuse us of
attempted suicide by negligence. Within a year of his arrival the little
Red Doctor had become, as it were, official healer to the whole
place. And where he began as physician he ended as friend and ally.
The Little Red Doctor was intensely personal in his permanent
engagement with his old friend, Death.
32. While I am, of course, a part of the Little Red Doctor's large
practice, I do not add much to his meager income. In fact, he
usually laughs me and my minor ailments out of court and declines
to administer anything but free advice. On the particular June
evening when I unwittingly became a partner of the fates, nothing
really ailed me except that I had not been sleeping for some nights
and was tired of it. The Little Red Doctor went over me briefly and
prescribed.
“One full day in the open sunrise to sundown.”
“Where?”
He reflected. “Go crêpe-hunting with Dead-Men's-Shoes,” he said
at length.
Thus it was that from nine o'clock on, of a balmy, sweet-scented
morning, the sleek and raucous automobiles of West-Chester County
hooted disdainfully at Dadmun Schütz and myself, jogging
appreciatively along behind Schutz's mouse-hued mare, Dolly Gray,
through a world so alien to Our Square as to suggest another
scheme of creation; a world of birds and butterflies and bees and
trees and flowers and song and color and blithe winds.
33. This world was, most appropriately, inhabited by a brown-and-gold
fairy. Any one could tell that she was a fairy by the sunlight in her
hair, and the starlight in her eyes, and the fact that, at the moment
when we discovered her, two butterflies were engaged in aerial
combat to decide winch one should settle on the pink rose above her
ear. The flower flaunted there like a challenge against the
somberness of her costume, for the fairy was dressed entirely in
black. She was leaning on a gate in a tall hedge. Through the
opening we could see, across broad flower gardens, a solid,
spacious, kindly house, amid rustling shade, flying the insignium of
death at its door.
At the sight Dead-Men's-Shoes pulled up and took off his extinct
hat. It was one of the most extinct hats wherewith I have ever
known him to grace his calling. Its brim was fractured in two places,
its crown leaned like Pisa's Tower, and it bristled in universal offense
against the outer world. Despite all this it was indisputably a Silk
Hat, and, as such, official to the lawful occasions of the wearer. The
brown-and-gold fairy looked at it with unfeigned surprise. From its
interior Dead-Men's-Shoes extracted a slip of paper which he
perused. He then addressed the fairy in a soft and respectful tone.
“You ain't on the list, mum.”
“What list?” inquired the fairy with interest. “And why should I be
on it?”
“Not you, mum. The house.”
He re-covered his head and contemplated her speculatively. She
returned his regard with sparkling eyes and a dimpling and twitching
mouth.
“Why do you wear that extraordinary hat?” she broke out.
“Business,” murmured Dead-Men's-Shoes. “It's my business hat. If
I could have a few words with you on business?”
“You've come at an unfortunate time,” said the brown-and-gold
fairy. “There is a death in the family.”
“Yessum. I observed that the Grim Reaper had visited the
premises,” said Dead-Men's-Shoes, who prides himself upon a stock
34. of correct, elegant, and felicitous mortuary phrases. “May I proffer
my humble condolences?” He removed the silk hat with an official
and solemn flourish. “Are you the bereaved, mum?”
“The what?”
“The relic of the late lamented?”
“No; only a cousin, but my father and I are Mr. Bennington's
nearest relatives. What is it you wish?”
“In that case,” said Dead-Men's-Shoes, with evident relief, “an'
beggin' your pardon for intrudin' on your nach'ral grief an' distress,
we might trade.” He coughed austerely. “About clothes now,” he
suggested.
“Clothes? What clothes?” said the fairy.
“The deceased's. Or shoes, maybe? Or even hats.”
“What on earth do you mean, you extraordinary person?”
“I mean fair,” said Dead-Men's-Shoes firmly. “I'm here to buy the
deceased's garments. You see, lady, I read all the death notices in
the N'York papers, an' when I've got ten or a dozen good prospects
in one locality I hitch up Dolly Gray an' make my rounds. An' though
you ain't on my list, I won't count that against you when we come to
dicker.”
