To most people Carnac’s candidature was a surprise; to some it was a bewilderment, and to one or two it was a shock. To the second class belonged Fabian Grier and his wife; to the third class belonged Luke Tarboe. Only one person seemed to understand it—by intuition: Junia.
Somehow, nothing Carnac did changed Junia’s views of him, or surprised her, though he made her indignant often enough. To her mind, however, in the big things, his actions always had reasonableness. She had never felt his artist-life was to be the only note of his career. When, therefore, in the West she read a telegram in a newspaper announcing his candidature, she guessed the suddenness of his decision. When she read it, she spread the paper on the table, smoothed it as though it were a beautiful piece of linen, then she stretched out her hands in happy benediction. Like most of her sex, she loved the thrill of warfare. There flashed the feeling, however, that it would be finer sport if Carnac and Tarboe were to be at war, instead of Carnac and Barouche. It was curious she never thought of Carnac but the other man came throbbing into sight—the millionaire, for he was that now.
In one way, this last move of Carnac’s had the elements of a master-stroke. She knew how strange it would seem to the rest of the world, yet it did not seem strange to her. No man she had ever seen had been so at home in the world of men, and also at home in the secluded field of the chisel and the brush as Carnac.
She took the newspaper over to her aunt, holding it up. The big headlines showed like semaphores on the page. As the graceful figure of Junia drew to her aunt—her slim feet, in the brown, well-polished boots, the long, full neck, and then the chin, Grecian, shapely and firm, the straight, sensitive nose, the wonderful eyes under the well-cut, broad forehead, with the brown hair, covering it like a canopy—the old lady reached out and wound her arms round the lissome figure. Situated so, she read the telegram, and then the old arms gripped her tighter.
Presently, the whistle of a train sounded. The aunt stretched out an approving finger to the sound. She realized that the figure round which her arms hung trembled, for it was the “through” daily train for Montreal.
“I’m going back at once, aunty,” Junia said.
..........................
“Well, I’m jiggered!”
These were Tarboe’s words when Carnac’s candidature came first to him in the press.
“He’s ‘broke’ out in a new place,” he added.
Tarboe loved the spectacular, and this was indeed spectacular. Yet he had not the mental vision of Junia who saw how close, in one intimate sense, was the relation between the artist life and the political life. To him it was a gigantic break from a green pasture into a red field of war. To her, it was a resolution which, in anyone else’s life, would have seemed abnormal; in Carnac’s life it had naturalness.
Tarboe had been for a few months only the reputed owner of the great business, and he had paid a big price for his headship in the weighty responsibility, the strain of control; but it had got into his blood, and he felt life would not be easy without it now.
Besides, there was Junia. To him she was the one being in the world worth struggling for; the bird to be caught on the wing, or coaxed into the nest, or snared into the net; and two of the three things he had tried without avail. The third—the snaring? He would not stop at that, if it would bring him what he wanted. How to snare her! He surveyed himself in the mirror.
“A great hulking figure like that!” he said in disapproval. “All bone and muscle and flesh and physical show! It wouldn’t weigh with her. She’s too fine. It isn’t the animal in a man she likes. It’s what he can do, and what he is, and where he’s going.”
Then he thought of Carnac’s new outburst, and his veins ran cold. “She’ll like that—but yes, she’ll like that: and if he succeeds she’ll think he’s great. Well, she’d be right. He’ll beat Barouche. He’s young and brave, careless and daring. Now where am I in this fight? I belong to Barouche’s party and my vote ought to go for him.”
For some minutes he sat in profound thought. What part should he play? He liked Carnac, he owed him a debt which he could never repay. Carnac had saved him from killing Denzil. If that had happened, he himself might have gone to the gallows.
He decided. Sitting down, he wrote Carnac the following letter:
DEAR CARNAC GRIER,I see you’re beginning a new work. You now belong to a party that Iam opposed to, but that doesn’t stop me offering you support. It’snot your general policy, but it is you, the son of your father, thatI mean to work for. If you want financial help for your campaign—or after it is over—come and get it here—ten thousand or more ifyou wish. Your father, if he knew—and perhaps he does know—wouldbe pleased that you, who could not be a man of business in hisworld, are become a man of business in the bigger world of law-making. You may be right or wrong in that policy, but that don’tweigh with me. You’ve taken on as big a job as ever your fatherdid. What’s the use of working if you don’t try to do the big thingthat means a lot to people outside yourself! If you make new goodlaws, if you do something for the world that’s wonderful, it’s asmuch as your father did, or, if he was alive, could do now.Whatever there is here is yours to use. When you come back here toplay your part, you’ll make it a success—the whole blessed thing.I don’t wish you were here now, except that it’s yours—all of it—but I wish you to beat Barode Barouche.Yours to the knife,LUKE TARBOE.
He read the letter through, and coming to the words, “When you come back here to play your part, you’ll make it a success—the whole blessed thing,” he paused, reflecting... He wondered what Carnac would think the words meant, and he felt it was bold, and, maybe, dangerous play; but it was not more dangerous than facts he had dealt with often in the last two years. He would let it stand, that phrase of the hidden meaning. He did not post the letter yet.
