The Landloper: The Romance of a Man on Foot
Her ears had just listened to the story of his shame.
But after a time, in spite of what she had seen and heard, that strange
instinct which dominates the feminine mind in spite of what the mere
senses affirm took possession of her.
She had known from the first that Richard Dodd's garments, his attitude,
his professions, his position did not make him what her woman's heart
desired.
But, somehow, this other man, no matter what he seemed to be from
outward appearance, stood forth for her from all the world. At times, in
her ponderings, she had disgustedly termed her mood regarding him pure
lunacy. Then she gave rein to the domination of her intuition; the man
was not what he seemed to be!
She determined to put him out of her thoughts for ever.
Just then, however, writing out the story of his turpitude, she must
needs have him in her mind.
She wondered whether he were honest in his attempts to help the poor
people.
She had believed that he was when he had faced Colonel Dodd.
She determined that she would make some investigation of her own in
regard to the mysterious person who had taken such possession of her
thoughts since she had met him in the highway--whose personality had
so pricked her curiosity. She comforted herself by calling her interest
mere curiosity. That was it! If this man were what they claimed he was
she might help in revealing him as an enemy of the poor folks.
And then to her came another thought.
She looked around the offices where she worked and bitter lines were
etched in her forehead and about her mouth.
The place had become hateful. She was conscious of a passionate desire
to be free from the atmosphere of that central web of the Great Spider.
She bent over her work and hurried.
What was the shadow over her home?
She realized that she was not thinking clearly in the matter. She
knew that impulse was driving her. But it was impulse which was
uncontrollable. For a long time she had understood the sinister
influence which had radiated from that office in the First National
block. But it had been rather the impersonal influence of partisan
politics and she had had little knowledge of the persons concerned. But,
now that the situation had been so sharply pointed by recent happenings,
she understood better what had gone on in the past.
This stranger, whoever he was, seemed to be fighting for the good of the
people. She had heard him declare his principles boldly; she knew the
selfishness of the men who opposed him. She resolved to know more.
It was close upon six o'clock when she finished the transcription.
She had given much thought to her own affairs while she had been
working. And now she allowed impulse to dominate. She resolved to leave
that employment which brought her into contact with Richard Dodd and
where her duties required her to prepare material for the ruin of a man
who seemed to be doing an unselfish duty, no matter what they said. She
did not try to analyze that quixotic impulse; she merely obeyed.
She tied up the packet of manuscript, addressed it to Colonel Dodd, and
slipped under the string a sealed note. In that note she resigned her
position, stating that a matter of personal honor demanded that she
leave instantly. She did not qualify that statement by any explanation.
But she knew in her own heart just what it meant. For when she left the
office she did not hasten straight home as her anxious fears prompted
her; she made a detour around by Gamonic Mill in search of one
Provancher, who, she had learned, tended the rack of the canal.
The thought that dominated all other thoughts and comforted her was the
reflection that she was no longer the confidential secretary of Colonel
Symonds Dodd, and that now she might obey certain promptings of both
curiosity and conscience.
The rumble of the big turbines was stilled when she came to the fence
which surrounded the rack, and old Etienne was starting away with rake
and pike-pole. But when she called he came to her--wondering, much
abashed, for she was by far the prettiest lady he had ever seen.
“Are you the friend of Mr. Walker Farr?” she asked, and she was even
more embarrassed than he.
“I am too poor mans to be call a friend, ma'm'selle. I can just say that
he is grand mans that I love.”
“Then you are the one to give him this message. Tell him that men who
are fighting him in politics intend to do him great harm and that he
must be very careful. Tell him that he will understand who these men
are.”
“_Oui_, ma'm'selle. But will he understand who tell me that thing?”
Her cheeks were crimson. “No, no! He mustn't know that.”
“Then he will tell me, 'Poh, old Etienne, you know nottings what you
talk about.' He is very bold mans, and he not scare very easy.”
“But he must be cautious, for these men have power. He need not be
afraid of them, but he must watch carefully. You tell him that they
want to make out bad things about him so that they can print them in the
papers and hurt the cause he is working for. Can you remember?”
“_Oui_, ma'm'selle! I never forget anything what may be for his good. I
will tell him.”
She hesitated for a long time and stared wistfully at the old man. She
started to go away and then returned to the fence, plainly mustering her
courage.
“Do you know whether there is anything--about him--which wicked men can
use to hurt him?” she stammered.
“I only know about him what I know, ma'm'selle,” he replied, with a
gentle smile nestling in the wrinkles of his withered face.
“Could you tell me some of the things you know?” she asked, after much
effort, striving to make her voice calmly inquiring.
Old Etienne set the rake and the pike-pole against the fence. “I will be
quick in what I tell you, ma'm'selle, for I have no place to ask you
to take the seat. But I'm sure you will listen very well to this what I
say.”
And he told her the story of Rosemarie.
But he did not go back as far as the pitiful figure on the canal
bank, he made no mention of the water-soaked wad of paper which bore a
mother's appeal to the world, he did not mention the key to Block Ten.