“But we don't want to sell Cousin Ben's clothes,” said the fairy in
bewilderment.
“Dont-cha!” Dead-Men's Shoes took on a persuasively
argumentative air. “Listen, lady. Wotcha goin' to do with them
garments?”
“I hadn't thought about it.”
“Was the late lamented a charitable gent? Good to the poor and
that sort of thing?”
“Very.”
“There you are, then!” said he triumphantly. “Sell me the
garments for a lot o' money. I'm soft on swell garments. Take the
cash an' give it to charity. Le's begin with shoes. How many pair of
shoes woild you say the untimely victim had?” Mirth quivered at the
35. corners of the fairy's soft lips, “He wasn't an untimely victim. He was
seventy-six years old and he had gout so dreadfully that he had to
have one shoe made much longer than the other.”
My companion's face fell, but immediately brightened with hope.
“Which foot?”
She considered. “The left.”
“If they was right in size an' price,” he mused, “they might do for
the Little Red Doctor.”
The brown-and-gold fairy's eyes widened. “For whom?” she asked.
“The Little Red Doctor.”
“Why do you call him that?”
“Because he's little an' red-headed an' the smartest doctor in
N'York. An' if your loved-an'-lost one had had him, he'd be alive to-
day,” he added with profound conviction.
“Where does he live?”
“Down in Our Square—No. 11, on the East Side; office hours nine
to one. If you was any ways ailin' you couldn't do better'n to call.”
“And there is something the matter with his left foot?” she
pursued, ignoring this well-meant advice. “What?”
“It's dummed hard to fit,” replied Dead-Men's-Shoes
disconsolately.
“I can tell you,” I interjected. “He injured it while swimming.”
“Oh!” said the brown-and-gold fairy. “And—and this gentleman's
description of him is accurate?”
“But not adequate,” I said. “He is wise (a confirmatory nod from
the brown-and-gold fairy) and brave (another nod) and unselfish (a
third nod) and obstinate (two nods) and beautiful—”
“Oh!” said the brown-and-gold fairy, with obvious disappointment.
“—to us who know him, I mean.” She smiled up at me. “And his
name is Smith.”
“It is,” I averred.
36. At this juncture Dead-Men's-Shoes, who had been fidgeting on his
wagon seat, deemed it time to interfere in the interests of
commerce. “Don't butt in, dominie,” he protested in an injured aside.
“These mourners has to be handled with tac'. It takes a professional.
You're spoilin' trade.”
Herein he did me injustice. The brown-and-gold fairy threw the
gate open and invited Dead-Men's-Shoes in to bargain. Highly
advantageous bargaining it was, I judged from the ill-suppressed
jubilance of my associate's face when he emerged some minutes
later, tottering under a burden of assorted clothing, while she
brought up the rear, carrying one pair of shoes. The rose was gone
from her hair.
“Remember,” she cautioned him, “the suits you may dispose of as
you please, but the shoes are to go to the—the Little Red Doctor just
as they are. Will you see that they do?” She appealed to me.
“I'll take them myself,” I promised.
“Will you? That's kind of you. But you mustn't tell him where they
came from.” She looked up at me and I seemed to discern
something wistful in her eyes. “You are a friend of Dr. Smith's?”
“Yes. And you?”
“I used to be,” said she indifferently. Dead-Men's-Shoes climbed
into the wagon and lifted the lines. “Accept the assurances of my
respec'ful sympathy,” he recited, “an' remember the address if
there's anything further in my line. Wake up, Dolly Gray.”
The brown-and-gold fairy floated out through the gate and came
to my side.
“Does he still limp?” she asked in a half whisper.
“Imperceptibly,” I answered.
“I don't want him to limp,” she cried imperiously and was gone.
Dolly Gray took us and the shoes of the deceased cousin on our
way. The day's journey ended in front of the Little Red Doctor's
office. The Little Red Doctor looked up from some sort of
complicated mechanism which he was making for crippled Molly
37. Rankin (who could never by any possibility pay him for it) and
appeared astonished at the sight of the very elegant footwear which
Dead-Men's-Shoes extended to him.
