The Landloper: The Romance of a Man on Foot
“But you promise under the big light at the _hotel de ville_--I hear you
promise that you will stay,” protested the old man.
“My work is finished.”
“That is not so, M'sieu' Farr. For many men come to talk to me over the
fence since I stand up in the big hall. They are wiser than such a fool
as I am. They say that you have just begin to do great things for the
poor folks. You shall take the water-pipes away from the men who have
poison them. Ah, that is what they say. I do not understand, but they
say it shall be so.”
“Other men can do it,” said Farr, curtly.
“And yet you will come back--when?” The old man was struggling with his
bewilderment and doubt.
“Never.”
He understood how he was hurting that old man, but bitterness and
hopelessness were crowding all tender feelings out of Farr at that
moment. Once more he put on the mask of cynicism. He feared to show
anybody the depths of his soul.
In the good woman's little sitting-room they found Zelie Dionne.
“I have stopped in to say good-by, Miss Zelie. I am going away. I'm
sorry that the grand young man from Tadousac is not here.”
“He comes to sit with me in the evening. You shall wait and see him.”
“No, I must hurry on.”
“I have been reading about you.” She tapped the newspaper in her hand.
“The boy just passed, crying the news. It is very wonderful what you
have done. Now you will be the great man. But I knew all the time that
you were much more than you seemed to be.”
“However, you don't seem to understand me just now,” he declared. “I am
going away from this city--from this state. I am going to stay away.”
“_Oui_, he have say that thing to me,” said old Etienne, brokenly. “And
I do not understand.”
“And _I_ do not understand.”
“I'm tired--put it that way.”
“Ah no, that is not it.”
“Well, I am more or less of a sneak and a quitter when it comes to a
pinch. I don't want you two good folks to feel sorry about me. Forget
me. That will be the best way. I hope you will be very happy in
Tadousac, Miss Zelie.”
“I hoped we were better friends,” she said simply. “I am very sad to
find you do not trust us.”
“Oh, I'm selfish--that's it. Remember me as a selfish man who was tired
and ran away.”
“We have talked about you, Uncle Etienne and I, and we have never said
that you are selfish.”
“That shows you don't know me,” said Farr, roughly.
“But we know what you have done,” insisted the old man, with patient
confidence. “For what you say you shall not do we do not care about
that. For we have seen what you have done--ah, we know about that and
care about it very much. You are wiser than we are, and if you say you
must go we can only look at you very sad and bow the head. I wish I had
some language so to tell you how very sorry! But the Yankee words--I
know not those which tell how sorry I shall be. It is not much I can do
for the poor little childs--only whittle and save pennies for the fresh
air.”
Another man, another tone, might have put rebuke, indirectly, into those
words. But old Etienne, rasping his hard palms nervously, was merely
vowing himself to sacrifice because there was no one else left to do so.
Farr understood and was softened.
“And now I must go to the bed for my sleep, because the rack must be
cleared before the wheel start to go roompy-roomp in the big pit asking
for its water.” He was showing nervousness, haste, his voice trembled;
he staggered when he lifted himself out of his chair.
“You'd better say good-by to me now,” said Farr, rising with the old
man. “It's a good night under the stars. I shall probably be far out on
the road by daylight.”
“Good-bye,” muttered old Etienne, fumbling his hat and bowing.
“But aren't you going to say something else to me--say you're sorry to
have me go?” demanded the young man. “We have been close together in
some things we shall never forget.”
“I have told you. I cannot say how sorry.” The old man's voice was
little more than a husky whisper.
“I like you, Uncle Etienne. I want you to know it. You are an old
saint.” He put out his hand, but the rack-tender turned and hurried to
the door. “Not take my hand?” cried Farr. “Am I as much of a traitor as
all that?”
“Oh, I cannot speak! I have no word,” wailed the old man from the gloom
in the street. His voice rose in shrill, cracked tones. He began to weep
aloud. He had been restraining his feelings with all the strength of his
will since Farr had announced his intentions. His departure was flight.
He began to run away down the sidewalk. “Saint Joseph, guard my tongue!”
he gasped over and over. “I'll go very fast so that I not say it, for I
am only old Pickaroon, and he is fine gentlemans!” He continued to weep
broken-heartedly.
“Mr. Farr, he was afraid he would tell you how much he loved you--afraid
that you would be insulted if he presumed to tell you of it.”
“I don't think I just understand that,” commented Farr, staring into the
night, peering to get another glimpse of Etienne.
“I understand!” said the girl. “It would be too bad for you to go away
and think that at parting he was not polite to you. I would not like to
have you suppose that fault is in one from Tadousac. He has told me. If
you will not follow him and frighten him by saying that you know it, I
will tell you.”
“I will not follow him. Probably I shall never see him again.”
“It may be a bit hard for you to understand, for you do not know the
French nature, perhaps. But since little Rosemarie went away for ever he
has loved you. You made something more of him than the old rack-tender
when you took him into partnership. When you made him your friend
before all the big men at the City Hall something bloomed in him,
m'sieu'--something that before had been only a withered bud! Ah, you
think I am fanciful? Very well! I cannot think how to say it any other
way. You are a token for him from little Rosemarie who has gone away;
you are friend, you are son, you are in his eyes destined savior of
these poor people.”
