Barbran

Immediately upon hearing of my fell design MacLachan, the tailor, paid avisit of protest to my bench.

"Is it true fact that I hear, Dominie?"

"What do you hear, MacLachan?"

"That ye're to make one of yer silly histories about Barbran?"

"Perfectly true," said I, passing over the uncomplimentary adjective.

"'Tis a feckless waste of time."

"Very likely."

"'Twill encourage the pair, when a man of yer age and influence in OurSquare should be dissuadin' them."

"Perhaps they need a friendly word."

MacLachan frowned. "Ye're determined?"

"Oh, quite!"

"Then I'll give ye a title for yer romance."

"That's very kind of you. Give it."

"The Story of Two Young Fools. By an Old One," said MacLachanwitheringly, and turned to depart.

"Mac!"

"What?"

"Wait a moment."

I held him with my glittering eye. Also, in case that should beinadequate, with the crook of my cane firmly fixed upon his ankle.

"I'll waste na time from the tailorin'," began the Scot disdainfully,but paused as I pointed a loaded finger at his head. "Well?" he said,showing a guilty inclination to flinch.

"Mac, was I an original accomplice in this affair?"

"Will ye purtend to deny--"

"Did I scheme and plot with Cyrus the Gaunt and young Stacey?"

MacLachan mumbled something about undue influence.

"Did I get arrested?"

MacLachan grunted.

"In a cellar?"

MacLachan snorted.

"With my nose painted green?"

MacLachan groaned. "There was others," he pleaded.

"A man of your age and influence in Our Square," I interrupted sternly,"should have been dissuading them."

"Arr ye designin' to put all that in yer sil--in yer interestin'account?"

"Every detail."

MacLachan dislodged my crook from his leg, gave me such a look asmid-Victorian painters strove for in pictures of the Dying Stag, andretired to his Home of Fashion.

       *       *       *       *       *

That men of the sobriety and standing of Cyrus the Gaunt, MacLachan,Leon Coventry, the Little Red Doctor, and Boggs (I do not count youngPhil Stacey, for he was insane at the time, and has been so, withmodifications and glorifications, ever since) should paint their nosesgreen and frequent dubious cellars, calls for explanation. Theexplanation is Barbran.

Barbran came to us from the immeasurable distances; to wit, WashingtonSquare.

Let me confess at once that we are a bit supercilious in our attitudetoward the sister Square far to our West, across the Alps of Broadway.Our Square was an established center of the social respectabilities whenthe foot of Fifth Avenue was still frequented by the occasional cowwhose wanderings are responsible for the street-plan of GreenwichVillage. Our Square remains true to the ancient and simple traditions,whereas Washington Square has grown long hair, smeared its fingers withpaint and its lips with free verse, and gone into debt for itsinconsiderable laundry bills. Washington Square we suspect of playing atlife; Our Square has a sufficiently hard time living it. We have littlein common.

Nevertheless, it must be admitted that there are veritable humans, notwholly submerged in the crowd of self-conscious mummers who crowd theOccidental park-space, and it was at the house of one of these, a womanarchitect with a golden dream of rebuilding Greenwich Village, street bystreet, into something simple and beautiful and, in the larger senseurban, that the Bonnie Lassie, whose artistic deviations often take herfar afield, met Barbran.

They went for coffee to a queer little burrow decorated with improvingsentiments from the immortal Lewis Carroll which, Barbran told theBonnie Lassie, was making its blue-smocked, bobbed-haired, attractiveand shrewd little proprietress quite rich. Barbran hinted that she wasthinking of improving on the Mole's Hole idea if she could find asuitable location, not so much for the money, of course--her toneimplied a lordly indifference to such considerations--as for the fun ofthe thing.

The Bonnie Lassie was amused but not impressed. What did impress herabout Barbran was a certain gay yet restful charm; the sort of difficultthing that our indomitable sculptress loves to catch and fix in herwonderful little bronzes. She set about catching Barbran.

Now the way of a snake with a bird is as nothing for fascinationcompared to the way of the Bonnie Lassie with the doomed person whom shehas marked down as a subject. Barbran hesitated, capitulated, came tothe Bonnie Lassie's house, moused about Our Square in a rapt manner andstayed. She rented a room from the Angel of Death ("Boggs Kills Bugs" isthe remainder of his sign, which is considered to lend tone and localinterest to his whole side of the Square), just over Madame Tallafferr'sapartments, and, in the course of time, stopped at my bench and lookedat me contemplatively. She was a small person with shy, soft eyes.

"The Bonnie Lassie sent you," said I.

She nodded.