“What for?” he asked. “I'm not buying second-hand shoes.”
“Ask the dominie,” said Dead-Men's Shoes.
“They're a present,” I explained.
The Little Red Doctor looked both puzzled and suspicious. “They
won't fit my queer foot,” he objected.
“Try,” encouraged Dead-Men's-Shoes.
The Little Red Doctor tried on the left boot. “Pretty good,” he said.
He stood up to stamp his foot down. Then he bounded into the air
like a springbok, and on alighting, tore off the shoe, saying
something harsh and profane about practical jokers. “There's a pin
in it,” he growled.
“Gosh!” exclaimed Dead-Men's-Shoes, greatly perturbed at this
evidence of woman's perfidy. “An' her in the sollim presence of
death, too!”
“Her? Who?” demanded the Little Red Doctor, looking up from his
explorations after the pin.
“Dadmun,” said I, “you are too loquacious. Go out and look after
Dolly Gray.”
Duly impressed and oppressed by my well-chosen word, the ol'-
clo' man trudged out and leaned against the railing. The Little Red
Doctor extracted a small object from the shoe. It proved to be a pink
rose, impaled upon a fine golden wire which might once have been a
hairpin. The wire held in place a thin strip of paper. When he saw
the handwriting on the paper the Little Red Doctor gave another
leap. It was not as athletic and deerlike as his first, but was still a
creditable performance. Then he flung the whole combination out
through the open window.
“Ow!” ejaculated Dead-Men's-Shoes from his place against the
railing.
38. We could hear him scuffling around after the missile, which had
evidently hit him on a tender spot. His voice came clearly to us
reading painfully in the dim light.
“'An'-no-bird-sings-in-Arcady!'”
“Dadmun,” said I, severely, “that letter is not addressed to you.”
“It ain't a letter,” retorted Dead-Men's-Shoes aggrievedly. “It ain't
begun like a letter oughta be. It ain't signed, like a letter oughta be.
It's just that one fool line. Where's Arcady an' what's to stop the
birds singin' there if they want to? Here's yer valentine.”
He flipped it back through the window. We heard the creaking of
the wagon springs, Dolly Gray's patient, responsive grunt and her
retreating footsteps on the asphalt. I retrieved the carrier rose and
turned to the Little Red Doctor.
“Well?” I said. “Where is Arcady, my friend?”
He shook his head.
“I know that song,” I continued. “How does the verse run?
“And no bird sings in Arcady;
The little fauns have left the hill;
Even the tired daffodil
Has closed its gilded doors, and still—”
“Don't!” said the Little Red Doctor hoarsely. “I used to know that
song.” He lifted haggard eyes to me. “You've seen her?”
“Yes.”
“How did she look?”
I meditated. “Like a child that doesn't understand why it isn't
happy,” I said at length.
I saw the Little Red Doctor's sensitive mouth quiver; but the jaw
set hard and firm and ended that struggle.
“I won't ask you where,” he said.
“It would be no use. I couldn't tell you.”
“No.” He accepted that. “Then why, in the name of Heaven,” he
cried, looking at the rose, “should she—Oh, well, never mind that.”
39. He sat thoughtfully for a time. “Dominie,” he said, “I'm going to tell
you. It will do me good, I think. And then I'll forget it again.”
It was not altogether a pretty story. Four years before, it began,
when the brown-and-gold fairy must have been little more than a
child. At a fashionable cottage place which is merely a glowing,
newspaper-glorified name to Our Square, the Little Red Doctor, who
had come down for a tennis tournament, had jumped off a pier after
a small boy who had fallen in. He referred to it and to the brown-
and-gold fairy's romantic view of it with tolerant contempt. “The
hee-ro business,” he said with the medical man's disdain of the more
obvious forms of physical peril. “I run more real risks every day of
my life.” However, a well-meaning but blundersome launch had
broken his foot with its wheel, and the girl, who had seen the whole
adventure, carried him off in her motor-car. Followed the usual
discovery of friends in common, and by the time the crutches were
discarded, the victim was hopelessly enslaved. Whether they were
ever actually engaged or not did not clearly appear. The Little Red
Doctor was carefully and gallantly defensive of her course.
