discern one trace of confession on his countenance.
Then he did a strange thing.
He held his arms out toward Detective Mullaney and crossed them, wrist
over wrist, and he smiled.
“If you are certain enough of your man to dare to arrest me, sir, I
stand here waiting for the handcuffs.”
The detective hesitated, visibly embarrassed. He had been looking for
confusion, confession by manner, even collapse.
“This is a put-up political job,” declared a delegate. “That's no
murderer--that man.”
“I am waiting,” repeated Farr.
Detective Mullaney flushed. There were murmurs of hostility in the
throng about him. He ran over swiftly in his mind the contents of his
note-book and fortified his courage.
“I haven't secured a warrant yet--but I'll take your dare,” he
announced. He started to come down the aisle.
“Just one moment,” called a stentorian voice in the gallery. “You're
wrong, my man, down there. I don't want to see an innocent person
disgraced in public nor an officer get himself into a scrape. That man
is not Nelson Sinkler.”
“What are we running here--a state convention or a police court?”
Colonel Dodd demanded, leaping up and grabbing the arm of the presiding
officer. “Order all those men ejected from the hall.”
But at that moment the convention was not in the control of the
chairman. Irregular as it all was, human nature demanded to be shown
there and then.
Delegates arose, shouting, and surrounded Farr, making effectual
bulwarks against Mullaney with their bodies. Voices asked the stranger
in the gallery for information, and he motioned the vociferous mob into
silence.
“I am a United States post-office inspector, and I can easily prove my
identity, gentlemen. I'm here in this convention merely as a spectator,
killing time till my train leaves. But I know Nelson Sinkler because
I arrested him a month or so ago after he had been a fugitive for two
years. He killed a mail clerk. He is now awaiting trial. If that man
down there is arrested as being Nelson Sinkler it will mean a lot of
trouble for somebody.” He sat down.
“Who are you?” yelled a chorus of the ring's henchmen. They pressed as
near to Farr as his body-guard would permit and shook their fists at
him.
“I am a man and not a spirit,” he said in the first silence--and
silence came quickly, for they were eager to hear. “You can see that
for yourselves. But just now I am less a man than a _Voice_.” He shouted
that last word. “The Voice calls you to rebuke the kind of politics that
has just been attempted here. You have seen, you have heard! Will you
indorse it by your votes? Will you keep in power that gang that has
attempted it in the desperation of defeat?”
“No,” the voices of men tumultuously replied.
Reckless and unjust attack had never tossed a more golden opportunity
into a man's hands.
“Then come over to the side of decency, my men. Nominate a champion who
will be spotless and unafraid. There is war in this commonwealth instead
of politics. Through one war the great patriot of this state led his
people with high chivalry. For the next governor of this state, in these
trying times, I nominate the son of that patriot--the Honorable Archer
Converse of this city--God bless him!”
“We're licked,” gasped Colonel Dodd, trying to make the state chairman
hear him, for the roar that rocked the great hall was deafening. “A
boomerang has come back and mowed us flatter than an oven door in
tophet.”
In the rout, in the retreat--horse, foot and dragoons--crisp orders
were issued and obeyed. The friends of Governor Harwood had only one
resource--it was to save that gentleman's face. His nomination was
withdrawn.
That convention had run amuck, it was a mass of wild men who were
feeling liberty from oppression for the first time and gloried in their
new and sudden freedom from ring rule.
Then the delegates who came upon their feet roared the unanimous
nomination of Archer Converse.
In the gale of that acclaim the opposition uttered no protest; the
delegates who still remained loyal to the machine scowled and kept their
seats.
Ducking under the tossing arms of men who flung aloft their hats and
cheered with the frenzy of delight that the amazing victory inspired,
Richard Dodd escaped to the rear of the hall and jammed himself into the
press of the spectators. He hid behind a hedge of bodies and then dared
to look at Colonel Dodd's face. The mighty passion which flamed on
the uncle's countenance was revealed to the nephew's gaze even at that
distance. The colonel was at the edge of the platform and was beckoning
imperiously to some one. Young Dodd saw Detective Mullaney work his
way out of the throng which surrounded Walker Farr; the officer was
obviously obeying the summons of Colonel Dodd and marched to the
platform and climbed on a chair in order to converse with the angry man
who had beckoned.
And when Richard Dodd saw that conference begin overwhelming fear swept
out of his soul all other emotions. He no longer had eyes for that girl
in the gallery. Not even love and the promise she had made availed to
stay him. Panic allowed him no time for planning an excuse or framing a
lie. In playing for the stakes he had exacted he had felt that his uncle
would hold no autopsy on the price of success. But five thousand dollars
plucked from the Dodd pocket by a falsehood for which no excuse could
be offered! And on top of that a crushing defeat which had been made
definite and final by the work which Colonel Dodd had paid for!
The nephew saw Mullaney shake his head and throw up his hands in appeal
and protest.
That spectacle made Richard Dodd a fugitive who thought only of saving
himself. He fought his way through the crowd and ran out of the hall.
The thought of facing Symonds Dodd in that crisis or of waiting to be
dragged before the furious tyrant--that thought lashed the traitor into
mad flight.
He glanced up at the clock in the First National tower. He had three
minutes before the bank's closing time. He controlled his emotions as
best he could and presented the check at the paying-teller's grill.
The money was counted out to him without question, and when he held the
thick packet in his hand he realized still more acutely in what position
he stood in his affairs with Symonds Dodd.
He rushed to a garage, secured his car, and fled.
“I tell you I gave my nephew a check for five thousand dollars,”
insisted the colonel. “And the Dodds don't lie to each other!”
“Then they have begun to do it,” declared Mullaney. “He has
double-crossed the two of us. There was never any talk between us of
more than five hundred for the job.”
Colonel Dodd hurried into the anteroom and called the bank on the
telephone. “Almighty Herod!” he yelped, when he was informed that the
check had been cashed. He banged the receiver upon its hook. “Even my
own nephew has joined the pack of those damnation wolves!”
Then with the air of a man recovering from a blow and wondering dizzily
what had struck him, he left the convention hall by a rear door and went
to his office.
Those whom he passed on his way out made no attempt to stop him, did not
urge him to remain. That convention seemed to be doing very well without
calling upon Colonel Symonds Dodd for help or suggestions.
XXX
A GIRL'S IMPULSE
Herald unofficial, _avant courier_, Mr. Daniel Breed squeezed himself
through the pack of people while they were still cheering the name of
the Honorable Archer Converse.
“Giving candy to youngsters and good news to grown folks never
made anybody specially unpopular,” Mr. Breed assured himself with
politician's sagacity.
Therefore, he jog-trotted down to the Converse law-offices and shot
himself into the presence of the estimable gentleman who had remained
aloof from the distracting business of a convention.
“He's done it,” proclaimed Mr. Breed, making his sentences short and his
message to the point because he was out of breath.
“Who has done what?” demanded Mr. Converse, with equal crispness.
“Farr. You're nominated for governor. Acclamation! He's a wiz with his
tongue.” Mr. Breed pursed his little mouth and “sipped” with gusto.
“Some talker! Don't ever tell me that good talk doesn't win when the
right man makes it at the right time.”
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.