It was in the house of Eugene Grandois that this question was asked of Junia. She had followed the experience on the Island by a visit to Grandois’ house, carrying delicacies for the sick wife. Denzil had come with her, and was waiting in the street.
She had almost ended her visit when the outer door opened and Luzanne Larue entered carrying a dish she placed on the table, eyeing Junia closely. First they bowed to each other, and Junia gave a pleasant smile, but instantly she felt here was a factor in her own life—how, she could not tell.
To Luzanne, the face of Junia had no familiar feature, and yet she felt here was one whose life’s lines crossed her own. So it was she presently said, “Who are you, ma’m’selle?” in a sharp voice. As Junia did not reply at once, she put the question in another form: “What is your name, ma’m’selle?”
“It is Junia Shale,” said the other calmly, yet with heart beating hard. Somehow the question foreshadowed painful things, associated with Carnac. Her first glance at Luzanne showed the girl was well dressed, that she had a face of some beauty, that her eyes were full of glamour—black and bold, and, in a challenging way, beautiful. It was a face and figure full of daring. She was not French-Canadian; yet she was French; that was clear from her accent. Yet the voice had an accent of crudity, and the plump whiteness of the skin and waving fulness of the hair gave the girl a look of an adventuress. She was dressed in black with a white collar which, by contrast, seemed to heighten her unusual nature.
At first Junia shuddered, for Luzanne’s presence made her uneasy; yet the girl must have good qualities, for she had brought comforts to the sick woman, and indeed, within, madame had spoken of the “dear beautiful stranger.” That could be no other than this girl. She became composed. Yet she had a feeling that between them was a situation needing all her resources. About what? She would soon know, and she gave her name at last slowly, keeping her eyes on those of Luzanne.
At mention of the name, Luzanne’s eyes took on prejudice and moroseness. The pupils enlarged, the lids half closed, the face grew sour.
“Junia Shale—you are Junia Shale?” The voice was bitter and resentful.
Junia nodded, and in her smile was understanding and conflict, for she felt this girl to be her foe.
“We must have a talk—that’s sure,” Luzanne said with decision.
“Who are you?” asked Junia calmly. “I am Luzanne Larue.”
“That makes me no wiser.”
“Hasn’t Carnac Grier spoken of me?”
Junia shook her head, and turned her face towards the door of Madame Grandois’ room. “Had we not better go somewhere else to talk, after you’ve seen Madame Grandois and the baby?” she asked with a smile, yet she felt she was about to face an alarming event. “Madame Grandois has spoken pleasantly of you to me,” Junia added, for tact was her prompt faculty. “If you’d come where we could talk undisturbed—do you see?”
Luzanne made no reply in words, but taking up the dish she went into the sick-room, and Junia heard her in short friendly speech with Madame Grandois. Luzanne appeared again soon and spoke: “Now we can go where I’m boarding. It’s only three doors away, and we can be safe there. You’d like to talk with me—ah, yes, surelee!”
Her eyes were combative and repellent, but Junia was not dismayed, and she said: “What shall we talk about?”
“There’s only one thing and one person to talk about, ma’m’selle.”
“I still don’t know what you mean.”
“Aren’t you engaged to Carnac Grier? Don’t you think you’re going to marry him?... Don’t you like to tell the truth, then?” she added.
Junia raised her eyebrows. “I’m not engaged to Carnac Grier, and he has never asked me to marry him—but what business is it of yours, ma’m’selle?”
“Come and I’ll tell you.” Luzanne moved towards the door. They were speechless till they reached Luzanne’s lodgings.
“This is the house of Monsieur Marmette, an agent of Monsieur Barouche,” said Junia. “I know it.”
“You’ll know it better soon. The agent of M’sieu’ Barouche is a man of mark about here, and he’ll be more marked soon—but yes!”
“You think Monsieur Barouche will be elected, do you?” asked Junia, as they closed the door.
“I know he will.”
“I’ve been working for Monsieur Grier, and that isn’t my opinion.”
“I’m working for Barode Barouche, and I know the result.”
They were now in Luzanne’s small room, and Junia noted that it had all the characteristics of a habitant dwelling—even to the crucifix at the head of the bed, and the picture of the French-Canadian Premier of the Dominion on the wall. She also saw a rosary on a little hook beside the bed.
“How do you know?”
“Because I am the wife of Carnac Grier, and I know what will happen to him.... You turn pale, ma’m’selle, but your colour isn’t going to alter the truth. I’m Carnac Grier’s wife by the laws of New York State.”
“Does Monsieur Grier admit he is your husband?”
“He must respect the law by which he married me.”
“I don’t believe he was ever honestly married to you,” declared Junia. “Has he ever lived with you—for a single day?”
“What difference would that make? I have the marriage certificate here.” She touched her bosom.
“I’d have thought you were Barode Barouche’s wife by the way you act. Isn’t it a wife’s duty to help her husband—Shouldn’t you be fighting against Barode Barouche?”
“I mean to be recognized as Carnac Grier’s wife—that’s why I’m here.”
“Have you seen him since you’ve been here? Have you told him how you’re working against him? Have you got the certificate with you?”