Four days later he put on his wide-brimmed panama hat and went out into the street leading to the centre of the city. There was trouble in the river reaches between his men and those of Belloc-Grier, and he was keeping an appointment with Belloc at Fabian Grier’s office, where several such meetings had taken place.
He had not gone far, however, when he saw a sprightly figure in light-brown linen cutting into his street from a cross-road. He had not seen that figure for months-scarcely since John Grier’s death, and his heart thumped in his breast. It was Junia. How would she greet him?
A moment later he met her. Raising his hat, he said: “Back to the firing-line, Miss Shale! It’ll make a big difference to every one concerned.”
“Are you then concerned?” she asked, with a faint smile.
“One of the most concerned,” he answered with a smile not so composed as her own. “It’s the honour of the name that’s at stake.”
“You want to ruin Mr. Grier’s chances in the fight?”
“I didn’t say that. I said, ‘the honour of the name,’ and the name of my firm is ‘Grier’s Company of Lumbermen.’ So I’m in it with all my might, and here’s a letter—I haven’t posted it yet—saying to Carnac Grier where I stand. Will you read it? There’s no reason why you shouldn’t.” He tore open the envelope and took the letter out.
Junia took it, after hesitation, and read it till she came to the sentence about Carnac returning to the business. She looked up, startled.
“What does that mean?” she asked, pointing to the elusive sentence.
“He might want to come into the business some day, and I’ll give him his chance. Nothing more than that.”
“Nothing more than that!” she said cynically. “It’s bravely said, but how can he be a partner if he can’t buy the shares?”
“That’s a matter to be thought out,” he answered with a queer twist to his mouth.
“I see you’ve offered to help him with cash for the election,” she said, handing back the letter.
“I felt it had to be done. Politics are expensive they sap the purse. That’s why.”
“You never thought of giving him an income which would compensate a little for what his father failed to do for him?”
There was asperity in her tone.
“He wouldn’t take from me what his father didn’t give him.” Suddenly an idea seized him. “Look here,” he said, “you’re a friend of the Griers, why don’t you help keep things straight between the two concerns? You could do it. You have the art of getting your own way. I’ve noticed that.”
“So you’d like me to persuade Fabian Grier to influence Belloc, because I’d make things easy for you!” she said briskly. “Do you forget I’ve known Fabian since I was a baby, that my sister is his wife, and that his interests are near to me?”
He did not knuckle down. “I think it would be helping Fabian’s interests. Belloc and Fabian Grier are generally in the wrong, and to keep them right would be good business-policy. When I’ve trouble with Belloc’s firm it’s because they act like dogs in the manger. They seem to hate me to live.”
She laughed—a buoyant, scornful laugh. “So all the fault is in Belloc and Fabian, is it?” She was impressed enormously by his sangfroid and will to rule the roost. “I think you’re clever, and that you’ve got plenty of horse-sense, as they say in the West, but you’ll be beaten in the end. How does it feel”—she asked it with provoking candour—“to be the boss of big things?”
“I know I’m always settling troubles my business foes make for me. I have to settle one of them now, and I’m glad I’ve met you, for you can help me. I want some new river-rules made. If Belloc and Grier’ll agree to them, we’ll do away with this constant trouble between our gangs.”
“And you’d like me to help you?”
He smiled a big riverman’s smile down at her, full of good-humour and audacity.
“If you could make it clear to Fabian that all I’m after is peace on the river, it’d do a lot of good.”
“Well, do you know,” she said demurely, “I don’t think I’ll take a hand in this game, chiefly because—” she paused.
“Yes: chiefly because—”
“Because you’ll get your own way without help. You get everything you want,” she added with a little savage comment.
A flood of feeling came into his eyes, his head jerked like that of a bull-moose. “No, I don’t get everything I want. The thing I want most in the world doesn’t come to me.” His voice grew emotional. She knew what he was trying to say, and as the idea was not new she kept composure. “I’m not as lucky as you think me,” he added.
“You’re pretty lucky. You’ve done it all as easy as clasping your fingers. If I had your luck—!” she paused.
“I don’t know about that, but if I could reach out and touch you at any time, as it were, I think it’d bring me permanent good luck. You’ll find out one day that my luck is only a bubble the prick of a pin’ll destroy. I don’t misunderstand it. I’ve been left John Grier’s business by Grier himself, and he’s got a son that ought to have it, and maybe will have it, when the time is ripe.”
Suddenly an angry hand flashed out towards him. “When the time is ripe! Does that mean, when you’ve made all you want, you’ll give up to Carnac what isn’t yours but his? Why don’t you do it now?”
“Well, because, in the first place, I like my job and he doesn’t want it; in the second place, I promised his father I’d run the business as he wished it run; and in the third place, Carnac wouldn’t know how to use the income the business brings.”
She laughed in a mocking, challenging way. “Was there ever a man didn’t know how to use an income no matter how big it was! You’re talking enigmas, and I think we’d better say good-bye. Your way to the Belloc offices is down that street.” She pointed.
