The Landloper: The Romance of a Man on Foot

dirty babes who tumbled about on the bare floors. “Either too old to run a loom or too young to lug a bobbin,” Farr informed himself; “that's why they aren't in the mill.” Old folks and babes stared at him without showing interest. No one looked at him when he opened the door in which the key fitted. He stepped in quickly and closed and locked the door behind him. It was a little room and pitifully bare, and it was under the roof, and the ceiling slanted across it so sharply that the young man, tall above the average, was compelled to bow his head. A little girl, a wraith of a child, pale with the pallor of a prisoner, hardly more than a toddler, sat on the floor and stared up at the intruder, frozen, silent, immobile with the sudden, paralyzing terror that grasps the frightened child. Pathetically poor little playthings were scattered about her: a doll fashioned from gingham and cotton-waste, makeshift dishes of pasteboard, a doll-carriage made from a broken flower-basket with spools for wheels. The man who entered saw all with one glance and understood that here in this bare room this child had been compelled to drag out the weary hours alone while the mother had toiled. Here now the child waited patiently for--for that water-soaked bundle, with the white, dead face, that lay on the canal bank waiting for the coroner. And when he realized it and saw this and looked down on that lonely, patient, wistful little creature making the best shift she could with those pitiable playthings, something came up from that man's breast into his throat. He had not supposed he had any of it left in his soul--it was tender, agonizing, heartrending pity. She still stared at him, terrorized. Probably she had never seen any face come in at that door except her mother's. His pity must have given Walker Farr a hint of how to deal with this frightened child. He did not speak to her. He made no move toward her. He smiled! But it was not the smile he had given the fat plutocrat in the automobile, nor yet the jocular radiance he had displayed to old Etienne. It was such a smile as the man had never smiled before--and he realized it. He did not want to smile. He wanted to weep. But he brought that smile from tender depths in his soul--depths he had not known of before--and tears came with the smile. Before that time the lines in his face had fitted the smile of the cynic, the grimace of banter, of irony and insolence. But the strange glory that now glowed upon his features came there after the mightiest effort he had ever made to control his feelings and his expression. He smiled! In that smile he soothed, he promised, he appealed. Then when he saw the tense expression of fear fade away he smiled more broadly--he provoked reply in kind. And slowly upon the child's face an answering smile began to dawn--little crinkles at the corners of the drooping mouth, little flickerings in the blue eyes, until at last the two beaming faces pledged--on the part of the man tender protection, on the part of the child unquestioning confidence. But he said no word--he dared not trust his voice. He went down on his knees cautiously, her smile welcoming him now. He held out his hands. She hesitated a moment and then gave into them her chiefest possession--her rag doll. It was as if she had pledged her faith in him. He danced the doll upon his broad palm, and the child's eyes, dancing too, thanked him for the courtesy he was paying to her dearest friend. But Walker Farr realized that something strange and disquieting in the case of a man who believed himself a cynic was stirring within him. That hostage of the doll was not sufficient to satisfy the sudden queer craving. The knowledge of the hopeless helplessness of that little girl throbbed through him. The memory of the spectacle of what he had left on the canal bank made the pathos of this little scene in the garret doubly poignant as he looked into the child's eyes. Never, in his memory, had he invited a child to come to him. Now he put out his hand--and it trembled. She snuggled her warm little fist into his grasp. And then she scrambled up and came and nestled confidingly against him. She couldn't see his face then, and he allowed the tears of a strong man who is overcome before he has understood--who wonders at himself--he allowed those tears to streak his cheeks and did not wipe them away. Walker Farr was too perturbed to soliloquize just then in his philosopher's style, but he did realize that some part of his altruism had come out of its trance. And after he had knelt there on the floor for a time he rose and took the child in his arms and sat down in a creaky rocking-chair and crooned under his breath, and was astonished to find that she had gone sound asleep. He stared into the dusk that was gathering outside the dormer window and wondered what ailed him. He had heard many feet thudding on the stairs below. The workers were returning. The beehive was filling. There were many voices, clatter of dishes, chatter of patois. He wondered how well the woman Sirois was known in the house--whether she had relatives--how soon somebody would come and beat upon the door. He wondered just what disposition was made of children left in this manner. If the woman had relatives who were forced to take the child it meant more of this horrible tenement life. The child in his arms was pale and thin; her bones seemed as inconsiderable as a bird's. He did not know much about children's homes, orphanages, institutions for the reception of the homeless, but it seemed to him that such a tiny, frail little girl would be very, very lonely in such a place. The skies grew dark without. He was cramped because he had sat for hours in one position, fearing to waken her. But when he moved she did not waken--he did not understand how soundly