“I am glad I am going away. I would hate to betray such childlike faith.
Good-by, Miss Zelie!”
He heard her call to him when he was in the street. He turned and
halted and saw her slim, white figure at the gate, and he stepped back
half-way.
She was girlish sympathy incarnate, and his troubled, hungry,
self-accusatory soul caught the radiation of that womanly solace.
“It's not what you say to me you are,” she said, her breath coming fast,
her tones low. “It's what I know you are! That you will be when at last
you shall come to yourself. I do not care what you say. I shall not
remember! To the world--to me--to poor Etienne, just now, you lied about
yourself, M'sieu' Farr--about your real self. But you did not lie to
a little girl when she asked you to show your true self to her. Of
yourself--with little Rosemarie--that shall I remember!”
“I thank you,” he said, gratefully.
“Some day some woman will love you,” she continued. “And when you are
sure that she does love you, then you will tell her your troubles and
she will know what to say to make things right for you. For that is the
mission of good women. They understand how to listen and how to help the
men they love. You shall see!” She hurried into the house.
Farr was promptly admitted when he presented himself at the door of
Archer Converse's residence, and he was conducted to that gentleman's
library, and came face to face with his patron, whom he found sitting
very erect in a high-backed chair.
“I have been waiting for you, sir,” said Converse.
“I expected that you would be waiting, sir.”
“Be seated.”
“I will stand, if you please. I have only a few words to say.”
“Then your nature must have changed very suddenly,” said the lawyer,
dryly. “Or did you pump your reservoir dry of language when you put my
name in nomination to-day?”
Farr bowed without reply.
“I hear that speech commended very highly. Among opportunists you
deserve high rank, Mr. Farr. You have tipped a state upside down very
effectively, and I am upside down along with the rest.”
“I will stand here very patiently, sir, and take my punishment. As
between ourselves, I had no right to do what I did to-day without
consulting you. As regards conditions in the state, I had a right to
seize that opportunity and give to the people a man who can be depended
on. I did so. Go ahead, now, Mr. Converse!”
To the young man's surprise, the nominee arose and came to him with
hand outstretched. A smile broke through the grimness of the lawyer's
countenance. “I have accepted a public trust with pride, I am obeying my
plain duty with satisfaction, and I shall work to be elected with all my
might. Otherwise I wouldn't be the son of my father. My boy, I have had
a talk with Citizen Drew to-day. He told me about your idea of kicking
honest men into politics. I want you to understand that I thank you
heartily because you have kicked me in. I'm going to swim!”
“'Then God's in His Heaven and the world's all right,'” declared Farr.
The lawyer's quizzical and searching gaze was rather disquieting; the
young man had found Converse eyeing him with peculiar interest during
their meetings in the recent past. Now Converse bestowed particularly
intent scrutiny on his caller.
“I feel that I have done my work, sir,” Farr hastened to say, anxious
to terminate this interview. “I am going away--out of the state. I shall
not return.”
Mr. Converse did not break out into protest. He eyed Farr more closely.
Then he reached a button and turned on the full light of the chandelier.
“You have a good reason for deserting just when you are most needed, I
presume, sir?”
“I have. It is a reason which especially concerns the success of the
legislation which we have discussed. If I stay I shall hamper you.”
“I will ask you to stand where you are for a few minutes, sir,” said the
lawyer, commanding rather than requesting. He went to a cabinet and drew
forth a package. He brought that packet to the table and began to sort
photographs.
He selected one, regarded it with careful gaze, and shifted his eyes to
the young man's face.
“Um!” he commented, with judicial tone. “Now--suppose you tell me--just
how your continued presence in this state will hamper me”--he paused; he
drawled the next words, emphasizing them--“Mr. Bristol!”
Farr had begun nervous retreat when the lawyer had begun comparison of
the living features with the photograph. It was plain that he feared
rather than understood.
“Hold on, there!” shouted the investigator. “You may as well stay and
settle this matter, Bristol. You look at this picture! You recognize it,
do you? If you are in any doubt I'll inform you that it's a picture of
your father when he and I were in law-school together.”
“I deny any relationship to that man.”
“Your tone and your manner convict you, my boy. I jumped you with that
name purposely. I am no fool when it comes to examining a witness. When
I first laid eyes on you I thought I had seen you, yourself, somewhere,
and I have been puzzling my brains. Then it occurred to me that I had
known in my youth a fellow who looked like you. You're the son of your
father, all right. Don't stultify yourself by lying to me. You are
Morgan Bristol's boy! Hah?”
“I am,” confessed the young man, with resignation.
“What is your first name?”
“Thornton.”
“Sit down, Thornton!”
The visitor obeyed.
“What have you done that you're ashamed of, my boy?”
“I cannot tell you,” said Bristol, firmly.
“Oh, but you're going to,” insisted the lawyer, with just as
much firmness. “You are now retaining me as your attorney and
counsel--whether you know it or not. And when a man talks to his lawyer
and tells the truth it's no betrayal of confidence. Out with it!”
“There's nothing to be done, Mr. Converse.”