The World For Sale, Complete - Gilbert Parker
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"Perhaps it will not be at all. My father spoke, but he can withdraw his
word," she urged.
Suddenly the old Gipsy's face hardened. A look of dark resolve and iron
force came into it.
"The Ry will not withdraw. He has spoken, and it must be. If he spoke
lightly he is not fit to rule. Unless the word of the Ry of Rys is good
against breaking, then the Romanys are no more than scattered leaves at
the will of the wind. It is the word of the Ry that holds our folk
together. It shall not bless, and it shall not curse in vain."
Pitying the girl's face, however, and realizing that the Gorgio life had
given her a new view of things; angry with her because it was so, but
loving her for herself, he added:
"But the night road may be long, though it is lonely, and if it should be
that the Ry should pass before the end of the road comes to Jethro, then
is Jethro freed, since the Word is gone which binds his feet for the
pitfall."
"He must not die," she insisted.
"Then the Ry of Rys must not live," he rejoined sternly. With a kindly
gesture, however, he stretched out his hand. "Come, we shall reach the
house of the Ry before the morning," he added. "He is not returned from
his journey, and so will not be troubled by having missed you. There will
be an hour for beauty-sleep before the sun rises," he continued with the
same wide smile with which he greeted her first. Then he lifted up the
curtain and passed out into the night.
Following him, Fleda saw that the Romanys had broken camp, and only a
small handful remained, among them the woman who had befriended her.
Fleda went up to her:
"I will never forget you," she said. "Will you wear this for me?" she
added, and she took from her throat a brooch which she had worn ever
since her first days in England, after her great illness there. The woman
accepted the brooch. "Lady love," she said, "you've lost your sleep
to-night, but that's a loss you can make good. If there's a night's sleep
owing you, you can collect the debt some time. No, a night's sleep lost
in a tent is nothing, if you're the only one in the tent. But if you're
not alone, and you lose a night's sleep, someone else may pick it up, and
you might never get it again!"
A flush slowly stole over Fleda's face, and a look of horror came into
her eyes. She read the parable aright.
"Will you let me kiss you?" she said to the woman, and now it was the
woman's turn to flush.
"You are the daughter of the Ry of Rys," she said almost shyly, yet
proudly.
"I'm a girl with a debt to pay and can never pay it," Fleda answered,
putting her arms impulsively around the woman's neck and kissing her.
Then she took the brooch from the woman's hand, and pinned it at her
throat.
"Think of Fleda of the Druses sometimes," she said, and she laid a hand
upon the woman's breast. "Lady love--lady love," said the blunt woman
with the pockmarked face, "you've had the worst fright to-night that
you'll ever have." She caught Fleda's hand and peered into it. "Yes, it's
happiness for you now, and on and on," she added exultingly, and with the
fortune-teller's air. "You've passed the danger place, and there'll be
wealth and a man who's been in danger, too; and there's children,
beautiful children--I see them."
In confusion, Fleda snatched her hand away. "Good-bye, you fool-woman,"
she said impatiently, yet gently, too. "You talk such sense and such
nonsense. Good-bye," she added brusquely, but yet she smiled at the woman
as she turned away.
A moment later she was on her way back to Manitou, but she did not get to
her father's house before the break of day; and in the doorway she met
Madame Bulteel, whose pale, drawn face proclaimed a sleepless night.
"Tell me what has happened? Tell me what has happened?" she asked in
distress.
Fleda took both her hands. "Before I answer, tell me what has happened
here," she said breathlessly. "What news?"
Madame Bulteel's face lighted. "Good news," she exclaimed eagerly.
"He will see--he will see again?" Fleda asked in great agitation.
"The Montreal doctor said that the chances were even," answered Madame
Bulteel. "This man from the States says it is a sure thing."
With a murmur Fleda sank into a chair, and a faintness came over her.
"That's not like a Romany," remarked old Rhodo. "No, it's certainly not
like a Romany," remarked Madame Bulteel meaningly.
CHAPTER XXIII
THE RETURN OF BELISARIUS
Grey days in the prairie country do not come very often, but they are
very depressing when they arrive. The landscape is not of the luscious
kind; it has no close correspondence with a picture by Corot or
Constable; sunlight is needed to give it the touch of the habitable and
the homelike. It was, therefore, unfortunate for the spirits of the
Lebanon people that the meeting summoned by local agitators to discuss
with asperity affairs on both sides of the Sagalac should, while starting
with fitful sunlight in the early morning, have developed to a bleak
greyness by three o'clock in the afternoon, the time set for the meeting.