"You've come here to live--Heaven only knows why--but we're glad to seeyou. And you want to know about the people; so the Bonnie Lassie said,'Ask the Dominie; he landed here from the ark.' Didn't she?"

Barbran sat down and smiled at me.

"Having sought information," I pursued, "on my own account, I learn thatyou are the only daughter of a Western millionaire ranch-owner. How doesit feel to revel in millions?"

"Romantic," said she.

"Of course you have designs upon us."

"Yes."

"Humanitarian, artistic, or sociological?"

"Oh, nothing long and clever like that."

"You grow more interesting. Having designs upon us, you doubtless wishmy advice."

"No," she answered softly: "I've done it already."

"Rash and precipitate adventuress! What have you done already?"

"Started my designs. I've rented the basement of Number 26."

"Are you a rag-picker in disguise?"

"I'm going to start a coffee cellar. I was thinking of calling it 'TheCoffee Pot.' What do you think?"

"So you do wish my advice. I will give it to you. Do you see thatplumber's shop next to the corner saloon?" I pointed to the Avenue whoseceaseless stream of humanity flows past Our Square without ever sweepingus into its current. "That was once a tea-shop. It was started by a dearlittle, prim little old maiden lady. The saloon was run by Tough BillManigan. The little old lady had a dainty sign painted and hung it upoutside her place, 'The Teacup.' Tough Bill took a board and painted asign and hung it up outside his place; 'The Hiccup.' The dear little,prim little old maiden lady took down her sign and went away. Yet thereare those who say that competition is the life of trade."

"Is there a moral to your story, Mr. Dominie?"

"Take it or leave it," said I amiably.

"I will not call my cellar 'The Coffee Pot' lest a worse thing befallit."

"You are a sensible young woman, Miss Barbara Ann Waterbury."

"It is true that my parents named me that," said she, "but my friendscall me 'Barbran' because I always used to call myself that when I waslittle, and I want to be called Barbran here."

"That's very friendly of you," I observed.

She gave me a swift, suspicious look. "You think I'm a fool," sheobserved calmly. "But I'm not. I'm going to become a local institution.A local institution can't be called Barbara Ann Waterbury, unless it's acreche or a drinking-fountain or something like that, can it?"

"It cannot, Barbran."

"Thank you, Mr. Dominie," said Barbran gratefully. She then proceeded tosketch out for me her plans for making her Coffee Cellar and herself aLocal Institution, which should lure hopeful seekers for Bohemia fromthe far parts of Harlem and Jersey City, and even such outer realms ofdarkness as New Haven and Cohoes.

"That's what I intend to do," said Barbran, "as soon as I get my GreatIdea worked out."

What the Great Idea was, I was to learn later and from other lips. Infact, from the lips of young Phil Stacey, who appeared, ratherelaborately loitering out from behind the fountain, shortly after my newfriend had departed, a peculiar look upon his extremely plain andfriendly face. Young Mr. Stacey is notable, if for no other reason thanthat he represents a flat artistic failure on the part of the BonnieLassie, who has tried him in bronze, in plaster, and in clay with equallack of success. There is something untransferable in the boy's face;perhaps its outshining character. I know that I never yet have said toany woman who knew him, no matter what her age, condition, orsentimental predilections, "Isn't he a homely cub!" that she didn'treply indignantly: "He's sweet!" Now when women--wonderful women likethe Bonnie Lassie and stupid women like Mrs. Rosser, the twins' aunt,and fastidious women like Madame Tallafferr--unite in terming a smilinghuman freckle "sweet," there is nothing more to be said. Adonis may aswell take a back seat and the Apollo Belvedere seek the helpfulresources of a beauty parlor. Said young Phil carelessly:

"Dominie, who's the newcomer?"

"That," said I, "is Barbran."

"Barbran," he repeated with a rising inflection. "It sounds like abreakfast food."

"As she pronounces it, it sounds like a strain of music," said I.

"What's the rest of her name?"

"I am not officially authorized to communicate that."

"Are you officially authorized to present your friends to her?"

"On what do you base your claim to acquaintanceship, my boy?" I askedausterely.

"Oh, claim! Well, you see, a couple of days ago, she was on thecross-town car; and I--well, I just happened to notice her, you know.That's all."

"Yet I am informed on good and sufficient authority that her appearanceis not such as to commend her, visually, if I may so express myself, tothe discriminating eye."

"Who's the fool--" began Mr. Stacey hotly.

"Tut-tut, my young friend," said I. "Certain ladies whom we both esteemcan and will prove, to the satisfaction of the fair-minded, that none ofthe young person's features is exactly what it should be or preciselywhere it ought to be. Nevertheless, the net result is surprising andeven gratifying."

