From a Bench in Our Square Part 17

"No! No! No! No! _No_!" cried the b.u.t.terfly with great and unconvincing fervor. "How dare you accuse me of such a thing?"

"On the circ.u.mstantial evidence of a pink rose petal. But worse is coming. The charge is unprovoked and willful murder."

b.u.t.terflies 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 b.u.t.terfly a.s.sured 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 d.y.k.e might happen to meet.

"Is that a message?" I asked.

"No," answered the b.u.t.terfly 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 b.u.t.terfly-devouring orchid. It pa.s.sed 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 ba.n.a.lity to young Mr. d.y.k.e, 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 pa.s.sionately a.s.serted 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. d.y.k.e, "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 b.u.t.terfly'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 d.y.k.e 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. d.y.k.e, shouting. "I beg your pardon, Dominie, I've got to see the Estate for a minute."

Rushing across the street, he intercepted that inst.i.tutional 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 d.y.k.e.

"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 d.y.k.e's eyes.

"Say a million years," he answered softly.