“And you won’t help me? You won’t say a word to Fabian?”
She shrugged a shoulder. “If I were a man like you, who’s so big, so lucky, and so dominant, I wouldn’t ask a woman to help me. I’d do the job myself. I’d keep faith with my reputation. But there’s one nice thing about you: you’re going to help Carnac to beat Barode Barouche. You’ve made a gallant offer. If you’d gone against him, if you’d played Barouche’s game, I—”
The indignation which came to her face suddenly fled, and she said: “Honestly, I’d never speak to you again, and I always keep my word. Carnac’ll see it through. He’s a man of mark, Mr. Tarboe, and he’ll be Prime Minister of the whole country one day. I don’t think you’ll like it.”
“You hit hard, but if I hadn’t taken the business, Carnac Grier wouldn’t have got it. If it hadn’t been me, it would have been some one else.”
“Well, why don’t you live like a rich man and not like a foreman?”
“I’ve been too busy to change my mode of living. I only want enough to eat and drink and wear, and that’s not costly.” Suddenly an idea came to him. “Now, if that business had been left to you, you’d be building a stone house somewhere; and you’d have horses and carriages, and lots of servants, and you’d swing along like a pretty coloured bird in the springtime, wouldn’t you?”
“If I had wealth, I’d make it my servant. I’d give it its chance; but as I haven’t got it, I live as I do—poor and unknown.”
“Not unknown. See, you could control what belonged to John Grier, if you would. I need some one to show me how to spend the money coming from the business. What is wealth unless you buy things that give pleasure to life? Do you know—”
He got no further. “I don’t know anything you’re trying to tell me, and anyhow this is not the place—” With that she hastened from him up the street. Tarboe had a pang, and yet her very last words gave him hope. “I may be a bit sharp in business,” he said to himself, “but I certainly am a fool in matters of the heart. Yet what she said at last had something in it for me. Every woman has an idea where a man ought to make love to her, and this open road certainly ain’t the place. If Carnac wins this game with Barouche I don’t know where I’ll be with her-maybe I’m a fool to help him.” He turned the letter over and over in his hand. “No, I’m not. I ought to do it, and I will.”
Then he fell to brooding. He remembered about the second hidden will. There came upon him a wild wish to destroy it. He loved controlling John Grier’s business. Never had anything absorbed him so. Life seemed a new thing. The idea of disappearing from the place where, with a stroke of his fingers, he moved five thousand men, or swept a forest into the great river, or touched a bell which set going a saw-mill with its many cross-cut saws, or filled a ship to take the pine, cedar, maple, ash or elm boards to Europe, or to the United States, was terrible to him. He loved the smell of the fresh-cut wood. The odour of the sawdust as he passed through a mill was sweeter than a million bunches of violets. Many a time he had caught up a handful of the damp dust and smelt it, as an expert gardener would crumble the fallen flowers of a fruit tree and sniff the sweet perfume. To be master of one of the greatest enterprises of the New World for three years, and then to disappear! He felt he could not do it.
His feelings shook his big frame. The love of a woman troubled his spirit. Suppose the will were declared and the girl was still free, what would she do?
As he set foot in the office of the firm of Belloc, however, he steeled himself to composure.
His task well accomplished, he went back to his own office, and spent the day like a racehorse under the lash, restive, defiant, and reckless. When night and the shadows came, he sat alone in his office with drawn blinds, brooding, wondering.
As election affairs progressed, Mrs. Grier kept withdrawn from public ways. She did not seek supporters for her son. As the weeks went on, the strain became intense. Her eyes were aflame with excitement, but she grew thinner, until at last she was like a ghost haunting familiar scenes. Once, and once only, did she have touch with Barode Barouche since the agitation began. This was how it happened:
Carnac was at Ottawa, and she was alone, in the late evening. As she sat sewing, she heard a knock at the front door. Her heart stood still. It was a knock she had not heard for over a quarter of a century, but it had an unforgettable touch. She waited a moment, her face pale, her eyes shining with tortured memory. She waited for the servant to answer the knock, but presently she realized that the servant probably had not heard. Laying down her work, she passed into the front hall. There for an instant she paused, then opened the door.
It was Barode Barouche. Then the memory of a summer like a terrible dream shook her. She trembled. Some old quiver of the dead days swept through her. How distant and how—bad it all was! For one instant the old thrill repeated itself and then was gone—for ever.
“What is it you wish here?” she asked.
“Will you not shut the door?” he responded, for her fingers were on the handle. “I cannot speak with the night looking in. Won’t you ask me to your sitting-room? I’m not a robber or a rogue.”
Slowly she closed the door. Then she turned, and, in the dim light, she said:
“But you are both a robber and a rogue.”
He did not answer until they had entered the sittin-groom.
“I gave you that which is out against me now. Is he not brilliant, capable and courageous?”
There was in her face a stern duty.