"She's a peach!" asseverated my companion.

"Substantially what I was remarking. As for your other hint, you need nointroduction to Barbran. Nobody does."

"What?" Phil Stacey's plain face became ugly; a hostile lightglittered in his eyes. "What do you mean by that?" he growled.

"Simply that she's about to become a local institution. She's plottingagainst the peace and security of Our Square, to the extent of startinga coffee-house at Number 26."

"No!" cried Phil joyously. "Good news!"

"As a fad. She's a budding millionairess from the West."

"No!" growled Phil, his face falling.

"Bad news; eh? It occurred to me that she might want some decorations,and that you might be the one to do them." In his leisure hours, myyoung friend, who is an expert accountant by trade (the term "expert"appears to be rather an empty compliment, since his stipend is onlytwenty-five dollars a week), perpetrates impressionistic decorations andscenery for such minor theaters as will endure them.

"You're a grand old man, Dominie!" said he. "Let's go."

We went. We found Barbran. We conversed. Half an hour later when I leftthem--without any strenuous protests on the part of either--they weredeeply engrossed in a mutual discussion upon decorations, religion, thehigh cost of living, free verse, two-cent transfers, Charley Chaplin,aviation, ouija, and other equally safe topics. Did I say safe?Dangerous is what I mean. For when a youth who is as homely as youngPhil Stacey and in that particular style of homeliness, and a girl whois as far from homely as Barbran begin, at first sight, to explore eachother's opinions, they are venturing into a dim and haunted region,lighted by will-o'-the-wisps and beset with perils and pitfalls. Usuallythey smile as they go. Phil was smiling as I left them. So was Barbran.I may have smiled myself.

Anything but a smile was on Phil Stacey's normally cheerful face when,some three days thereafter, he came to my rooms.

"Dominie," said he, "I want to tap your library. Have you got any of theworks of Harvey Wheelwright?"

"God forbid!" said I.

Phil looked surprised. "Is it as bad as that? I didn't suppose there wasanything wrong with the stuff."

"Don't you imperil your decent young soul with it," I advised earnestly."It reeks of poisonous piety. The world he paints is so full ofnauseating virtues that any self-respecting man would rather live inhell. His characters all talk like a Sunday-school picnic out of theRollo books. No such people ever lived or ever could live, because arighteously enraged populace would have killed 'em in early childhood.He's the smuggest fraud and best seller in the United States.Wheelwright? The crudest, shrewdest, most preposterous panderer toweak-minded--"

"Whew! Help! I didn't know what I was starting," protested my visitor."As a literary critic you're some Big Bertha, Dominie. I begin tosuspect that you don't care an awful lot about Mr. Wheelwright's styleof composition. Just the same, I've got to read him. All of him. Do youthink I'll find his stuff in the Penny Circulator?"

"My poor, lost boy! Probably not. It is doubtless all out in the handsof eager readers."

However, Phil contrived to round it up somewhere. The awful andunsuspected results I beheld on my first visit of patronage to Barbran'scellar, the occasion being the formal opening. A large and curious crowdof five persons, including myself and Phil Stacey, were there. Outside,an old English design of a signboard with a wheel on it creakeddespairingly in the wind. Below was a legend: "At the Sign of theWheel--The Wrightery." The interior of the cellar was decorated withscenes from the novels of Harvey Wheelwright, triumphant virtue,discomfited villains, benignant blessings, chaste embraces, edifyingdeath-beds, and orange-blossoms. They were unsigned; but well I knewwhose was the shame. Over the fireplace hung a framed letter from theGreat Soul. It began, "Dear Young Friend and Admirer," and ended, "Yoursfor the Light. Harvey Wheelwright."

The guests did as well as could be expected. They ate and drankeverything in sight. They then left; that is to say, four of them did.Finally Phil departed, glowering at me. I am a patient soul. No soonerhad the door slammed behind him than I turned to Barbran, who waslooking discouraged.

"Well, what have you to say in your defense?"

The way Barbran's eyebrows went up constituted in itself a defense fitto move any jury to acquittal.

"For what?" she asked.

"For corrupting my young friend Stacey. You made him paint thosepictures."

"They're very nice," returned Barbran demurely. "Quite true to thesubject."

"They're awful. They're an offense to civilization. They're an insult toOur Square. Of all subjects in the world, Harvey Wheelwright! Why,Barbran? Why? Why? Why?"

"Business," said Barbran.

"Explain, please," said I.