Another strike was imminent in the factories at Manitou and in the
railway-shops at Lebanon, due to the stupidity of the policy of Ingolby's
successor as to the railways and other financial and manufacturing
interests. If he had planned a campaign of maladroitness he could not
have more happily fulfilled his object. It was not a good time for
reducing wages, or for quarrelling with the Town Councils of Manitou and
Lebanon concerning assessments and other matters. November and May always
found Manitou, as though to say, "upset." In the former month, men were
pouring through the place on their way to the shanties for their Winter's
work, and generally celebrating their coming internment by "irrigation";
in the latter month, they were returning from their Winter's
imprisonment, thirsty for excitement, and with memories of Winter
quarrels inciting them to "have it out of someone."
And it was in October, when the shantyman was passing through on his way
to the woods--a natural revolutionary, loving trouble as a coyote loves
his hole--that labour discontent was practically whipped into action, and
the Councils of the two towns were stung into bitterness against the new
provocative railway policy. Things looked dark enough. The trouble
between the two towns and the change of control and policy of the
railways, due to Ingolby's downfall, had greatly shaken land and building
values in Lebanon, and a black eye, as it were, had been given to the
whole district for the moment.
So serious had the situation been regarded that the Mayor of Lebanon,
with Halliday the lawyer and another notable citizen, all friends of
Ingolby, had "gone East"--as a journey to Montreal, Toronto, or Quebec
was generally called--to confer with and make appeal to the directorate
of the great railways. They went with some elation and hope, for they had
arguments of an unexpected kind in their possession, carefully hidden
from the rest of the population. They had returned only the day before
the meeting which was to be held in the square in front of the Town Hall,
to find that a platform had been built at the very steps of the Town Hall
with the assent of the Chief Constable, now recovered from illness and
returned to duty. To the Deputy Mayor and the Council, the Chief
Constable, on the advice of Gabriel Druse, had said that it was far
better to have the meeting in front of the Town Hall where he could, on
the instant, summon special constables from within if necessary, while
the influence of a well-built platform and the orderly arrangement of a
regular meeting were better than a mob oration from the tops of
ash-barrels.
The signs were ominous. In a day of sunshine the rebellious and
discontented spirit does not thrive; on a wet day it is apt to take
shelter; on a bleak, grey day men are prone to huddle together in their
anger with consequent stimulation of their passions.
It was a grey enough day at Lebanon, and dark-faced visitors from Manitou
felt the need of Winter clothing as they shiveringly crossed the Sagalac
by Ingolby's bridge. The air was raw and searching; Nature was sulky. In
the sharp wind the trees shook themselves angrily free of leaves. The
taverns were greatly frequented, which was not good for Manitou and
Lebanon. Up to the time of the meeting, however, the expected strike had
not occurred. This was mainly due to the fact that Felix Marchand, the
evil genius of Manitou, had not been seen in the town or in the district
for over a week. It was not generally known that he was absent because a
man by the name of Dennis, whose wife he had wronged, was dogging him
with no good intent. Marchand had treated the woman's warning with
contempt, but at sight of her injured husband he had himself withdrawn
from the scene of his dark enterprises. His malign influence was
therefore not at work at the moment.
The tactics of the Lebanon Town Council had been careful and wise. So
that the meeting should not be composed only of the roughest elements,
they privately urged all responsible citizens to attend, and if possible
capture the meeting for law and order and legitimate agitation. That was
why Osterhaut, the town-crier, went about with a large dinner-bell
announcing the hour of the meeting and admonishing all "good folks" to
attend. No one had ever seen Osterhaut quite so cheerful--and he had a
bonny cheerfulness on occasion--as on this grisly October day when Nature
was very sour and the spirit of the winds was in a "scratchy" mood. But
Osterhaut was not more cheerful than Jowett who, in a very undignified
way, described the state of his feelings, on receiving a certain
confidence from Halliday, the lawyer, and Gabriel Druse, by turning a
cart-wheel in the Mayor's office; which certainly was an unusual thing in
a man of fifty years of age.