“It was Fate, monsieur. When he and I went to your political meeting at Charlemont it had no purpose. No blush came to his cheek, because he did not know who his father is. No one in the world knows—no one except myself, that must suffer to the end. Your speech roused in him the native public sense, the ancient fire of the people from whom he did not know he came. His origin has been his bane from the start. He did not know why the man he thought his father seemed almost a stranger to him. He did not understand, and so they fell apart. Yet John Grier would have given more than he had to win the boy to himself. Do you ever think what the boy must have suffered? He does not know. Only you and I know!” She paused.
He thrust out a hand as though to stay her speech, but she went on again
“Go away from me. You have spoiled my life; you have spoiled my boy’s life, and now he fights you. I give him no help save in one direction. I give to him something his reputed father withheld from him. Don’t you think it a strange thing”—her voice was thick with feeling—“that he never could bear to take money from John Grier, and that, even as a child, gifts seemed to trouble him. I think he wanted to give back again all that John Grier had ever paid out to him or for him; and now, at last, he fights the man who gave him birth! I wanted to tell John Grier all, but I did not because I knew it would spoil his life and my boy’s life. It was nothing to me whether I lived or died. But I could not bear Carnac should know. He was too noble to have his life spoiled.”
Barode Barouche drew himself together. Here was a deep, significant problem, a situation that needed more expert handling than he had ever shown. As he stood by the table, the dim light throwing haggard reflections on her face, he had a feeling that she was more than normal. He saw her greater than he had ever imagined her. Something in him revolted at a war between his own son and himself. Also, he wanted to tell her of the danger in which Carnac was—how Luzanne had come, and was hidden away in the outskirts of the city, waiting for the moment when the man who rejected her should be sacrificed.
Now that Barouche was face to face with Alma Grier, however, he felt the appalling nature of his task. In all the years he had taken no chance to pay tribute to the woman who, in a real sense, had been his mistress of body and mind for one short term of life, and who once, and once only, had yielded to him. They were both advanced in years, and Life and Time had taken toll. She was haggard, yet beautiful in a wan way. He did not believe the vanished years had placed between them an impassable barrier.
He put his chances to the test at last.
“Yes, I know—I understand. You remained silent because your nature was too generous to injure anyone. Down at the bottom of his heart, cantankerous, tyrannical as he was, John Grier loved you, and I loved you also.”
She made a protest of her hand. “Oh, no! You never knew what love was—never! You had passion, you had hunger of the body, but of love you did not know. I know you, Barode Barouche. You have no heart, you have only sentiment and imagination. No—no, you could not be true. You could never know how.”
Suddenly a tempest of fire seemed to burn in his eyes, in his whole being. His face flushed: his eyes gleamed; his hands were thrust out with passion.
“Will you not understand that were I as foul as hell, a woman like you would make me clean again? The wild sin of our youth has eaten into the soul of my life. You think I have been indifferent to you and to our boy. No, never-never! That I left you both to yourselves was the best proof I was not neglectful. I was sorry, with all my soul, that you should have suffered through me. In the first reaction, I felt that nothing could put me right with you or with eternal justice. So I shrank away from you. You thought it was lust satisfied. I tell you it was honour shamed. Good God! You thought me just the brazen roue, who seized what came his way, who ate the fruit within his grasp, who lived to deceive for his own selfish joy.
“Did you think that? Then, if you did, I do not wonder you should be glad to see my son fighting me. It would seem the horrible revenge Destiny should take.” He took a step nearer to her. His face flamed, his arms stretched out. “I have held you in these arms. I come with repentance in my heart, with—”
Her face now was flushed. She interrupted him.
“I don’t believe in you, Barode Barouche. At least my husband did not go from his hearthstone looking for what belonged to others. No—No—no; however much I suffered, I understood that what he did not feel for me at least he felt for no one else. To him, life was his business, and to the long end business mastered his emotions. I have no faith in you! In the depth of my soul something cries out: ‘He is not true. His life is false.’ To leave me that was right, but, monsieur, not as you left me. You pick the fruit and eat it and spit upon the ground the fibre and the skin. I am no longer the slave of your false eloquence. It has nothing in it for me now, nothing at all—nothing.”
“Yet your son—has he naught of me? If your son has genius, I have the right to say a part of it came from me. Why should you say that all that’s good in the boy is yours—that the boy, in all he does and says, is yours! No—no. Your long years of suffering have hardened into injustice and wrong.”
Suddenly he touched her arm. “There are women as young as you were when I wronged you, who would be my wife now—young, beautiful, buoyant; but I come to you because I feel we might still have some years of happiness. Together, where our boy’s fate mattered, we two could help him on his way. That is what I feel, my dear.”
When he touched her arm she did not move, yet there was in his fingers something which stirred ulcers long since healed and scarred. She stepped back from him.
“Do not touch me. The past is buried for ever. There can be no resurrection. I know what I should do, and I will do it. For the rest of my life, I shall live for my son. I hope he will defeat you. I don’t lift a hand to help him except to give him money, not John Grier’s money but my own, always that. You are fighting what is stronger than yourself. One thing is sure, he is nearer to the spirit of your race than you. He will win—but yes, he will win!”
Her face suffused with warmth, became alive with a wonderful fire, her whole being had a simple tragedy. Once again, and perhaps for the last time, she had renewed the splendour of her young womanhood. The vital warmth of a great idea had given an expression to her face which had long been absent from it.