"I got the idea from a friend of mine in Washington Square. She got up alittle cellar cafe built around Alice. Alice in Wonderland, you know,and the Looking Glass. Though I don't suppose a learned and seriousperson like you would ever have read such nonsense."

"It happened to be Friday and there wasn't a hippopotamus in the house,"I murmured.

"Oh," said Barbran, brightening. "Well, I thought if she could do itwith Alice, I could do it with Harvey Wheelwright."

"In the name of Hatta and the March Hare, why?"

"Because, for every one person who reads Alice nowadays, ten read theauthor of 'Reborn Through Righteousness' and 'Called by the Cause.'Isn't it so?"

"Mathematically unimpeachable."

"Therefore I ought to get ten times as many people as the other place.Don't you think so?" she inquired wistfully.

Who am I to withhold a comforting fallacy from a hopeful soul."Undoubtedly," I agreed. "But do you love him?"

"Who?" said Barbran, with a start. The faint pink color ran up hercheeks.

"Harvey Wheelwright, of course. Whom did you think I meant?"

"He is a very estimable writer," returned Barbran primly, quite ignoringmy other query.

"Good-night, Barbran," said I sadly. "I'm going out to mourn your lostsoul."

One might reasonably expect to find peace and quiet in the vicinity ofone's own particular bench at 11.45 P.M. in Our Square. But not at allon this occasion. There sat Phil Stacey. I challenged him at once.

"What did you do it for?"

To do him justice he did not dodge or pretend to misunderstand. "Pay,"said he.

"Phil! Did you take money for that stuff?"

"Not exactly. I'm taking it out in trade. I'm going to eat there."

"You'll starve to death."

"I haven't got much of an appetite."

"The inevitable effect of overfeeding on sweets. An uninterrupted dietof Harvey Wheelwright--"

"Don't speak the swine's name," implored Phil, "or I'll be sick."

"You've sold your artistic birthright for a mess of pottage, probablyindigestible at that."

"I don't care," he averred stoutly. "I don't care for anythingexcept--Dominie, who told you her father was a millionaire?"

"It's well known," I said vaguely. "He's a cattle king or an emperor ofsheep or the sultan of the piggery or something. A good thing forBarbran, too, if she expects to keep her cellar going. The kind ofpeople who read Har--our unmentionable author, don't frequent Bohemiancoffee cellars. They would regard it as reckless and abandoneddebauchery. Barbran has shot at the wrong mark."

"The place has got to be a success," declared Phil between his teeth,his plain face expressing a sort of desperate determination.

"Otherwise the butterfly will fly back West," I suggested. The boywinced.

What man could do to make it a success, Phil Stacey did and heroically.Not only did he eat all his meals there, but he went forth into thehighways and byways and haled in other patrons (whom he privately paidfor) to an extent which threatened to exhaust his means.

Our Square is conservative, not to say distrustful in its bearing towardinnovations. Thornsen's Elite Restaurant has always sufficed for ourinner cravings. We are, I suppose, too old to change. Nor does HarveyWheelwright exercise an inspirational sway over us. We let the littlemillionairess and her Washington Square importation pretty well alone.She advertised feebly in the "Where to Eat" columns, catching a fewstray outlanders, but for the most part people didn't come. Until thefirst of the month, that is. Then too many came. They brought theirbills with them.

Evening after evening Barbran and Phil Stacey sat in the cellar almostor quite alone. So far as I could judge from my occasional visits ofpatronage (Barbran furnished excellent sweet cider and cakes for latecomers), they endured the lack of custom with fortitude, not to sayindifference. But in the mornings her soft eyes looked heavy, and once,as she was passing my bench deep in thought, I surprised a look of blankterror on her face. One can understand that even a millionaire'sdaughter might spend sleepless nights brooding over a failure. But thatlook of mortal dread! How well I know it! How often have I seen it,preceding some sordid or brave tragedy of want and wretchedness in OurSquare! What should it mean, though, on Barbran's sunny face? Puzzlingover the question I put it to the Bonnie Lassie.

"Read me a riddle, O Lady of the Wise Heart. Of what is a child offortune, young, strong, and charming, afraid?"

At the time we were passing the house in which the insecticidal Angel ofDeath takes carefully selected and certified lodgers.

"I know whom you mean," said the Bonnie Lassie, pointing up to thelittle dormer window which was Barbran's outlook on life. "Interpret mea signal. What do you see up there?"

"It appears to be a handkerchief pasted to the window," said I adjustingmy glasses.

"Upside down," said the Bonnie Lassie.

