“By all means—when I am gone.” Again I felt the smile that must be in the eyes. “But there were others here, not so friendly to the little Garin. That is true, is it not?”
“Yes,” said the Bonnie Lassie.
“There is at least a strong suspicion that he is not a deserving case,” I pointed out defensively.
“Then it is only because he does not explain himself well,” returned the Belgian quickly.
“He does not explain himself at all,” I corrected. “Nor does Annie Oom—his wife.”
“Ah? That will clarify itself, perhaps, in time. If you will bear with me, I should like to tell you a little story to be passed on to those who are not his friends. Will you not be seated, Madame?”
The Bonnie Lassie resumed her place on the bench. Standing before us, the big man began to speak. Many times since have I wished that I might have taken down what he said verbatim; so gracious it was, so simple, so straightly the expression of a great and generous personality.
“Emile Garin,” he said, “was a son of Belgium. He was poor and his people were little folk of nothing-at-all. Moreover, they were dead. So he came to your great country to make his living. When our enemies invaded my country and the call went out to all sons of Belgium, the little Garin was ashamed because he knew that he was physically unfit for military service. But he tried. He tried everywhere. In the mornings they must sweep him away from our Consul-General’s doorsteps here because otherwise he would not—You spoke, Monsieur?”
“Nothing. I only said, ‘God forgive us!’”
“Amen,” said the narrator gravely. “Everywhere they rejected him as unfit. So he became morbid. He hid himself away. Is it not so?”