He fell back from her. Then suddenly passion seized him. The gaunt beauty of her roused a spirit of contest in him. The evil thing in him, which her love for her son had almost conquered, came back upon him. He remembered Luzanne, and now with a spirit alive with anger he said to her:
“No—no—no, he cannot win.” He stretched out a hand. “I have that which will keep for me the place in Parliament that has been mine; which will send him back to the isolation whence he came. Do you think I don’t know how to win an election? Why from east to west, from north to south in this Province of Quebec my name, my fame, have been all-conquering. Suppose he did defeat me, do you think that would end my political life? It would end nothing. I should still go on.”
A scornful smile came to her lips. “So you think your party would find a seat for you who had been defeated by a young man who never knew what political life meant till he came to this campaign? You think they would find you a seat? I know you are coming to the end of your game, and when he defeats you, it will finish everything for you. You will disappear from public life, and your day will be done. Men will point at you as you pass along the street, and say: ‘There goes Barode Barouche. He was a great man in his day. He was defeated by a boy with a painter’s brush in his hand.’ He will take from you your livelihood. You will go, and he will stay; he will conquer and grow strong. Go from me, Barode Barouche,” she cried, thrusting out her hands against him, “go from me. I love my son with all my soul. His father has no place in my heart.”
There had been upon him the wild passion of revenge. It had mastered him before she spoke, and while she spoke, but, as she finished, the understanding spirit of him conquered. Instead of telling her of Luzanne Larue, and of what he would do if he found things going against him, instead of that he resolved to say naught. He saw he could not conquer her. For a minute after she had ceased speaking, he watched her in silence, and in his eyes was a remorse which would never leave them. She was master.
Slowly, and with a sense of defeat, he said to her: “Well, we shall never meet again like this. The fight goes on. I will defeat Carnac. No, do not shake your head. He shall not put me from my place. For you and me there is no future—none; yet I want to say to you before we part for ever now, that you have been deeper in my life than any other woman since I was born.”
He said no more. Catching up his hat from the chair, and taking his stick, he left the room. He opened the front door, stepped out, shut it behind him and, in a moment, was lost in the night.
While these things were happening, Carnac was spending all his time in the constituency. Every day was busy to the last minute, every hole in the belt of his equipment was buckled tight. In spite of his enthusiasm he was, however, troubled by the fact that Luzanne might appear. Yet as time went on he gained confidence. There were days, however, when he appeared, mentally, to be watching the street corners.
One day at a public meeting he thought the sensation had come. He had just finished his speech in reply to Barode Barouche—eloquent, eager, masterful. Youth’s aspirations, with a curious sympathy with the French Canadian people, had idealized his utterances. When he finished there had been cheering, but in the quiet instant that followed the cheering, a habitant got up—a weird, wilful fellow who had a reputation for brag, yet who would not have hurt an enemy save in wild passion.
“M’sieu’ Carnac Grier,” he said, “I’d like to put a question to you. You’ve been asking for our votes. We’re a family people, we Canucs, and we like to know where we’re going. Tell me, m’sieu’, where’s your woman?”
Having asked the question, he remained standing. “Where’s your woman?” the habitant had asked. Carnac’s breath came quick and sharp. There were many hundreds present, and a good number of them were foes. Barode Barouche was on the same platform.
Not only Carnac was stirred by the question, for Barouche, who had listened to his foe’s speech with admiring anxiety, was startled.
“Where’s your woman?” was not a phrase to be asked anyhow, or anywhere. Barouche was glad of the incident. Ready as he was to meet challenge, he presently realized that his son had a readiness equally potent. He was even pleased to see the glint of a smile at the lips of the slim young politician, in whom there was more than his own commingling of temperament, wisdom, wantonness and raillery.
After a moment, Carnac said: “Isn’t that a leading question to an unmarried man?”
Barouche laughed inwardly. Surely it was the reply he himself would have made. Carnac had showed himself a born politician. The audience cheered, but the questioner remained standing. He meant to ask another question.
“Sit down—sit down, jackass!” shouted some of the more raucous of the crowd, but the man was stubborn. He stretched out an arm towards Carnac.
“Bien, look here, my son, you take my advice. Pursue the primrose path into the meadows of matrimony.”
Again Carnac shrank, but his mind rallied courageously, and he said: “There are other people who want to ask questions, perhaps.” He turned to Barode Barouche. “I don’t suggest my opponent has planned this heckling, but he can see it does no good. I’m not to be floored by catch-penny tricks. I’m going to win. I run straight. I haven’t been long enough in politics to learn how to deceive. Let the accomplished professionals do that. They know how.”
He waved a hand disdainfully at Barouche. “Let them put forth all that’s in them, I will remain; let them exert the last ounce of energy, I will prevail; let them use the thousand devices of elections, I will use no device, but rely upon my policy. I want nothing except my chance in Parliament. My highest ambition is to make good laws. I am for the man who was the first settler on the St. Lawrence and this section of the continent—his history, his tradition, his honour and fame are in the history books of the world. If I should live a hundred years, I should wish nothing better than the honour of having served the men whose forefathers served Frontenac, Cartier, La Salle and Maisonneuve, and all the splendid heroes of that ancient age. What they have done is for all men to do. They have kept the faith. I am for the habitant, for the land of his faith and love, first and last and all the time.”