Nevertheless, knowing the Little Red Doctor as I do, I was
resentfully sure that she had treated him shamefully. Finally there
was an issue of principle between them. He alluded to it vaguely.
“She didn't really care, of course,” he said. “Why should she? So I
went away and knocked about the world for a bit. Then I came here
because in Our Square there wouldn't be much chance of meeting
her, you see. There's just one thing to do. Forget her. So I've
forgotten her.” And the Little Red Doctor, taking the rose from the
table where I had tossed it, held it cherishingly in his hands as if it
were a human, beating heart.
“Forget her.” Quite so! It was just and simple and sensible. Yet,
while I agreed heartily, I had my private misgivings that it might not
be so easy to forget a face with that particular quality of witchery
about it, a witchery wholly distinct from mere beauty. I've known
quite homely women to have it. Not that the brown-and-gold fairy
was homely. But I cannot quite think that she was beautiful, either,
by the standards of calm and balanced judgment. Only, the calmest
40. judgment would be put to it to preserve its balance with those eyes
turned upon it. She had an unbalancing personality, that brown-and-
gold fairy, even to an old and rusty-fusty pedagogue like myself.
In fact, she was quite unreasonably vivid to my thoughts for
weeks after my one brief meeting with her. I believe that I was
actually thinking about her and the Little Red Doctor, seated on my
favorite bench in Our Square, on the August morning when a small,
soft voice quite close behind me said:—
“Mr. Dominie.”
I got up and turned around. There stood the brown-and-gold fairy.
I frowned upon her severely. Not as severely as she doubtless
deserved, considering how the Little Red Doctor had winced at the
mention of her, but as severely as was practicable in the face of the
way she was smiling at me.
“What do you mean by coming up behind me and startling me
with your 'Mr. Dominie'?” I demanded.
“I heard the man with the funny hat call you that. Isn't it your
name?”
“It will serve. What are you doing in Our Square?”
“I came down to see the place.”
“You came down to see the Little Red Doctor,” I charged.
“Oh, no,” she protested softly. “Just to see the place where he
lives. I went near there, but he came out and I ran away.”
“You needn't have,” I said. “He has forgotten you.”
“I don't think it nice of you to say that, Mr. Dominie.”
There was a little break in her voice. I looked away hastily.
Though, if I had made her cry, it served her right. I looked back and
found that she was not crying. She was laughing. At me!
“He has forgotten you,” I repeated positively, “as he ought.”
“Yes; I suppose he ought,” she assented dolorously. “But he
hasn't,” she added with a sudden change to an adorable
impertinence. “You know he hasn't. Nobody ever forgets me. You
didn't forget me, did you? And you'd only seen me once.”
41. “Why am I seeing you now?”
“Because you're old and wise and you look kind.”
“I am very old and extremely wise,” I answered, “but my kindly
expression is mere senile deterioration of the facial muscles. I am
really brutal.”
“But you'll be kind to me,” she averred trustfully.
I surrendered. “What about?”
“I want to see the—the Little Red Doctor, and yet I—I don't want
to see him. Do you know what I mean?”
“No. Do you?”
“N-n-no. I suppose I don't exactly. Do you think he'd like to see
me?”
“I'm sure he wouldn't.”
Her lip quivered. “And you said you'd be kind to me,” she
murmured plaintively.
“Not at all! You said I'd be kind to you. Are you in love with the
Little Red Doctor?”
“Of course I'm not!” she asserted violently.
“Then why are you here in Our Square at all? Does the scenery
entice you? Are you enthralled by our social advantages? Would you
like to meet some of our leading local lights?”
“I would like to meet somebody who is really wise and kind, too
wise and kind to make fun of poor little me.”
“That's the Bonnie Lassie,” said I with sudden, inspired conviction.
“Come with me.
“Where?” asked the brown-and-gold fairy, hanging back
doubtfully.
“To her studio where she sculps wonderful and beautiful things. If
I'm any judge she'll sculp you as a butterfly that's lost its way in this
wicked—”
“I'm not a butterfly,” interrupted my companion. “I'm a very
serious person on a very serious errand.”
