Autumn Glory Part 28

You will be seeing my brother--will talk it over with him, but I do not think----" And as if deeply hurt she turned abruptly away to the store.

The half-hour had struck, the door of the cafe opened noisily, a man came in. Without looking up, or moving from her place, the girl said:

"Here he is."

Despite the railway uniform and cap he was wearing, the farmer, in the semi-darkness of the shop, had already recognised his son by the downcast head, slouching gait, and habit of holding his arms out from his body. Soon Francois stood before him in the doorway of the kitchen, and a glance revealed the same heavy features as of old--russet-red complexion, drooping moustache, and look of stolid indifference.

On seeing his father a shade of emotion pa.s.sed over his face.

"Good day, father," said he, holding out his hand. "So things are not going well by what I see?"

The farmer made a sign of acquiescence.

"You are in trouble. Yes, I understand. So should I be if I were you.

Andre ought not to have done it; he was the last, he ought to have stayed."

Toussaint Lumineau had seized Francois' hand, and was pressing it between both of his with a tenderness that spoke volumes, and his eyes, which sought the eyes of his son, uttered the same entreaty. In measure, however, that his father's mute pleading entered his soul, Francois quickly recovered from his surprise, hardening himself against the momentary feeling of compa.s.sion. Presently, drawing back his hand, he retreated a step, saying with the air of a man defiant and on the defensive.

"I understand. You are not wanting to engage another servant, but would rather have Lionore and me back at Sallertaine?"

"If you could, Francois. I have no one else to look to."

A half-satisfied smile at the correctness of his surmise pa.s.sed over Francois' face as he rejoined:

"Yet you see that the other has gone too; and that there is nothing more to be done with the land."

"You are mistaken. He has gone to cultivate it elsewhere, in America!

It was because he missed you so sorely, Francois, that he lost heart at home."

"Yes," said Francois, drawing up a chair for himself and sitting down to the table. "It seems to be a wonderful country, America! But here with us it's too hard."

The farmer did not take up the words which had angered him before.

"Well!" he said, "I will give you help. I have no other son now, for you know that Mathurin is of no account in the management of a farm.

You will soon be the master; the next lease shall be drawn up in your name, and there will still be a Lumineau at La Fromentiere. Will you come back?"

Francois made a gesture of annoyance and gave no reply.

"You are making nothing," resumed the farmer, "by what Eleonore tells me."

"No, the pay is poor enough."

"The cafe has not many customers?"

"No; but we paid too much for it. We are not sure that it will answer." He turned to his sister who was listening pa.s.sive and tearful. "But we sc.r.a.pe along, eh, Lionore? In time I may get a rise, so the sub-inspector tells me. Then I shall be better off. I don't want more. We have got to know people already; on Sundays I have my half-day off."

"You had the whole day at La Fromentiere!"

"I don't say that I hadn't. But what you ask, father, can't be done."

A man, whose entrance they had not perceived, now called out from the adjoining room:

"Is no one here? Is there no dinner to be had?"

Eleonore, glad of the interruption, pa.s.sed between her brother and father, and they heard her laugh to appease the customer. Francois drew the soup-tureen towards him, and put in the ladle.

"You must not mind my helping myself," he said to his father, who remained sitting at the window behind him, "I have only got a quarter of an hour; it's a long way to the station. I shall be fined," and between the mouthfuls of soup he asked in a softened voice: "You have not given me news of Rousille. Is she quite well? And Mathurin, does he still imagine that he will be all right again? He who always was so keen on being master at La Fromentiere did nothing to keep Andre back, I suppose?"

Toussaint Lumineau rose abruptly, unable longer to control his anger.

"You are a couple of ungrateful children, both of you!" he exclaimed in a loud voice. "Stay in your town!" and going out of the kitchen, he crossed the cafe before the eyes of the sickly-looking mechanic, and of Eleonore, who, terrified, leant forward:

"I told you so, poor father. I told you he would not! I knew it.

Still, _au revoir_."

Then to Francois who was following him:

"You are going with him to the station."

He shook his head.

"Yes, go! It would look better; he would not then be able to say that we had not treated him kindly."

The farmer had opened the door into the street.

"I will go with you to the station, if you like," said Francois sheepishly.

"I did not ask you to go with me to the station, ungrateful son; I asked you to come back and save us all from ruin, and you have refused!" was the reply. They saw him stride down the street erect, his fine figure making two of the puny town mechanics, his silvery hair s.h.i.+ning through the mist of rain. The door shut behind him.

"No easy customer, the old papa," said the man who was dining.

"Don't talk of it," exclaimed Eleonore; "I am quite ill."

"What was it he wanted?"

With a coa.r.s.e laugh Francois said as he went back to the kitchen:

"Wanted me to go back and dig for him."

The mechanic, shrugging his shoulders, said with a self-satisfied air:

"A fine idea! The old gentleman was a bit unreasonable, I think."

CHAPTER XV.

THE EMIGRANT.