"How can a handkerchief be upside down?" I inquired, in what wasintended to be a tone of sweet reasonableness.

Contempt was all that it brought me. "Metaphorically, of course! It's asignal of distress."

"In what distress can Barbran be?"

"In what kind of distress are most people who live next under the roofin Our Square?"

"She's doing that just to get into our atmosphere. She told me soherself. A millionaire's daughter--"

"Do millionaires' daughters wash their own handkerchiefs and paste themon windows to dry? Does any woman in or out of Our Square ever soakher own handkerchiefs in her own washbowl except when she's desperatelysaving pennies? Did you ever wash one single handkerchief in yourrooms, Dominie?"

"Certainly not. It isn't manly. Then you think she isn't amillionairess?"

"Look at her shoes when next you see her," answered the Bonnie Lassieconclusively. "I think the poor little thing has put her every cent inthe world into her senseless cellar, and she's going under."

"But, good Heavens!" I exclaimed. "Something has got to be done."

"It's going to be."

"Who's going to do it?"

"Me," returned the Bonnie Lassie, who is least grammatical when mostpurposeful.

"Then," said I, "the Fates may as well shut up shop and Providence takea day off; the universe has temporarily changed its management. CanI help?"

The Bonnie Lassie focused her gaze in a peculiar manner upon the exactcenter of my countenance. A sort of fairy grin played about her lips. "Iwonder if--No," she sighed. "No. I don't think it would do, Dominie.Anyway, I've got six without you."

"Including Phil Stacey?"

"Of course," retorted the Bonnie Lassie. "It was he who came to me forhelp. I'm really doing this for him."

"I thought you were doing it for Barbran."

"Oh; she's just a transposed Washington Squarer," answered the tyrant ofOur Square. "Though she's a dear kiddie, too, underneath the nonsense."

"Do I understand--"

"I don't see," interrupted the Bonnie Lassie sweetly, "how you could. Ihaven't told you. And the rest are bound to secrecy. But don't be undulyalarmed at anything queer you may see in Our Square within the nextfew days."

Only by virtue of that warning was I able to command the emotionsaroused by an encounter with Cyrus the Gaunt some evenings later. He washurrying across the park space in the furtive manner of one going to ashameful rendezvous, and upon my hailing him he at first essayed tosheer off. When he saw who it was he came up with a rather swaggeringand nonchalant effect. I may observe here that nobody has a monopoly ofnonchalance in this world.

"Good-evening, Cyrus," I said.

"Good-evening, Dominie."

"Beautiful weather we're having."

"Couldn't be finer."

"Do you think it will hold?"

"The paper says rain to-morrow."

"Why is the tip of your nose painted green?"

"Is it green?" inquired Cyrus, as if he hadn't given the matter anyspecial consideration, but thought it quite possible.

"Emerald," said I. "It looks as if it were mortifying."

"It would be mortifying," admitted Cyrus the Gaunt, "if it weren't in agood cause."

"What cause?" I asked.

"Come out of there!" said Cyrus the Gaunt, not to me, but to a figurelurking in the shrubbery.

The Little Red Doctor emerged. I took one look at his most distinctivefeature.

"You, too!" I said. "What do you mean by it?"

"Ask Cyrus," returned the Little Red Doctor glumly.

"It's a cult," said Cyrus. "The credit of the notion belongs not to me,but to my esteemed better half. A few chosen souls--"

"Here comes another of them," I conjectured, as a bowed form approached."Who is it? MacLachan!"

The old Scot appeared to be suffering from a severe cold. Hishandkerchief was pressed to his face.

"Take it down, Mac," I ordered. "It's useless." He did so, and my worstsuspicions were confirmed.

"He bullied me into it," declared the tailor, glowering at Cyrus theGaunt.

"It'll do your nose good," declared Cyrus jauntily. "Give it a change.Complementary colors, you know. What ho! Our leader."

Phil Stacey appeared. He appeared serious; that is, as serious as onecan appear when his central feature glows like the starboard light of anincoming steamship. Following him were Leon Coventry, huge and shy, andthe lethal Boggs looking unhappy.

"Where are you all going?" I demanded.

"To the Wrightery," said Phil.

"Is it a party?"

"It's a gathering."

"Am I included?"

"If you'll--"

"Not on any account," I declared firmly. It had just occurred to me whythe Bonnie Lassie had centered her gaze upon my features. "Follow yourindecent noses as far as you like. I stay."

Still lost in meditation, I may have dozed on my bench, when heavy,measured footsteps aroused me. I looked up to see Terry the Cop,guardian of our peace, arbiter of differences, conservator of ourmorals. I peered at him with anxiety.

