Part 101

“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.”