“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.”