He sat down in a tumult of cheering. Many present remarked that no two men they had ever heard spoke so much alike, and kept their attacks so free from personal things.
There had been at this public meeting two intense supporters of Carnac, who waited for him at the exit from the main doorway. They were Fabian’s wife and Junia.
Barode Barouche came out of the hall before Carnac. His quick eye saw the two ladies, and he raised his broad-brimmed hat like a Stuart cavalier, and smiled.
“Waiting for your champion, eh?” he asked with cynical friendliness. “Well, work hard, because that will soften his fall.” He leaned over, as it were confidentially, to them, while his friends craned their necks to hear what he said: “If I were you I’d prepare him. He’s beaten as sure as the sun shines.”
Junia was tempted to say what was in her mind, but her sister Sibyl, who resented Barouche’s patronage, said:
“There’s an old adage about the slip ‘twixt the cup and the lip, Monsieur Barouche. He’s young, and he’s got a better policy than yours.”
“And he’s unmarried, eh!” Barouche remarked. “He’s unmarried, and I suppose that matters!” There was an undercurrent of meaning in his voice which did not escape Junia.
“And Monsieur Barouche is also unmarried,” she remarked. “So you’re even there.”
“Not quite even. I’m a widower. The women don’t work for me as they work for him.”
“I don’t understand,” remarked Junia. “The women can’t all marry him.”
“There are a lot of things that can’t be understood by just blinking the eyes, but there’s romance in the fight of an unmarried man, and women like romance even if it’s some one else’s. There’s sensation in it.”
Barouche looked to where Carnac was slowly coming down the centre of the hall. Women were waving handkerchiefs and throwing kisses towards him. One little girl was pushed in front of him, and she reached out a hand in which was a wild rose.
“That’s for luck, m’sieu’,” she said.
Carnac took the rose, and placed it in his buttonhole; then, stooping down, he kissed the child’s cheek. Outside the hall, Barode Barouche winked an eye knowingly. “He’s got it all down to a science. Look at him—kissing the young chick. Nevertheless, he’s walking into an abyss.”
Carnac was near enough now for the confidence in his face to be seen. Barouche’s eyes suddenly grew resentful. Sometimes he had a feeling of deep affection for his young challenger; sometimes there was a storm of anger in his bosom, a hatred which can be felt only for a member of one’s own family. Resentment showed in his face now. This boy was winning friends on every side.
Something in the two men, some vibration of temperament, struck the same chord in Junia’s life and being. She had noticed similar gestures, similar intonations of voice, and, above all else, a little toss of the head backwards. She knew they were not related, and so she put the whole thing down to Carnac’s impressionable nature which led its owner into singular imitations. It had done so in the field of Art. He was young enough to be the imitator without loss to himself.
“I’m doing my best to defeat you,” she said to Barouche, reaching out a hand for good-bye, “and I shall work harder now than ever. You’re so sure you’re going to win that I’d disappoint you, monsieur—only to do you good.”
“Ah, I’m sorry you haven’t any real interest in Carnac Grier, if it’s only to do me good! Well, goodbye—good-bye,” he added, raising his hat, and presently was gone.
As Carnac drew near, Fabian’s wife stepped forward. “Carnac,” she said, “I hope you’ll come with us on the river in Fabian’s steam-launch. There’s work to do there. It’s pay-day in the lumber-yards on the Island, so please come. Will you?”
Carnac laughed. “Yes, there’s no engagement to prevent it.” He thanked Junia and Sibyl for all they had done for him, and added: “I’d like a couple of hours among the rivermen. Where’s the boat?” Fabian’s wife told him, and added: “I’ve got the roan team here, and you can drive us down, if you will.”
A few moments afterwards, with the cheers of the crowd behind them, they were being driven by Carnac to the wharf where lay the “Fleur-de-lis.” On board was Fabian.
“Had a good meeting, Carnac?” Fabian asked.
“I should call it first-class. It was like a storm, at sea-wind from one direction, then from another, but I think on the whole we had the best of it. Don’t you think so?” he added to Fabian’s wife.
“Oh, much the best,” she answered. “That’s so, Junia, isn’t it?”
“I wouldn’t say so positively,” answered Junia. “I don’t understand Monsieur Barouche. He talked as if he had something up his sleeve.” Her face became clouded. “Have you any idea what it is, Carnac?”
Carnac laughingly shook his head. “That’s his way. He’s always bluffing. He does it to make believe the game’s his, and to destroy my confidence. He’s a man of mark, but he’s having the biggest fight he ever had—of that I’m sure.... Do you think I’ll win?” he asked Junia presently with a laugh, as they made their way down the river. “Have I conquest in my eye?”