"Terry," I inquired, "how is your nose?"

"Keen, Dominie," said Terry. He sniffed the air. "Don't you detect thesmell of illegal alcohol?"

"I can't say I do."

"It's very plain," declared the officer wriggling his nasal organ which,I was vastly relieved to observe, retained its original hue. "Wouldn'tyou say, Dominie, it comes from yonder cellar?"

"Barbran's cellar?

"I am informed that a circle of dangerous char-ackters with greennoses gather there and drink cider containing more than two-seventy-fiveper cent of apple juice. I'm about to pull the place."

"For Heaven's sake, Terry; don't do that! You'll scare--"

"Whisht, Dominie!" interrupted Terry with an elaborate wink. "There'llbe no surprise, except maybe to the Judge in the morning. You betterdrop in at the court."

Of the round-up I have no details, except that it seemed to be quietlyconducted. The case was called the next day, before Magistrate Wolf ToneHanrahan, known as the "Human Judge." Besides being human, his Honor is,as may be inferred from his name, somewhat Irish. He heard the evidence,tested the sample, announced his intention of coming around that eveningfor some more, and honorably discharged Barbran.

"And what about these min?" he inquired, gazing upon the dauntless six.

"Dangerous suspects, Yeronner," said Terry the Cop.

"They look mild as goat's milk to me," returned the Magistrate, "thoughnow I get me eye on the rid-hidded wan [with a friendly wink at theLittle Red Doctor] I reckonize him as a desprit charackter that'd saveyour life as soon as look at ye. What way are they dang'rous?"

"When apprehended," replied Terry, looking covertly about to see thatthe reporters were within hearing distance, "their noses werepainted green."

"Is this true?" asked the Magistrate of the six.

"It is, your Honor," they replied.

"An', why not!" demanded the Human Judge hotly. "'Tis a glorious color!Erin go bragh! Off'cer, ye've exceeded yer jooty. D' ye think this isdowntrodden an' sufferin' Oireland an' yerself the tyrant GineralFrench? Let 'em paint their noses anny color they loike; but green forpreference. I'm tellin' ye, this is the land of freedom an' equality,an' ivery citizen thereof is entitled to life, liberty, and the purshootof happiness, an' a man's nose is his castle, an' don't ye fergit it.Dis-charrrrged! Go an' sin no more. I mane, let the good worruk go awn!"

"Now watch for the evening papers," said young Phil Stacey exultantly."The Wrightery will get some free advertising that'll crowd itfor months."

Alas for youth's golden hopes! The evening papers ignored the carefullyprepared event. One morning paper published a paragraph, attributing thegreen noses to a masquerade party. The conspirators, gathered at thecellar with their war-paints on (in case of reporters), discussed thefiasco in embittered tones. Young Stacey raged against a stupid andcorrupt press. MacLachan expressed the acidulous hope that thereafterCyrus the Gaunt would be content with making a fool of himself withoutimplicating innocent and confiding friends. The Bonnie Lassie was notpresent, but sent word (characteristically) that they must have done itall wrong; men had no sense, anyway. The party then sent out forturpentine and broke up to reassemble no more. Only Phil Stacey,inventor of the great idea, was still faithful to and hopeful of it.Each evening he conscientiously greened himself and went to eatwith Barbran.

Time justified his faith. One evening there dropped in a plump man whoexhaled a mild and comforting benevolence, like a gentle country parson.He smiled sweetly at Phil, and introduced himself as a reporter for the"Sunday World Magazine"--and where was the rest of the circle? In aflurry of excitement, the pair sent for Cyrus the Gaunt to do thetalking. Cyrus arrived, breathless and a trifle off color (the BonnieLassie had unfortunately got a touch of bronze scenic paint mixed withthe green, so that he smelled like an over-ripe banana), and proceededto exposition.

"This," he explained, "is a new cult. It is based on theback-to-the-spring idea. The well-spring of life, you know.The--er--spring of eternal youth, and--and so forth. You understand?"

"I hope to," said the reporter politely. "Why on the nose?"

"I will explain that," returned Cyrus, getting his second wind; "butfirst let me get the central idea in your mind. It's a nature movement;a readjustment of art to nature. All nature is green. Look about you."Here he paused for effect, which was unfortunate.

"Quite so," agreed the reporter. "The cable-car, for instance, and thedollar bill, not to mention the croton bug and the polar bear. But,pardon me, I interrupt the flow of your eloquence."