42. “—world,” I proceeded. “And she'll talk to you about the Little Red
Doctor—”
“Will she?” murmured the brown-and-gold fairy, moving after me.
“—whom she loves devotedly—”
“Does she!” said the brown-and-gold fairy, stopping short.
“—as every one in Our Square does and ought to—”
“Oh!” remarked the fairy, catching up with me again.
“—for reasons which you should know as well as any one.”
“I don't,” retorted the fairy, mutinously. “Who is the Bonnie Lassie?
You all have such queer names here, Mr. Dominie!”
“In private life she's Mrs. Cyrus Staten: otherwise Cecily Willard.”
The golden lights in the fairy's eyes deepened with astonishment.
“Not the famous Miss Willard who does the figurines! Does she live
way down here in this—this—”
“Slum,” I supplied. “Don't be afraid to say it. Our Square isn't
sensitive to what outsiders think of us.”
“This nice, queer old park,” concluded the fairy with dignity. “And I
suppose she is very old and wise and—is she kind?”
“She is very young and lovely to look at and as wise as she needs
to be for her own happiness and—come along and see her.”
“But you mustn't tell her—'' was as far as she got when the Bonnie
Lassie came out of the studio with a smudge of clay on the tip of her
chin, and regarded my pink and captive fairy with undisguised
amazement.
“This young discovery of mine,” I explained, “has come to Our
Square for the purpose of not seeing the Little Red Doctor. Dead-
Men's-Shoes struck up a professional acquaintance with her in the
country and told her about the Doctor—whom she doesn't want to
see—being in Our Square. As she hasn't seen him for several years
and as he has been trying hard and conscientiously to forget her,
she has come, incognita, where he is, in order to keep on not seeing
him and to discover whether he has forgotten. It's all just as simple
as it sounds.”
43. My fairy suddenly became a person, and a very decided person. “I
beg your pardon,” she said. “I am not incognita. My name is Ethel
Bennington, and I think you are a very unkind old man.”
The Bonnie Lassie set a slender, strong hand on the visitor's wrist
and drew her within. “Never mind him, my dear,” she said softly. “He
isn't really unkind. He's just a tease.” She paused and studied her
caller a moment. Then, with her irresistible smile, she said: “I know
it's dreadful of me—but, would you mind if I just sketched you
hastily?”
Now, that may have been the artist of it breaking through, or it
may have been just the way of her invincible tact and management;
you never can tell, with the Bonnie Lassie. But it's a proven fact that
nobody can sit to her without giving up his heart's secrets, and
sometimes she puts them in the bronze. Most unfairly I was
banished, for the brown-and-gold fairy with a flush of pleasure said
she'd sit at once. And from that sitting grew another sitting and
another and many to follow. Sometimes I was bidden in. It was a
sheer delight to sit there and watch those two young creatures, the
sculptress gay and sunny and splendid in the glad beauty of power
and achievement; the model, wistful, sweet, and vivid by turns, a
fairy from a brighter world bringing her fairy gold to our grim and
dusty neighborhood. Out of a working silence the brown-and-gold
fairy spoke one day.
“Is he poor?”
“Is who—” I began.
But the quicker apprehension of the artist cut in on me.
“It isn't exactly a fashionable practice, the Little Red Doctor's. Is it,
dominie?”
“No. But poor—certainly not, by the standards of Our Square. He
has a new black suit for professional service every year.”
“Um!” said the fairy doubtfully. Then, after a pause, “He could
have been rich, you know.”
“Could he?” said the Bonnie Lassie, holding her iron poised over
the shadow of a flying dimple.
44. “An invention. Something to do with his surgery,” explained the
girl. “Father said there were big possibilities in it. He offered to
finance it himself. But he—the Lit—Dr. Smith wouldn't even take out
a patent on it.”
The Bonnie Lassie lowered her weapon. “Do you mean the
pressure brace for atrophy?”
“Yes,” said the girl, surprised. “How do you know about it?”
“Cyrus's uncle—he's Dr. Hardaman, the great orthopedic surgeon
—says that there are thousands of children walking to-day who owe
their legs to that brace of the Little Red Doctor's.”
