The Landloper Part 59

"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 G.o.d! 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 G.o.d, 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 G.o.d 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.

x.x.xI

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 pa.s.sed, 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."