"You do," said Cyrus severely. "Inanimate nature I speak of. Allinanimate nature is green. But we poor fellow creatures have gotten awayfrom the universal mother-color. We must get back to it. We must learnto think greenly. But first we must learn to see greenly. How shall weaccomplish this? Put green in our eyes? Impossible, unfortunately. But,our noses--there is the solution. In direct proximity to the eye, thecolor, properly applied, tints one's vision of all things. Green shadowsin a green world," mooned Cyrus the Gaunt poetically. "As the bardputs it:

  "'Annihilating all that's made  To a green thought in a green shade.'"

"Wait a minute," said the visitor, and made a note on an envelope-back.

"Accordingly, Miss Barbran, the daughter and heiress of a millionairecattle owner in Wyoming [here the reporter made his second note], hasestablished this center where we meet to renew and refresh our souls."

"Good!" said the benevolent reporter. "Fine! Of course it's all bunk--"

"Bunk!" echoed Barbran and Phil, aghast, while Cyrus sat with his lankjaw drooping.

"You don't see any of your favorite color in my eye, do you?" inquiredthe visitor pleasantly. "Just what you're putting over I don't know.Some kind of new grease paint, perhaps. Don't tell me. It's good enough,anyway. I'll fall for it. It's worth a page story. Of course I'll wantsome photographs of the mural paintings. They're almost painfullybeautiful.... What's wrong with our young friend; is he sick?" he added,looking with astonishment at Phil Stacey who was exhibitingsub-nauseous symptoms.

"He painted 'em," explained Cyrus, grinning.

"And he's sorry," supplemented Barbran.

"Yes; I wouldn't wonder. Well, I won't give him away," said the kindlyjournalist. "Now, as to the membership of your circle...."

The Sunday "story" covered a full page. The "millionairess" feature wasplayed up conspicuously and repeatedly, and the illustrations did whatlittle the text failed to do. It was a "josh-story" from beginningto end.

"I'll kill that pious fraud of a reporter," declared Phil.

"Now the place is ruined," mourned Barbran.

"Wait and see," advised the wiser Cyrus.

Great is the power of publicity. The Wrightery was swamped with customon the Monday evening following publication, and for the rest of thatweek and the succeeding week.

"I never was good at figures," said the transported Barbran to PhilStacey at the close of the month, "but as near as I can make out, I've aclear profit of eight dollars and seventy cents. My fortune is made. Andit's all due to you."

Had the Bonnie Lassie been able to hold her painted retainers in line,the owner's golden prophecy might have been made good. But they hadother matters on hand for their evenings than sitting about in a dimcellar gazing cross-eyed at their own scandalous noses. MacLachan wasthe first defection. He said that he thought he was going crazy and heknew he was going blind. The Little Red Doctor was unreliable owing tothe pressure of professional calls. He complained with some justice thata green nose on a practicing physician tended to impair confidence. ThenLeon Coventry went away, and Boggs discovered (or invented) an importantengagement with a growing family of clothes-moths in a Connecticutcountry house. So there remained only the faithful Phil. One swallowdoes not make a summer; nor does one youth with a vernal proboscisconvince a skeptical public that it is enjoying the fearfulcompanionship of a subversive and revolutionary cult. Patronage ebbedout as fast as it had flooded in. Barbran's eyes were as soft and happyas ever in the evenings, when she and Phil sat in a less and lessinterrupted solitude. But in the mornings palpable fear stalked her.Phil never saw it. He was preoccupied with a dread of his own.

One evening of howling wind and hammering rain, when all was cosy andhome-like for two in the little firelit Wrightery, she nerved herself upto facing the facts.

"It's going to be a failure," she said dismally.

"Then you're going away?" he asked, trying to keep his voice fromquaking.

She set her little chin quite firmly. "Not while there's a chance leftof pulling it out."

"Well; it doesn't matter as far as I'm concerned," he muttered. "I'mgoing away myself."

"You?" She sat up very straight and startled. "Where?"

"Kansas City."

"Oh! What for?"

"Do you remember a fat old grandpa who was here last month and came backto ask about the decorations?"

"Yes."

"He's built him a new house--he calls it a mansion--and he wants me topaint the music-room. He likes"--Phil gulped a little--"my styleof art."

"Isn't that great!" said Barbran in the voice of one giving three cheersfor a funeral. "How does he want his music-room decorated?"

Young Phil put his head in his hands. "Scenes from Moody and Sankey," hesaid in a muffled voice.

"Good gracious! You aren't going to do it?"

"I am," retorted the other gloomily. "It's good money." Almostimmediately he added, "Damn the money!"

"No; no; you mustn't do that. You must go, of course. Would--will ittake long?"

"I'm not coming back."