“You never told any of us about that!” I cried.
“No,” she answered composedly. “It seemed to make the Little Red
Doctor uncomfortable when Cyrus spoke of it. So we kept it quiet.”
“You see, he might really have made a fortune by patenting it,”
said the brown-and-gold fairy.
“That is what I asked Uncle Charles. He said that physicians, the
best type, don't take out patents. You see, the patent would have
made the brace cost more, and the more it cost the fewer people
could buy it, and that would mean more children who ought to have
walked and couldn't. And, oh, my dear! if you could see the poor,
pitiful, wee things as we see them in Our Square, withered and
hobbling like old, worn-out folk —”
“Don't! Don't!” cried the girl. “I—I never thought of it that way.”
“Why should you? But the Little Red Doctor would.”
“Yes, but he didn't explain it that way,” said the brown-and-gold
fairy miserably. “He said something stupid about ethics, and I said
something I didn't mean—and,”—her head drooped,—“and that was
our last quarrel.”
“And you loved him all the time, and still do,” said the Bonnie
Lassie gently.
“I didn't! I don't!” denied the brown-and-gold fairy vehemently.
“Then why have you come down here?” demanded the inexorable
sculptress.
45. “Because,” said the fairy in a fairy's whisper, “I—I just wanted to
see him again. All the other men are so alike.”
“Yes; yes, I know,” said the Bonnie Lassie and threw an arm over
her shoulder, and gave me a swift and wordless command to go
away and be quick about it.
For the subsequent developments of the affair I expressly disclaim
all responsibility. True, I was made an agent. But that was coercion,
such coercion as the Bonnie Lassie practices on all of us. The
scheme was hers and hers alone. If there is a weakness in the
Bonnie Lassie's character, it is overfondness for the romantic and the
dramatic. She loves to set the stage and move the puppets, and be
the goddess from the machine generally. Miss Ethel Bennington, cast
for the leading part, accepted it all implicitly, for in the strange
environment of Our Square she was uncertain and self-distrustful,
and she readily fell in with the dramatist's principal theme; to wit,
that she had treated the Little Red Doctor very ill, and said wounding
things hard to be forgiven by a high-spirited, sensitive, and red-
headed lover; that any basis of pardon and understanding would be
difficult and painful to arrive at, but that if he found her in straits
and needing him, then the truth would come out and she would
know at once whether he still cared for her or not, a point upon
which my brown-and-gold fairy had her dismal doubts, it seems.
Therefore she would please buy herself a working outfit and take a
job with—well—with Dead-Men's-Shoes. Just the thing! Dead-Men's-
Shoes, knowing so much of the matter, would require little
explanation. The labor, sorting over and classifying his residuary
apparel, would be not too violent; and the Little Red Doctor passed
by the door daily on his way to the top floor to visit little Fannie
McKay who had the rickets. It was only a question of time when he
would find the fairy there toiling in poverty. Such was the setting
devised by the Bonnie Lassie to bring those two together. For the
rest, let Fate take its course.
Fate did. For their own private reasons, or perhaps in sheer
derision of the human dramatist's puny efforts, the High Gods of
Drama took a hand in the affair. They smote the Little Red Doctor, if
46. not exactly hip and thigh, at least, tooth and jaw; so that he was
incapacitated for any sort of decent, peaceable human association.
They gave him an abominable toothache. The Bonnie Lassie came
across Our Square to apprise me of the fact, with dismay in her face.
“What's a toothache,” I said, “in such circumstances!”
The Bonnie Lassie looked at me scornfully. “Men have no sense,”
she sighed. “Do you think I'm going to have their meeting spoiled by
a wretched thing like that, after all these years? Besides, he's all
swollen on one side.”
“I see. You don't wish his classic beauty impaired on this
occasion.”
“Don't be disagreeable. And do be good. Go to the Little Red
Doctor and tell him he must have it fixed.”
I went to the Little Red Doctor and told him that very thing. To
this day I believe that my age alone saved me from a murderous
assault. “Have it fixed?” howled the Little Red Doctor. “Don't you
suppose I want to have it fixed? Don't be an imbecile, dominie.”