It was a people's meeting. No local official was on the platform. Under
the influence of alien elements who, though their co-operation was
directed against the common enemy, were intensely irritating, the meeting
became disorderly. One or two wise men, however, were able to secure
order long enough to have the resolution passed for forming a Local
Interests Committee whose duty it would be to see that the people were
not sacrificed to a "soulless plutocracy." While the names of those who
were to form the Committee were being selected, in a storm of disorder
arising from the Manitou section of the crowd, the sky overhead grew
suddenly brighter and the sun came out, bringing an instant change. It
was as though a hand, which had hypnotized them into anger, restored them
to good-humour once again.
At this moment, to the astonishment of all, there appeared at the back of
the platform between Jowett and Halliday the lawyer, the man with a
tragic history who had been as one buried for weeks past, who had
vanished from their calculations. It was their old champion, Ingolby.
Slowly a hush came over the vast assembly as, apparently guided by his
friends on the platform, he was given a seat on the right of the
Chairman's table.
A strange sensation, partly pleasure, partly resentment, passed through
the crowd. Why did Ingolby come to remind them of better days gone--of
his own rashness, of what they had lost through that rashness? Why had he
come? They could not say and do all that they wanted with him present. It
was like having a row in the presence of a corpse. He had been a hero to
all in Lebanon, but he was not in the picture now. His day was done. It
was no place for him. Yet it was a pleasant omen that the sun broke clear
and shining over the platform as Ingolby took his seat. Presently in the
silence he half-turned his head, murmured something to the Chairman, and
then got to his feet, stretching out a hand towards the crowd.
For one moment there was silence, a little awestricken, a little painful,
and then as from one man a great cheer went up. For a moment they had
thought him inconsiderate to come among them in this crisis, for he was
no longer of their scheme of things, and must be counted out, a beaten,
battered, blind bankrupt. Yet the sight of him on his feet was too much
for them. Blind he might be, but there was the personality which had
conquered them in the past brave, adroit, reckless, renowned. None of
them, or very few of them, had seen him since that night at Barbazon's
Tavern, yet in spite of his tragedy there seemed little change in him.
There was the same quirk at the corner of the mouth, the same humour in
the strong face, not so ruddy now; and strangely enough the eyes were
neither guarded by spectacles, nor were they shrunken, glazed, or
diseased, so far as could be seen.
Stretching out a hand, Ingolby gave a crisp laugh and said: "So there's
been trouble since I've been gone, has there?" The corner of his mouth
quirked, his eyelids drooped in the old quizzical way, and the crowd
laughed in spite of themselves. What a spirit he had to take it all that
way!
"Got a little deeper in the mire, have you, boys?" he added. "They tell
me the town's a frost just now, but it seems nice and warm here in the
sun. Yes, boys, it's nice and warm here among you all--the same good old
crowd that's made the two towns what they are. The same good old crowd,"
he repeated, "--and up to the same old games!"
At this point he could scarcely proceed for laughter. "Like true
pioneers," he went on, "not satisfied with what you've got, but wanting
such a lot more--if I might say so in the language of the dictionary, a
deuce of a lot more."
Almost every sentence had been punctuated by cheers. His personality
dominated them as aforetime with some new accent to it; his voice was
like that of one given up from the dead, yet come back from the wars
alive and loving. They never knew what a figure he was until now when
they saw and heard him again, and realized that he was one of the few
whom the world calls leaders, because they have in them that immeasurable
sympathy which is understanding of men and matters. Yet in the old days
there never had been the something that was in his voice now, and in his
face there was a great friendliness, a sense of companionship, a Jonathan
and David something. He was like a comrade talking to a thousand other
comrades. There was a new thing in him and they felt it stir them. They
thought he had been made softer by his blindness; and they were not
wrong. Even the Manitou section were stilled into sympathy with him. Many
of them had heard his speech in Barbazon's Tavern just before the
horseshoe struck him down, and they heard him now, much simpler in manner
and with that something in his voice and face. Yet it made them shrink a
little, too, to see his blind eyes looking out straight before him. It
was uncanny. Their idea was that the eyes were as before, but seeing
nothing-blank to the world.
Presently his hand shot out again. "The same old crowd!" he said. "Just
the same--after the same old thing, wanting what we all want: these two
places, Manitou and Lebanon, to be boosted till they rule the West and
dominate the North. It's good to see you all here again"--he spoke very
slowly--"to see you all here together looking for trouble--looking for
trouble. There you are, Jim Barager; there you are, Bill Riley; there you
are, Mr. William John Thomas McLeary." The last named was the butt of
every tavern and every street corner. "There you are, Berry--old brown
Berry, my barber."