"I don't want you not to come back," said Barbran, in a queer,frightened voice. She put out her hand to him and hastily withdrew it.

He said desperately: "What's the use? I can't sit here forever lookingat you and--and dreaming of--of impossible things, and eating my heartout with my nose painted green."

"The poor nose!" murmured Barbran.

With one of her home-laundered handkerchiefs dipped in turpentine, shegently rubbed it clean. It then looked (as she said later in a feebleattempt to palliate her subsequent conduct) very pink and boyish andpathetic, but somehow faithful and reliable and altogether lovable.

So she kissed it. Then she tried to run away. The attempt failed.

It was not Barbran's nose that got kissed next. Nor, for that matter,was it young Phil's. Then he held her off and shut his eyes, for theuntrammeled exercise of his reasoning powers, and again demanded ofBarbran and the fates:

"What's the use?"

"What's the use of what?" returned Barbran tremulously.

"Of all this? Your father's a millionaire, and I won't--I can't--"

"He isn't!" cried Barbran. "And you can--you will."

"He isn't?" ejaculated Phil. "What is he?"

"He's a school-teacher, and I haven't got a thing but debts."

Phil received this untoward news as if a flock of angels, ringing joybells, had just brought him the gladdest tidings in history. After aninterlude he said:

"But, why--"

"Because," said Barbran, burrowing her nose in his coat: "I thought itwould be an asset. I thought people would consider it romantic and itwould help business. See how much that reporter made of it! Phil!Wh-wh-why are you treating me like a--a--a--dumbbell?"

For he had thrust her away from him at arm's-length again.

"There's one other thing between us, Barbran."

"If there is, it's your fault. What is it?"

"Harvey Wheelwright," he said solemnly. "Do you really like thatsickening slush-slinger?"

She raised to him eyes in which a righteous hate quivered. "I loathehim. I've always loathed him. I despise the very ink he writes with andthe paper it's printed on."

When I happened in a few minutes later, they were ritually burning the"Dear Friend and Admirer" letter in a slow candle-flame, and HarveyWheelwright, as represented by his unctuously rolling signature, waswrithing in merited torment. Between them they told me theirlittle romance.

"And he's not going to Kansas City," said Barbran defiantly.

"I'm not going anywhere, ever, away from Barbran," said young Phil.

"And he's going to paint what he wants to."

"Pictures of Barbran," said young Phil.

"And we're going to burn the Wheel sign in effigy, and wipe off thewalls and make the place a success," said Barbran.

"And we're going to be married right away," said Phil.

"Next week," said Barbran.

"What do you think?" said both.

Now I know what I ought to have said just as well as MacLachan himself.I should have pointed out the folly and recklessness of marrying ontwenty-five dollars a week and a dowry of debts. I should have preachedprudence and caution and delay, and have pointed out--The wind blew thedoor open: Young Spring was in the park, and the wet odor of littleburgeoning leaves was borne in, wakening unwithered memories in mywithered heart.

"Bless you, my children!" said I.

It was actually for this, as holding out encouragement to theirreckless, feckless plans, that Wisdom, in the person of MacLachan, thetailor, reprehended me, rather than for my historical intentionsregarding the pair.

"What'll they be marryin' on?" demanded Mac Wisdom--that is to say,MacLachan.

"Spring and youth," I said. "The fragrance of lilac in the air, the glowof romance in their hearts. What better would you ask?"

"A bit of prudence," said MacLachan.

"Prudence!" I retorted scornfully. "The miser of the virtues. It may payits own way through the world. But when did it ever take Happiness alongfor a jaunt?"

I was quite pleased with my little epigram until the Scot countered uponme with his observation about two young fools and an old one.

Oh, well! Likely enough. Most unwise, and rash and inexcusable, thatheadlong mating; and there will be a reckoning to pay. Babies, probably,and new needs and pressing anxieties, and Love will perhaps flutter atthe window when Want shows his grim face at the door; and Wisdom will bejustified of his forebodings, and yet--and yet--who am I, old and lonelyand uncompanioned, yet once touched with the spheral music and thesacred fire, that I should subscribe to the dour orthodoxies ofMacLachan and that ilk?

Years and years ago a bird flew in at my window, a bird of wonderful andflashing hues, and of lilting melodies. It came; it tarried--and I letthe chill voice of Prudence overbear its music. It left me. But the songendures; the song endures, and all life has been the richer for itsechoes. So let them hold and cherish their happiness, the twoyoung fools.

As for the old one, would that some good fairy, possessed of the pigmentand secret of perishable youth, might come down and paint hisnose green!