How seldom did Junia have Carnac to herself in these days! How kind of Fabian to lend his yacht for the purpose of canvassing! But Sibyl had in her mind a deeper thing—she had become a match-maker. She and Fabian, when the boat left the shore, went to one corner of the stern, leaving Carnac and Junia in the bow.
Three miles below the city was the Island on which many voters were working in a saw-mill and lumberyard. It had supporters of Barouche chiefly in the yards and mills. Carnac had never visited it, and it was Junia’s view that he should ingratiate himself with the workers, a rough-and-ready lot. They were ready to “burst a meeting” or bludgeon a candidate on occasion.
When Carnac asked his question Junia smiled up at him. “Yes, I think you’ll win, Carnac. You have the tide with you.” Presently she added: “I’m not sure that you’ve got all the cards, though—I don’t know why, but I have that fear.”
“You think that—”
She nodded. “I think Monsieur Barouche has some cards he hasn’t played yet. What they are I don’t know, but he’s confident. Tell me, Carnac, is there any card that would defeat you? Have you committed any crime against the law—no, I’m sure you haven’t, but I want to hear you say so.” She smiled cheerfully at him.
“He has no card of any crime of mine, and he can’t hit me in a mortal place.”
“You have the right policy for this province. But tell me, is there anyone who could hurt you, who could spring up in the fight—man or woman?”
She looked him straight in the eye, and his own did not waver.
“There’s no one has a knock-out blow for me—that’s sure. I can weather any storm.”
He paused, however, disconcerted, for the memory of Luzanne came to him, and his spirit became clouded. “Except one—except one,” he added.
“And you won’t tell me who it is?”
“No, I can’t tell you—yet,” answered Carnac. “You ought to know; though you can’t put things right.”
“Don’t forget you are a public man, and what might happen if things went wrong. There are those who would gladly roast you on a gridiron for what you are in politics.”
“I never forget it. I’ve no crime to repent of, and I’m afraid of nothing in the last resort. Look, we’re nearing the Island.”
“It’s your worst place in the constituency, and I’m not sure of your reception. Oh, but yes, I am,” she added hastily. “You always win good feeling. No one really hates you. You’re on the way to big success.”
“I’ve had some unexpected luck. I’ve got Tarboe on my side. He’s a member of Barouche’s party, but he’s coming with me.”
“Did he tell you so?” she asked with apparent interest.
“I’ve had a letter from him, and in it he says he is with me ‘to the knife!’ That’s good. Tarboe has a big hold on rivermen, and he may carry with him some of the opposition. It was a good letter—if puzzling.”
“How, puzzling?”
“He said in one part of it: ‘When you come back here to play your part you’ll make it a success, the whole blessed thing.’ I’ve no idea what he meant by that. I don’t think he wants me as a partner, and I’ll give him no chance of it. I don’t want now what I could have had when Fabian left. That’s all over, Junia.”
“He meant something by it; he’s a very able man,” she replied gravely. “He’s a huge success.”
“And women love success more than all else,” he remarked a little cynically.
“You’re unjust, Carnac. Of course, women love success; but they’d not sell their souls for it—not the real women—and you ought to know it.”
“I ought to know it, I suppose,” he answered, and he held her eyes meaningly. He was about to say something vital, but Fabian and his wife came.
Fabian said to him: “Don’t be surprised if you get a bad reception here, Carnac. It’s the worst place on the river, and I’ve no influence over the men—I don’t believe Tarboe could have. They’re a difficult lot. There’s Eugene Grandois, he’s as bad as they make ‘em. He’s got a grudge against us because of some act of father, and he may break out any time. He’s a labour leader too, and we must be vigilant.”
Carnac nodded. He made no reply in words. They were nearing the little dock, and men were coming to the point where the launch would stop.
“There’s Grandois now!” said Fabian with a wry smile, for he had a real fear of results. He had, however, no idea how skilfully Carnac would handle the situation—yet he had heard much of his brother’s adaptability. He had no psychological sense, and Carnac had big endowment of it. Yet Carnac was not demonstrative. It was his quiet way that played his game for him. He never spoke, if being could do what he wanted. He had the sense of physical speech with out words. He was a bold adventurer, but his methods were those of the subtlest. If a motion of the hand was sufficient, then let it go at that.
“You people after our votes never come any other time,” sneeringly said Eugene Grandois, as Carnac and Fabian landed. “It’s only when you want to use us.”
“Would you rather I didn’t come at all?” asked Carnac with a friendly smile. “You can’t have it both ways. If I came here any other time you’d want to know why I didn’t stay away, and I come now because it’s good you should know if I’m fit to represent you in Parliament.”
“There’s sense, my bonny boy,” said an English-Canadian labourer standing near. “What you got to say to that, little skeezicks?” he added teasingly to Eugene Grandois.
“He ain’t got more gifts than his father had, and we all know what he was—that’s so, bagosh!” remarked Grandois viciously.
“Well, what sort of a man was he?” asked Carnac cooly, with a warning glance at Fabian, who was resentful. Indeed, Fabian would have struck the man if his brother had not been present, and then been torn to pieces himself.
