The Landloper: The Romance of a Man on Foot
renunciation, rather than pride. She no longer wondered at the interest
she felt in this man; she knew that she loved him. She was able to own
that truth to herself, and to view it calmly because she had made her
promise to Richard Dodd and was resolved to keep it. That determination
made of this love a precious possession that she could put away for ever
out of the sight of all the world. Such a poor, meager, little story of
love it was! A few meetings--a hand-touch--a word or two.
There in that packed forum had been their only real love-making. Over
the heads of angry men they had told each other with their eyes. There
was no misunderstanding on the part of either. Both knew the truth.
And yet, after he had told her, this enigma of a man bowed his head and
edged his way to the door, moving unobtrusively through the press of
humanity, taking advantage of the confusion which marked the entrance of
Archer Converse.
Impulse goaded Kate Kilgour at that moment. She did not reason or
reflect. Something in the air of this man told her that sorrow instead
of triumph was dominating him; his whole demeanor had said “Farewell”
when he had turned from her. The instinct of the woman who loves and
longs to comfort the object of that affection drove her out of the hall,
and she followed him--ashamed, marveling at herself, searching her soul
for words with which to excuse her madness, should he turn and behold
her.
But the autumn dusk was early and she was grateful because it shrouded
her.
Farr, leaving the din of the convention, going forth alone, looked more
like the vanquished than the victor. He walked slowly, his head was
lowered, and he turned off the Boulevard at once, seeking deserted
streets which led him down toward the big mills.
Their myriad lights shone from dusty windows, row upon row, and the
staccato chatter of the looms sounded ceaselessly.
Farr climbed the fence where old Etienne was everlastingly raking. The
young man had not seen much of the old rack-tender for some weeks, and
now he greeted Etienne rather curtly as he passed on his way to the
tree. But Etienne seemed to understand.
“Ah, I will not talk, m'sieu'. I will not bodder you. I hear how much
you have work and run about, and you must be very tire.”
There was a crackle of autumn chill in the air, but Farr took off his
hat and sat down and leaned his head against the tree. He closed his
eyes. One might have thought that he wished to sleep.
When the rack-tender made his next turn toward the street he saw a woman
at the fence, and as he peered she beckoned to him. He went close and
saw it was the pretty lady to whom he had told the story of Rosemarie.
She trembled as she clutched the top of the high fence, and when she
spoke to him he understood that she was very near to tears.
“Is there not some way--some gate by which I may come in?” she pleaded.
“That is not allow, ma'm'selle. It is trespass.”
“But I want to speak--to--tell him--We can talk over there beside the
tree and will not be heard. It is to Mr. Farr I wish to speak. I saw
him when he climbed the fence.” She hurried her appeal with pitiful
eagerness.
“Ah yes, I have one little gate for maself--for my frien'--for hees
frien', ma'm'selle. I will break the rule. You shall come in.”
She went softly and stood before Farr for some minutes before he opened
his eyes.
Then he looked up and saw her and he did not speak. He seemed to accept
her presence as a natural matter. She was clasping her hands tightly to
steady herself. His calm demeanor helped her.
“I don't know why I came here,” she murmured.
“I know. It's because you are sorry for me.”
“But I followed you. I dared to do that. I don't know why. I haven't the
words--I can't explain.”
“I understand. You wondered why I came away from the convention. You
want to ask me why.”
“Yes, that's it. I am interested in the fight. I have left the office
where so many bad things were planned.”
“I know. It was good of you to warn me.”
“And now I am afraid you are in trouble.”
“I am.”
“But you have many good friends now, sir.”
“I fear they cannot help me. When I left that hall I tried to tell you
with my eyes that I was going away.”
“I--I think I understood,” she stammered. “It was wrong--it was
folly--but I followed you without knowing why I did so.”
“I am glad you did. I can say farewell to you here.”
“But you must not go away, Mr. Farr. You are needed.”
“I am going because I can best help the work in that way. If I stay here
I may be the cause of great harm.”
“I cannot understand.”
“I do not want you to understand.”
“Why?”
“It is a matter which concerns others besides myself.”
“Does Mr. Converse know that you are going away?”
“I shall tell him to-night before I leave town.”
“He will not allow you to do.”
“Yes--he will,” the young man returned, quietly.
There was a long silence.
“Coming here--following you--it was a mad thing for me to do,” said the
girl, still striving to find explanation for her act. “But I have had so
much trouble in my own life--I am sorry for others who are in trouble. I
want to tell you that I am sorry.”
“I understand,” he repeated.
Another period of silence followed.
“That is all,” said the girl. “I only wanted to tell you what a grand
battle you won to-day--and then I saw your face there in the hall and
I knew that you did not want praise--you wanted somebody to say to you,
'I'm sorry.'” She dwelt upon the word which expressed her sympathy,
putting all her heart into her voice. “And now I'll be going,” she said,
“and I hope you understand and will forgive me.”
Farr had been sitting with head against the trunk of the tree. When he
had started to rise she requested him to remain seated. Now he stood up
so quickly that she gasped. She was plainly still less at ease when he
stood and came close to her.