childhood can sleep. He laid her on the foot of the narrow bed and looked about the room, shielding a match with his hands. He had resolved to carry her out of that fetid, overcrowded babel of a tenement. Where? He did not know. He hunted to find her belongings. He found a few clothes. There was no receptacle in which he could pack them. He folded them and crowded the articles in his pockets. He stuffed in the doll and the rude playthings and hooked the basket doll-carriage upon his arm. She did not waken when he picked her up. He tiptoed down the stairs and nobody noticed him, In his own dizzy mind he could not determine whether he felt most like a thief or a lunatic. At any rate, he found himself walking the streets of the mill city at ten o'clock at night, carrying a little girl in his arms and all her earthly possessions in his pockets. It came over him at last that the longer he kept her the more uncertain he became as to what disposal he should make of her, or else he was more loath to part with her; he didn't exactly know which. Then she woke and spoke for the first time. “Me is te'bble hungry--and firsty,” she mourned. “Good Lord! What's the matter with me?” grunted the young man. “If I had found a cat or a dog, the first thing I would have done would be to give 'em something to eat. I reckon I must have thought I had picked up an angel.” To her he said, smoothing her hair with his free hand. “We'll have sumpin for baby's tummy mighty quick.” He flushed at sound of that baby prattle from his lips. But it had popped out in the most natural manner possible. He headed for the nearest night lunch-cart. He entered with his burden. He elbowed aside men who were eating sandwiches and pie at the counter. With complete and rueful knowledge as to the extent of his resources, he ordered a bowl of bread and milk--“the best you can do for a hungry kiddie for ten cents,” he added. “Anything for yourself?” inquired the waiter. He shook his head and paid for the child's supper with his whole capital, two nickels. He held her on the end of the counter and, awkwardly but with tender carefulness, fed the bread and milk to her with a spoon. A healthy man's hunger gnawed within him and the savor of coffee from the big, bubbling urn tantalized him. He tipped the bowl to her lips and she drank the last of the milk with a happy little sigh, and he went out into the night again, carrying her in his arms. He understood all the suspicions that policemen entertain in the case of night prowlers, and knew that they would be particularly and meddlesomely interested in one who prowled with a child in his arms. The child began to whimper softly. Her interest in the stranger who had won her with a smile, her slumber in his arms, her feast in strange surroundings, had kept her child's mind busy and pacified till then. Now she voiced childhood's unvarying lament--“I wants my mamma!” He soothed her as best he could, promising, giving her all manner of assurance regarding her mother, wondering all the time what was to be done. Why had he interfered? Why had he taken upon himself the custody of this mite, so trifling a weight in his arms, but now resting--a giant of a burden--on his responsibility? He did not know. He owned up to that ignorance frankly. But he walked on, carrying her, and put away from his thoughts the sensible alternative of placing her in the hands of those duly appointed to care for such cases. He told himself that, as a stranger in the city, he would not be able to find a refuge--an institution that time of night--and he knew that he was lying to himself, and wondered why. The impulse that directed his course toward the canal was rather grim, but he remembered the tree which had been sanctuary for him that day. He carefully lowered the little girl over the fence and climbed after her. And she did not call any more for her mother because this strange new scene seemed to impress her and fill her with wonderment. She stared up into the dim, mysterious, rustling foliage of the tree for a long time. She patted her hands upon the grass as if it were something she had never seen or felt before. She seemed to be making her first acquaintance with Mother Nature--claiming the heritage of outdoors that children so intensely covet. The sloped ceiling and the walls of the attic room had been sky and landscape for her. She peered into the still waters of the canal and saw the stars reflected there, and cocked her ear to listen when sleepy birds stirred above and chirped in their dreams. And then she fell asleep again and he tucked her within his coat to keep from her the dampness of the faint mist rising from the canal. The dawn flushed early and she woke when the birds did, and found so much to interest her--ants who ran up and down the tree, funny bugs that tumbled, robins who bounced along the sward on stiff legs--that she did not ask for her mother nor seem to find at all strange the companionship of this tall man whose face was so kind. And so Etienne Provancher found them when he came with his rake and pike-pole at six o'clock, the hour when the great turbines began to grunt and rumble in their deep pits. “It is Rosemarie--I found her in the room,” said Walker Farr. The old man came close and gazed down on the pallor and pathos of this little snipped who still stared at the new wonders of outdoors. “Anodder one, hey? You found her lock up?” “Yes, and I brought her away--and I don't know just what the matter is with me, Etienne. I have not been inclined to put myself out for anybody in this world--man, woman, or child--of late years. I had made up my mind to let the world run itself.” “It is the way the rich man say--he do not care. But the poor man should care--he should try to help odder poor man. He should care.” “Oh, there are things that can happen to make a man stop caring. But I