“Then come along now to Doc Selters and get it filled.”
“I don't want it filled. I want it pulled. I want to get it out and
stamp on it!”
“Well, he will pull it.”
“He will not. He says it's got to be saved. He's killing the nerve—
on the Spanish Inquisition principle. I'd go to the fifty cent yankers
this minute if I didn't have a saw-off with Selters.”
“A what?”
“A saw-off. A professional exchange. He owes me two liver-attacks
and a diffuse laryngitis; and the best he'll do,” cried the Little Red
Doctor, dancing with rage and pain, “is to say that the worst of it is
over. D——n his eyes!”
Plainly, the Bonnie Lassie was right. The Little Red Doctor was in
no state to meet vital issues. I went over to Dead-Men's-Shoes'
place, and there beheld the brown-and-gold fairy skillfully sewing
47. trouser buttons on waistcoats. She looked tired and pathetic, and
when she saw me she jumped up and ran to me.
“Oh, Mr. Dominie!” she cried. “Where is he?”
I shook my head. Somehow I hadn't the heart to obtrude as
unpoetic a motif as a toothache upon that prospective romance.
“I've worked and worked and worked,” she said, with a drooping
mouth, “and he doesn't come. And Miss Willard won't tell me why.
I'm sure something has happened to him. Has there?”
“Why, no,” I said. “That is—er—certainly not!”
“There has!” She set her hands on my shoulders and explored my
face with her sweet, anxious eyes. “Tell me. You must tell me! It was
you who brought me here.” (Oh, the justice of womankind!) “Was it,
indeed!”
“Well, it is your fault that—that I came. You encouraged me.” She
let her hands drop and her eyes darkened with reproach. “Won't you
tell me if he is ill?”
“He isn't ill. On honor.”
Despite her workaday garb, she was instantly metamorphosed into
the brown-and-gold fairy again. “Then, when is he coming?”
“I don't know.”
“You do! But you won't tell. You're playing with me, you and Miss
Willard.”
“Didn't you play with the Little Red Doctor? What about that
clandestine message in the toe of the shoe?”
“Oh!” She had the grace to blush (and a brown-and-gold fairy's
blush is something to cherish in memory). But at once curiosity
overbore shame. “Did you give him the shoes yourself? What did he
say when he put them on?” Recalling the impassioned monosyllable
which signalized the Little Red Doctor's original discovery of the
hairpin, I replied truthfully enough: “I don't think that would interest
you.”
“Don't you? Then how did he look?”
“Severe.”
48. “I know! Oh, how well I know!” Her voice declined to a caressing
murmur. “And all the time there's that twinkle of fun and sympathy
underneath the frown. Oh, ever so deep underneath! It took me a
long time to find it.”
“And longer to forget it?” I suggested with malice.
“I don't want to forget it,” retorted the fairy loftily. “I could if I
chose. You're sure there isn't anything the matter with him?”
“I never said there wasn't anything the matter with him. I said he
wasn't ill.”
“Oh, well, I think it's very mean of you. You may go and sit on
that pile of coats—the unpressed ones—and watch me work my poor
fingers to the bone sewing on buttons until your hard heart softens
and you come to a properer frame of mind.”
Accordingly I sat down and contemplated, not without a certain
grim satisfaction, the spectacle of a brown-and-gold fairy sentenced
to honest labor. Shadows deepened in the room until she was almost
in darkness. If the necessity of labor weighed upon her blithe spirit,
she gave no evidence of it, for presently she began to hum to
herself in a soft, crooning undertone, “speech half-asleep or song
half-awake.” Clearer and clearer grew the melody, waxing to full
awakeness, as the fresh and lovely young voice filled the room with
the verse, one single line of which had dragged the Little Red
Doctor's heart back across the unforgetting years:—
“The falling dew is cold and chill,
And no bird sings in Arcady;
The little fauns have left the hill;
Even the tired daffodil
Has closed its gilded doors, and still
My lover comes not back to me.”