He told the story of Walker Farr's devotion to a child. He did not
dare to reveal to this stranger the identity of that child, because the
telltale letter had been hidden from the coroner, and old Etienne stood
in awe of the curt and domineering men who enforced the laws. But with
simple earnestness and in halting speech he revealed the tenderness of
Farr's nature and gave further testimony to her woman's understanding
that this man who had come into her life possessed depths which she
longed to probe.
“But the child!” she ventured, after Etienne had finished the story of
how the two of them, voices in the wilderness of careless greed, had
faced the masters of the city in the _hotel de ville_; “it seems strange
that a man--that anybody should take a child and--” She hesitated.
“_Oui_, ma'm'selle, it seemed strange,” agreed the old man, studying her
with sharp glance of suspicion--a gaze so strange that she shifted her
eyes uneasily.
Ah, Etienne told himself, the law sometimes sent queer emissaries to
probe for it--and he feared the law very much.
He must be very careful how he told any of the secrets which might
trouble his good friend, who was now such a friend of the mighty
folks; as for himself--well, he would willingly be a martyr if the law
demanded--but he did fear that law!
“But he loved the child very much,” she hinted.
“So much that he will fight them because they have poisoned her--he will
fight them and not be scare.”
“It is strange!” she repeated.
“_Oui_, ma'm'selle,” he said, regarding her with still more suspicion.
“But before that morning--when you found them here under the tree! He
told you--”
“He walk the street with her in his arm. I don't tell you some more
about dat t'ing what I do not know!”
But she knew that he was withholding something from her. She mustered
her courage.
“Mr. Provancher, the bad men are making threats that they will print
stories about the child--and its mamma--to hurt your friend. And the
stories will make the mamma very sad.”
“No stories can make her sad,” said old Etienne, solemnly. But he did
not say that he had raked the mother from the canal. The law must not
know!
“But I have heard about her,” she insisted.
The old man's mouth trembled; he was frightened. “What you hear?” he
faltered.
“Only good things. That she was very tender and went with you to the
grave.”
“_Oui_,” admitted Etienne, visibly relieved and grasping at this
opportunity. “She's sweet and good. She's play-mamma.”
“And her name is Zelie Dionne?” she asked, her face growing white in the
dusk.
“_Oui_, ma'm'selle--she live across in the little house where there are
plant in the window--she live with the good Mother Maillet what I told
you about.” He pointed to the cottage. “You go some time and talk with
her--but not now,” he added, his fears flaming. He was anxious to be
the first to talk to Zelie Dionne, in order that she might help him to
protect their friend. “You shall talk with her--soon--p'raps. I will
tell her so that she will not be afraid. Yes, you shall hear the
play-mamma say good things of poor Rosemarie.”
She bowed and hurried away.
And before her tear-wet eyes the words “play-mamma” danced in letters of
fire. It seemed to be only another sordid story.
But she remembered the face of Walker Farr, and in her heart she
wondered why she still refused to condemn him.
XXVI
THE DRIVEN BARGAIN
The Honorable Daniel Breed, “sipping” his thin lips and propping his
coat-tails on his gaunt fingers, patrolled the lobby of the National
Hotel and his complacency was not a whit disturbed when Richard Dodd
passed in front of him and sneered in his face.
“Keep on practising making up faces,” advised the old man, amiably.
“Perhaps in the course of time your uncle will give you a job making up
faces as his understudy, seeing that his physog is getting so tough he
can't manage it very well these days.”
Young Dodd whirled on his heel and returned. “We've got a line on you
and your amateur angels, Breed.”
“Don't consider me an amateur, do you?” asked the old politician,
smacking his lips complacently.
“You're a has-been.”
“Sure thing!” agreed Mr. Breed. “The state committee told me so, and the
state committee never made a mistake.”
“We've got so much of a line on your crowd that my uncle has called off
the organizers. There's no need of our wasting money in this campaign.
You're that!” He clacked a finger smartly into his palm.
“Oh yes! You're right! Some snap to us.”
“I mean you're nothing.”
“Run in and take another drink, sonny,” advised Breed, giving slow cant
of his head to denote the baize door through which Dodd had emerged.
“What you have had up to date seems to be making you optimistic--and
there's nothing like being optimistic in politics. I'm always
optimistic--but naturally so. Don't need torching!”
“Look here, Breed, we've got enough dope on that ex-hobo who is doing
your errand-boy work--we know enough about him to kill your whole
sorehead proposition. But I don't believe my uncle will even use it. No
need of it.”
“Probably not,” said Mr. Breed, without resentment. “And I wouldn't if I
were he.”
“We won't descend to it. Now that we have got rid of a lot of old
battle-axes of politicians--and I'm calling no names--we can conduct a
campaign with dignity.”
“So do! So do! And it will save a lot of trouble, son; that's why the
newspapers wouldn't print that stuff about Mr. Farr after your uncle got
it ready. Libel cases make a lot of trouble.”
Dodd grew red and scowled. “Look here, Breed, you're licked before the
start, and as a good politician you know you are. My uncle wants you