At first the crowd did not quite understand, did not realize that he was
actually pointing to the people whom he named, but presently, as Berry
the barber threw up his hands with a falsetto cry of understanding, there
was a simultaneous, wild rush forward to the platform.
"He sees, boys--he sees!" they shouted.
Ingolby's hand shot up above them with a gesture of command.
"Yes, boys, I see--I see you all. I'm cured. My sight's come back, and
what's more"--he snatched from his pocket a folded sheet of paper and
held it aloft "what's more, I've got my commission to do the old job
again; to boss the railways, to help the two towns. The Mayor brought it
back from Montreal yesterday; and together, boys, together, we'll make
Manitou and Lebanon the fulcrum of the West, the swivel by which to swing
prosperity round our centre."
The platform swayed with the wild enthusiasm of the crowd storming it to
shake hands with him, when suddenly a bell rang out across the river,
wildly, clamorously. A bell only rang like that for a fire. Those on the
platform could see a horseman galloping across the bridge.
A moment later someone shouted, "It's the Catholic church at Manitou on
fire!"
CHAPTER XXIV
AT LONG LAST
Originally the Catholic church at Manitou had stood quite by itself, well
back from the river, but as the town grew its dignified isolation was
invaded and houses kept creeping nearer and nearer to it. So that when it
caught fire there was general danger, because the town possessed only a
hand fire-engine. Since the first settlement of the place there had been
but few fires, and these had had pretty much their own way. When one
broke out the plan was to form a long line of men, who passed buckets of
water between the nearest pump, well, or river, and the burning building.
It had been useful in incipient fires, but it was child's play in a
serious outburst. The mournful fact that Manitou had never equipped
itself with a first-class fire-engine or a fire-brigade was now to play a
great part in the future career of the two towns. Osterhaut put the thing
in a nutshell as he slithered up the main street of Lebanon on his way to
the manning of the two fire-engines at the Lebanon fire-brigade station.
"This thing is going to link up Lebanon and Manitou like a trace-chain,"
he declared with a chuckle. "Everything's come at the right minute.
Here's Ingolby back on the locomotive, running the good old train of
Progress, and here's Ingolby's fire-brigade, which cost Lebanon twenty
thousand dollars and himself five thousand, going to put out the fires of
hate consuming two loving hamulets. Out with Ingolby's fire-brigade! This
is the day the doctor ordered! Hooray!"
Osterhaut had a gift of being able to do two things at one time. Nothing
prevented him from talking, and though it had probably never been tested,
it is quite certain he could have talked under water. His words had been
addressed to Jowett, who drew to him on all great occasions like the
drafts of a regiment to the main body. Jowett was often very critical of
Osterhaut's acts, words and views, but on this occasion they were of one
mind.
"I guess it's Ingolby's day all right," answered Jowett. "When you say
'Hooray!' Osterhaut, I agree, but you've got better breath'n I have. I
can't talk like I used to, but I'm going to ride that fire-engine to save
the old Monseenoor's church--or bust."
Both Jowett and Osterhaut belonged to the Lebanon fire-brigade, which was
composed of only a few permanent professionals, helped by capable
amateurs. The two cronies had their way, and a few moments later, wearing
brass helmets, they were away with the engine and the hose, leaving the
less rapid members of the brigade to follow with the ladders.
"What did the Chief do?" asked Osterhaut. "Did you see what happened to
him?"
Jowett snorted. "What do you think Mr. Max Ingolby, Esquire, would do? He
commandeered my sulky and that rawbone I bought from the Reverend
Tripple, and away he went like greased lightning over the bridge. I don't
know why I drove that trotter to-day, nor why I went on that sulky, for I
couldn't hear good where I was, on the outskirts of the meeting; but I
done it like as if the Lord had told me. The Chief spotted me soon as the
fire-bell rung. In a second he bundled me off, straddled the sulky, and
was away 'fore you could say snakes."
"I don't believe he's strong enough for all this. He ain't got back to
where he was before the war," remarked Osterhaut sagely.
"War--that business at Barbazon's! You call that war! It wasn't war,"
declared Jowett spasmodically, grasping the rail of the fire-engine as
the wheel struck a stone and nearly shot them from their seats. "It
wasn't war. It was terrible low-down treachery. That Gipsy gent, Fawe,
pulled the lever, but Marchand built the scaffold."
"Heard anything more about Marchand--where he is?" asked Osterhaut, as
the hoofs of the horses clattered on the bridge.
