He turned to me; and I was startled, for it was as
if he had been inside my mind. “I know,
it will not be easy! But remember, I broke the
empire of Rome!”
That was his last flare. “I can do no more,”
he whispered. “My power is gone from me;
I must rest.” And his voice gave way.
“I beg you to go, unhappy poor of the world!
I have done all that I can do for you tonight.”
And silently, patiently, as creatures accustomed to
the voice of doom, the sick and the crippled began
to hobble and crawl from the room.
He sat on the edge of the couch, gazing into space,
lost in tragic thought; and Mary and I sat watching
him, not quite certain whether we ought to withdraw
with the rest. But he did not seem aware of our
presence, so we stayed.
In our world it is not considered permissible for
people to remain in company without talking.
If the talk lags, we have to cast hurriedly about
in our minds for something to say—it is
called “making conversation.” But
Carpenter evidently did not know about this custom,
and neither of us instructed him. Once or twice
I stole a glance at Mary, marvelling at her.
All her life she had been a conversational volcano,
in a state of perpetual eruption; but now, apparently
she passed judgment on her own remarks, and found them
not worth making.
In the doorway of the room appeared the little boy
who had been knocked down by the car. He looked
at Carpenter, and then came towards him. When
Carpenter saw him, a smile of welcome came upon his
face; he stretched out an arm, and the little fellow
nestled in it. Other children appeared in the
doorway, and soon he had a group about him, sitting
on his knees and on the couch. They were little
gutter-urchins, but he, seemingly, was interested in
knowing their names and their relationships, what
they learned in school, and what games they played.
I think he had Bertie’s foot-ball crowd in mind,
for he said: “Some day they will teach you
games of love and friendship, instead of rivalry and
strife.”
Presently the mother of the household appeared.
She was distressed, because it did not seem possible
that a great man should be interested in the prattle
of children, when he had people like us, evidently
rich people, to talk to. “You will bother
the master,” she said, in Spanish. He seemed
to understand, and answered, “Let the children
stay with me. They teach me that the world might
be happy.”
So the prattle went on, and the woman stood in the
doorway, with other women behind her, all beaming
with delight. They had known all their lives
there was something especially remarkable about these
children; and here was their pride confirmed!
When the little ones laughed, and the stranger laughed
with them, you should have seen the pleasure shining
from a doorway full of dusky Mexican faces!
