“Tenants and vassals!” I remarked.
“You see, I've helped some of them in a small way, but always impersonally,” he answered, as if he had not heard me. “I have sought to avoid drawing their attention to me in any way whatever.”
We drew up at a little house on a lonely road to ask our way. An Irish woman came to the car door as we stopped, and said:
“God bless ye, sor! It does me eyes good to look an' see ye better—thanks to the good God! I haven't forgot yer kindness.”
“But I have,” said Norris.
The woman was on her mental knees before him as she stood looking into his face.
No doubt he had lifted her mortgage or favored her in some like manner. Her greeting seemed to please him, and he gave her a kindly word, and told his driver to go on.
We passed the Mary Perkins's school and the Mary Perkins's hospital, both named for his wife. I had heard much of these model charities, but not from him. So many rich men talk of their good deeds, like the lecturer in a side-show, but he held his peace. Everywhere I could not help seeing that he was regarded as a kind of savior, and he seemed to regret it. Was he a great actor or—?
“It's a pity that I cannot enjoy my life like other men,” he interrupted, as this thought came to me. “None of my neighbors are quite themselves when they talk to me; they think I must be praised and flattered. They don't talk to me in a reliable fashion, as you do. You have noticed that even my own family is given to songs of praise in my presence.”
“Norris, I'm sorry for you,” I said. “They say that you inherited a fair amount of poverty—honest, hard-earned poverty. Why didn't you take care of it? Why did you get reckless and squander it in commercial dissipation? You should have kept enough to give your daughter a proper start in life. I have taken care of mine.”