“What sort—don’t you know the kind of things he done? If you don’t, I do, and there’s lots of others know, and don’t you forget it, mon vieux.”
“That’s no answer, Monsieur Grandois—none at all. It tells nothing,” remarked Carnac cheerily.
“You got left out of his will, m’sieu’, you talk as if he was all right—that’s blither.”
“My father had a conscience. He gave me chance to become a partner in the business, and I wouldn’t, and he threw me over—what else was there to do? I could have owned the business to-day, if I’d played the game as he thought it ought to be played. I didn’t, and he left me out—that’s all.”
“Makin’ your own way, ain’t you?” said the English labourer. “That’s hit you where you’re tender, Grandois. What you got to say to that?”
The intense black eyes of the habitant sparkled wickedly, his jaws set with passion, and his sturdy frame seemed to fasten to the ground. His gnarled hands now shot out fiercely.
“What I got to say! Only this: John Grier played the devil’s part. He turned me and my family out into the streets in winter-time, and the law upheld him, old beast that he was—sacre diable!”
“Beast-devil! Grandois, those are hard words about a man in his son’s presence, and they’re not true. You think you can say such things because I’m standing for Parliament. Beast, devil, eh? You’ve got a free tongue, Grandois; you forgot to say that my father paid the doctor’s bill for your whole family when they were taken down with smallpox; and he kept them for weeks afterwards. You forgot to recall that when he turned you out for being six months behind with your rent and making no effort to pay up! Who was the devil and beast then, Grandois? Who spat upon his own wife and children then? You haven’t a good memory.... Come, I think your account with my father is squared; and I want you to vote to put my father’s son in Parliament, and to put out Barode Barouche, who’s been there too long. Come, come, Grandois, isn’t it a bargain? Your tongue’s sharp, but your heart’s in the right place—is it a bargain?”
He held out his hand with applause from the crowd, but Grandois was not to be softened. His anger, however, had behind it some sense of caution, and what Carnac said about the smallpox incident struck him hard. It was the first time he had ever been hit between the eyes where John Grier was concerned. His prestige with the men was now under a shadow, yet he dared not deny the truth of the statement. It could be proved. His braggart hatred of John Grier had come home to roost. Carnac saw that, and he was glad he had challenged the man. He believed that in politics, as in all other departments of life, candour and bold play were best in the long run. Yet he would like to see the man in a different humour, and with joy he heard Junia say to Grandois.
“How is the baby boy, and how is madame, Monsieur Grandois?”
It came at the right moment, for only two days before had Madame Grandois given her husband the boy for which he had longed. Junia had come to know of it through a neighbour and had sent jellies to the sick woman. As she came forward now, Grandois, taken aback, said:
“Alors, they’re all right, ma’m’selle, thank you. It was you sent the jellies, eh?”
She nodded with a smile. “Yes, I sent them, Grandois. May I come and see madame and the boy to-morrow?”
The incident had taken a favourable turn.
“It’s about even-things between us, Grandois?” asked Carnac, and held out his hand. “My father hit you, but you hit him harder by forgetting about the smallpox and the rent, and also by drinking up the cash that ought to have paid the rent. It doesn’t matter now that the rent was never paid, but it does that you recall the smallpox debt. Can’t you say a word for me, Grandois? You’re a big man here among all the workers. I’m a better Frenchman than the man I’m trying to turn out. Just a word for a good cause.
“They’re waiting for you, and your hand on it! Here’s a place for you on the roost. Come up.”
The “roost” was an upturned tub lying face down on the ground, and in the passion of the moment, the little man gripped Carnac’s hand and stood on the tub to great cheering; for if there was one thing the French-Canadians love, it is sensation, and they were having it. They were mostly Barouche’s men, but they were emotional, and melodrama had stirred their feelings.
Besides, like the Irish, they had a love of feminine nature, and in all the river-coves Junia was known by sight at least, and was admired. She had the freshness of face and mind which is the heart of success with the habitants. With Eugene Grandois on his feet, she heard a speech which had in it the best spirit of Gallic eloquence, though it was crude. But it was forcible and adroit.
“Friends and comrades,” said Eugene Grandois, with his hands playing loosely, “there’s been misunderstandings between me and the Grier family, and I was out against it, but I see things different since M’sieu’ Carnac has spoke—and I’m changing my mind—certainlee. That throwing out of my house hit me and my woman and little ones hard, and I’ve been resentin’ it all these years till now; but I’m weighin’ one thing agin another, and I’m willing to forget my wrongs for this young man’s sake. He’s for us French. Alors, some of you was out to hurt our friend M’sieu’ Carnac here, and I didn’t say no to it; but you’d better keep your weapons for election day and use them agin Barode Barouche.
“I got a change of heart. I’ve laid my plate on the table with a prayer that I get it filled with good political doctrine, and I’ve promise that the food I’m to get is what’s best for all of us. M’sieu’ Carnac Grier’s got the right stuff in him, and I’m for him both hands up—both hands way up high, nom de pipe!”
At that he raised both hands above his head with a loud cheer, and later Carnac Grier was carried to the launch in the arms of Eugene Grandois’ friends.