"Yes, I've heard--there's news," responded Jowett. "He's been lying drunk
at Gautry's caboose ever since yesterday morning at five o'clock, when he
got off the West-bound train. Nice sort of guy he is. What's the good of
being rich, if you can't be decent Some men are born low. They always
find their level, no matter what's done for them, and Marchand's level is
the ditch."
"Gautry's tavern--that joint!" exclaimed Osterhaut with repulsion.
"Well, that ranchman, Dennis What's-his-name, is looking for him, and
Felix can't go home or to the usual places. I dunno why he comes back at
all till this Dennis feller gits out."
"Doesn't make any bones about it, does he? Dennis Doane's the name, ain't
it? Marchand spoiled his wife-run away with her up along the Wind River,
eh?" asked Osterhaut.
Jowett nodded: "Yes, that's it, and Mr. Dennis Doane ain't careful;
that's the trouble. He's looking for Marchand, and blabbing what he means
to do when he finds him. That ain't good for Dennis. If he kills
Marchand, it's murder, and even if the lawyers plead unwritten law, and
he ain't hung, and his wife ain't a widow, you can't have much married
life in gaol. It don't do you any good to be punished for punishing
someone else. Jonas George Almighty--look! Look, Osterhaut!"
Jowett's hand was pointing towards the Catholic church, from a window of
which smoke was rolling. "There's going to be something to do there. It
ain't a false alarm, Snorty."
"Well, this engine'll do anything you ask it," rejoined Osterhaut. "When
did you have a fire last, Billy?" he shouted to the driver of the engine,
as the horses' feet caught the dusty road of Manitou.
"Six months," was the reply, "but she's working smooth as music. She's as
good as anything 'twixt here and the Atlantic."
"It ain't time for Winter fires. I wonder what set it going," said
Jowett, shaking his head ominously. "Something wrong with the furnace, I
s'pose," returned Osterhaut. "Probably trying the first heatup of the
Fall."
Osterhaut was right. No one had set the church on fire. The sexton had
lighted the furnace for the first time to test it for the Winter's
working, but had not stayed to see the result. There was a defect in the
furnace, the place had caught fire, and some of the wooden flooring had
been burnt before the aged Monseigneur Lourde discovered it. It was he
who had given the alarm and had rescued the silver altar-vessels from the
sacristy.
Manitou offered brute force, physical energy, native athletics, muscle
and brawn; but it was of no avail. Five hundred men, with five hundred
buckets of water would have had no effect upon the fire at St. Michael's
Church at Manitou; willing hands and loving Christian hearts would have
been helpless to save the building without the scientific aid of the
Lebanon fire-brigade. Ingolby, on founding the brigade, had equipped it
to the point where it could deal with any ordinary fire. The work it had
to do at St. Michael's was critical. If the church could not be saved,
then the wooden houses by which it was surrounded would be swept away,
and the whole town would be ablaze; for though it was Autumn, everything
was dry, and the wind was sufficient to fan and spread the flames.
Lebanon took command of the whole situation, and for the first time in
the history of the two towns men worked together under one control like
brothers. The red-shirted river-driver from Manitou and the lawyer's
clerk from Lebanon; the Presbyterian minister and a Christian brother of
the Catholic school; a Salvation Army captain and a black-headed Catholic
shantyman; the President of the Order of Good Templars and a switchman
member of the Confraternity of the Blessed Sacrament slaved together on
the hand-engine, to supplement the work of the two splendid engines of
the Lebanon fire-brigade; or else they climbed the roofs of houses, side
by side, to throw on the burning shingles the buckets of water handed up
to them.
For some time it seemed as though the church could not be saved. The fire
had made good headway with the flooring, and had also made progress in
the chancel and the altar. Skill and organization, combined with good
luck, conquered, however. Though a portion of the roof was destroyed and
the chancel gutted, the church was not beyond repair, and a few thousand
dollars would put it right. There was danger, however, among the smaller
houses surrounding the church, and there men from both towns worked with
great gallantry. By one of those accidents which make fatality, a small
wooden house some distance away, with a roof as dry as wool, caught fire
from a flying cinder. As everybody had fled from their own homes and
shops to the church, this fire was not noticed until it had made headway.
Then it was that the cries of Madame Thibadeau, who was confined to her
bed in the house opposite, were heard, and the crowd poured down towards
the burning building. It was Gautry's "caboose." Gautry himself had been
among the crowd at the church.