“Wait a moment. You think that I am a very strange sort of man, do you
not?”
She was silent.
“You need not answer--it doesn't need answer. You naturally must think
that. You met me when I was a vagrant. You have seen me selling ice from
a cart-tail. But--I will be very frank, for this is a time which demands
frankness--you have seen me in other circumstances which have been a
bit more creditable. You do not know who I am or what to make of me. But
with all your heart and soul you know that I love you,” he declared, his
tones low and tense and thrilling. “That love has needed no words. It
has been strange love-making. Wait! This isn't going to be what you
think. If I were simply going to say I love you I would have said it to
you long ago--I am not a coward--and I had seen the one mate of all the
world; I knew it when I saw you in the dust of the long highway. And
after you went on I picked a rose beside the way, and the ashes of that
rose are in my pocket now. I called you the little sister of the rose
and plodded along after you, playing with a dream. And I threw the rose
away after I saw you in the woods with your lover--and understood. But I
went back and hunted on my knees for your sister. I didn't intend to say
any of this to you. For it is of no use.”
“No; I am promised to Richard Dodd,” she sobbed.
“If that was all that stood between us I'd reach now and take you in my
arms,” he said, with bitterness.
“It is more than a mere promise--he owns me--it was bargain and
sale--it's sacrifice--for--But I must not tell you.” She went to the
tree and put her forehead on her crossed arms and wept with a child's
pitiful abandon. He came close and put tender hand upon her shoulder.
“Sacrifice, little sister of the rose! Then there is another bond
between us! Sacrifice! My God! the curse that is sometimes put upon the
innocent!” He put the tip of his forefinger under her chin and lifted
her face from her arms. “I haven't any right to tell you that I love
you. I must march on. I cannot even explain to you why I cannot take you
in my arms and plead for your love.”
Her eyes told him what answer his pleading would win, and he trembled
and stepped away from her.
“Since it can never be,” she said, brokenly, “you may as well know
that I--that I do--I couldn't help it. I am forward--I am bold--it
is shameless--but I never loved anybody before.” She put out both her
hands, and he took them.
Old Etienne dragged doggedly at his work, his lantern lighting his toil.
The looms clacked behind the dusty windows which splashed their radiance
upon the gloom.
“It is a bit strange that now another wonderful but bitter experience
should come into my life on this spot where we are standing,” he told
her. He spoke quietly, trying to calm her; striving to crowd back his
own emotions. “I guess fate picked this spot as the right place for us
to say farewell to each other. I stood here one day and saw old Etienne
draw a dead woman to the surface of the water, and I found a letter in
her breast and I took her key and went and found little Rosemarie.”
She stared at him, her eyes very wide in the darkness.
“And that dead woman--she was the mother of the little girl?”
“Yes, a poor weaver that the mills had broken. And Rosemarie and I sat
all night under this tree. It is too long a story for you now. No matter
about that, but I--”
“I know about Rosemarie,” she confessed.
“And my heart opened and something new came into it, little sister of
the rose. And now on this spot I stand, and all joy and hope and love
are dead for me when I give back to you these dear little hands.”
She was still staring at him.
“But I must not--I dare not speak of it,” he proceeded. His grasp grew
tense. “See how I am trying to be calm? I will not loose my grip on
myself. Our doom was written for us by other hands, dear heart. When it
was summer I walked here with Rosemarie and play-mamma. Now it is autumn
and--”
“Play-mamma!” she gasped.
“Yes, a dear, good girl who worked hard in the mill and who was very
good to our Rosemarie; I was making poor shifts at buying a little
girl's clothes, and Zelie Dionne was wise in those matters and was busy
with her needle.”
“I hope you been excuse me,” broke in old Etienne. “I overheard the name
of Zelie Dionne, but I don't mean to listen. I have some good news for
you, M'sieu' Farr, what you don't hear because you ain't been on this
place for long time. And it is not good news for you, ma'm'selle, for
now you can't get acquaint with very nice Canadian girl. The big beau
Jean have come down here from Tadousac and now he own nice farm and they
will get marry and be very happy up in the habitant country.”
“Thank God, there's some happiness in this world,” said Farr. “She is a
good girl.”
There was almost joy on Kate Kilgour's face when she looked up at Farr.
Her god had been restored to his pedestal.
“Farewell,” he said at the little gate through which she had stepped
into the street.
“No,” she cried as she turned and hurried away; “I'll not say it--not
now!” And he wondered because there was joy in her tones.
XXXI
THE MASK OF CYNICISM
Old Etienne came to the gate with his lantern; the big turbines were
stilling their rumble and growl in the deep pits and his day's work was
ended.
“P'r'aps you may walk to Mother Maillet's with me and say the good word
to Jean from Tadousac and to Zelie Dionne, who is now so very glad,”
suggested the old man, humbly. “The good priest he marry them very soon
and they will go home.”
“Yes, I will go, Etienne. I can say good-by there to you and to Miss
Dionne.”
“So you go visit some place, eh, after your hard work? That will be very
good for you, M'sieu' Farr. You shall come back much rest up and then
you will show the poor folks how you will help them some more.”
“I shall not come back--I am going away to stay.”