Chapter 22

Mr. Converse rose and stood--a rigid statue of consternation and protest. “Do you mean to come in here and tell me that I have been nominated by that state convention? Without my sanction? Without my consent?”

“Sure thing! Easy work! Played all the tricks. Made believe he was green. Poked rights and lefts to Harwood's jaw. Had himself paged as a murderer--at least, I reckon it was his own get-up. It cinched the thing, anyway. He understands human nature.”

But Mr. Converse did not in the least understand this talk. “Look here, Breed, you haven't gone crazy yourself, along with the rest, have you?”

“Nobody's crazy. People have simply woke up.”

“I'll be eternally condemned if I--”

“That's right! You will be if you don't button up your coat and go over to the hall along with that notification committee that's probably on the way, give the folks your best bow, and say you'll take the job. We're some little team when we get started.”

“You're an infernal steer team, and you have dragged me into a mess of trouble,” declared Mr. Converse, with venom.

“Glad you're in,” retorted the imperturbable Breed. “A man needs more or less trouble so as to round himself out; I've been having some troubles of my own. Whatever job you give me after you're elected, don't put me back with them stuffed animals. Harwood made his mistake right there!”

“It has begun already, has it?” asked Converse, indignantly. “Office-seekers at it?”

“Sure thing!” responded Mr. Breed, amiably. “When you cool down you'll remember that I got to you first with the good news.”

Five minutes later the Honorable Archer Converse, muttering, but more calm, was marching toward the convention hall in the company of a proud committee of notification.

He walked out upon the platform and waited for the wild tumult of greeting to subside, and while he waited he searched the assemblage with stern scrutiny to find the face of Walker Farr.

But that young worker of miracles was not in evidence.

He had risen with the others when the band began to blare the music which signaled the approach of the nominee.

Once more he turned his gaze toward the girl in the gallery.

There was nothing in his demeanor to suggest that he had been a victor. His face was white, and after his eyes had held hers for a long time he gave her a wistful little smile which expressed regret, sorrow, 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.”

“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.