The girlish voice trembled and stopped. The singer's hands fell
into her lap. Her eyes dreamed. I think she must have forgotten, in
the spell of music that she wove, the presence of an old man in the
darkening room. I heard a soft, weary little catch of the breath, and
then a name pronounced low and beseechingly, “Chris.” Now, this
49. drama, as laid out by that romantic manageress the Bonnie Lassie,
did not include music. The fairy song, I strongly suspect, was the
interposition of the Higher Gods of Destiny. For the spell of it evolved
and made real the past, and out of the past stepped the Little Red
Doctor and stood trembling in the doorway of the ol'-clo' repository.
“Who sang?” he gasped.
I sat motionless. Neither the Bonnie Lassie nor the Higher Fates
had assigned me a speaking part in the crisis.
“Whose voice was that?” said the Little Red Doctor fearfully. “Am I
hearing sounds that don't exist?”
Out of the deepest of the shadows came the voice, broken, and
thrilling.
“Chris! Oh, Chris, is it really you?”
“Ethel!” said the Little Red Doctor in a breathless cry.
He stumbled halfway across the dim room, encountered a chair,
and stopped. “What are you doing here?” he demanded. His voice
had hardened suddenly to that of a cross-examiner.
All the appealing and dramatic fiction which the Bonnie Lassie had
carefully instilled into her subject for this crisis—the once rich and
careless butterfly girl now brought low in the world and working for
her precarious living—went by the board. “I—I-d-d-d-don't know,”
stammered the brown-and-gold fairy.
“You—don't—know,” he repeated. Then, vehemently; “You must
know.” Silence from the dim corner.
“Have you come back here to make my life wretched with longing
again?”
“No. Oh, no!”
“Well? Why, then?”
“Don't be cruel to me, Chris,” pleaded the voice, a very wee,
piteous voice now. Brown-and-gold fairies should not be bullied by
little, red, fierce men with the toothache. They are not accustomed
to it and they don't know how to defend themselves. Up to this
moment my one purpose had been to tiptoe unobtrusively to the
50. door and escape. Now I wondered whether I ought not to stay and
offer aid to the abused fairy. At the next word from the Little Red
Doctor, however, I gave up that notion, and resumed my cautious
retreat.
“I? Cruel—to you?” he said desolately. Then, after a long pause: “I
can't see you. I'm glad I can't see you. If you could know how many
times I've seen you since—since I went away.”
“Seen me? Where?”
“Nowhere. Everywhere. Night after weary night. For a year. Or
perhaps it was two years. Only, then you weren't real. You didn't
sing.”
“Ah!” The exclamation hardly stirred the air. But I knew, as well as
if I had seen it, that the woman's eyes of the brown-and-gold fairy
were yearning to him and that her hands were pressed over her
woman's heart, which yearned to him, too.
“No. You never sang to me. You spoke. You said the same thing
over and over again. You said, 'I don't love you and I never did love
you and I never could love you.'”
There was a stifled cry from the darkness, and a rustle and the
sound of swift, light feet. Two dim figures met and merged in one.
The fairy voice, with a desperate effort to be still a voice and not
quite a sob of mingled pity and joy, murmured brokenly: “I—I d-d-
don't love you. But I c-c-can't live away from you.” And I passed out,
on tiptoe, unnoted. The tiptoe feature was, I dare say, superfluous. I
suppose I might have marched out to the blare of a brass band and
with a salvo of artillery, and still have been as a formless, soundless
wraith to the Little Red Doctor who stood holding all heaven and
earth in his arms.
Quarter of an hour afterward I sat on the front steps of the house
of Dead-Men's-Shoes musing. The Little Red Doctor and the brown-
and-gold fairy came out together. They were conversing in demure
tones and with a commonplace air about the prospects of rain. So
wholly at ease and natural did they seem that I began to have
misgivings. It didn't seem in human nature that they should be
51. calmly discussing the weather. Could I have fallen asleep on my
heap of mortuary clothing and dreamed all that happiness of theirs?
I rose and intercepted them.
“How is the toothache?” I asked the Little Red Doctor.
The Little Red Doctor turned on me a face transfigured. “What
toothache?” he said vaguely.
Then I knew that my dream was reality.
THE END
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