“Of course. I’ve got my head on like a piece of flesh and blood that belongs to me—bien sur.”
She suddenly drew from her breast a folded piece of blue paper. “There it is, signed by Judge Grimshaw that married us, and there’s the seal; and the whole thing can’t be set aside. Look at it, if you like, petite.”
She held it not far from Junia’s face, and Junia could see that it was registration of a marriage of New York State. She could have snatched the paper away, but she meant to conquer Luzanne’s savage spirit. “Well, how do you intend to defeat your husband?”
“I mean to have the people asked from a platform if they’ve seen the wife of the candidate, and then a copy of the certificate will be read to all. What do you think will happen after that?”
“It will have to be done to-night or to-morrow night,” remarked Junia.
“Because the election comes the day after to-morrow,—eh
“Because of that. And who will read the document?”
“Who but the man he’s trying to defeat?—tell me that.”
“You mean Barode Barouche?”
“Who else?”
“Has he agreed to do it?”
Luzanne nodded. “On the day—Carnac became a candidate.”
“And if Carnac Grier denies it?”
“He won’t deny it. He never has. He says he was drunk when the thing was done—mais, oui.”
“Is that all he says?”
“No. He says he didn’t know it was a real marriage, and—” Luzanne then related Carnac’s defence, and added: “Do you think anyone would believe him with the facts as they are? Remember I’m French and he’s English, and that marriage to a French girl is life and death; and this is a French province!”
“And yet you are a Catholic and French, and were married by a Protestant judge.”
“That is my own affair, ma’m’selle.”
“It is not the thing to say to French-Canadians here. What do you get out of it all? If he is your husband, wouldn’t it be better to have him successful than your defeated victim. What will be yours if you defeat—”
“Revenge—my rights—the law!” was the sharp rejoinder.
Junia smiled. “What is there in it all for you? If the man I married did not love me, I’d use the law to be free. What’s the good of trying to destroy a husband who doesn’t love you, who never loved you—never.”
“You don’t know that,” retorted Luzanne sharply.
“Yes, I do. He never loved you. He never lived with you for a single day. That’s in the power of a doctor to prove. If you are virtuous, then he has taken nothing; if you have given your all, and not to Carnac Grier, what will his mind be about you? Is it money? He has no money except what he earns. His father left him nothing—not a dollar. Why do you hate him so? I’ve known him all my life, and I’ve never known him hurt man or animal. When did he ever misuse you, or hurt you? Did he ever treat you badly? How did you come to know him? Answer that.”
She paused and Luzanne flushed. The first meeting! Why, that was the day Carnac had saved her life, had taken her home safe from danger, and had begun a friendship with behind it only a desire to help her. And how had she repaid the saviour of her life? By tricking him into a marriage, and then by threatening him if he did not take her to his home. Truth is, down beneath her misconduct was a passion for the man which, not satisfied, became a passion to destroy him and his career. It was a characteristic of her blood and breed. It was a relic of ancient dishonour, inherited and searching; it was atavism and the incorrigible thing. Beneath everything was her desire for the man, and the mood in which she had fought for him was the twist of a tortured spirit. She was not so deliberate as her actions had indicated. She had been under the malicious influence of her father and her father’s friend. She was like one possessed of a spirit that would not be deterred from its purpose. Junia saw the impression she had made, and set it down to her last words.
“Where did you first meet him? What was the way of it?” she added.
Suddenly Junia came forward and put her hands on Luzanne’s shoulders. “I think you loved Carnac once, and perhaps you love him now, and are only trying to hurt him out of anger. If you destroy him, you will repent of it—so soon! I don’t know what is behind these things you are doing, but you’ll be sorry for it when it is too late. Yes, I know you have loved Carnac, for I see all the signs—”
“Do you love him then, ma’m’selle?” asked Luzanne exasperated. “Do you love him?”
“He has never asked me, and I have never told him that; and I don’t know, but, if I did, I would move heaven and earth to help him, and if he didn’t love me I’d help him just the same. And so, I think, should you. If you ever loved him, then you ought to save him from evil. Tell me, did Carnac ever do you a kind act, one that is worth while in your life?”
For a moment Luzanne stood dismayed, then a new expression drove the dark light from her eyes. It was as though she had found a new sense.
“He saved my life the day we first met,” she said at last under Junia’s hypnotic influence.
“And now you would strike him when he is trying to do the big thing. You threaten to declare his marriage, in the face of those who can elect him to play a great part for his country.”
Junia saw the girl was in emotional turmoil, was obsessed by one idea, and she felt her task had vast difficulty. That Carnac should have married the girl was incredible, that he had played an unworthy part seemed sure; yet it was in keeping with his past temperament. The girl was the extreme contrast of himself, with dark—almost piercing-eyes, and a paleness which was physically constitutional—the joy of the artistic spirit. It was the head of a tragedienne or a martyr, and the lean, rather beautiful body was eloquent of life.
Presently Junia said: “To try to spoil him would be a crime against his country, and I shall tell him you are here.”
“He’ll do nothing at all.” The French girl’s words were suddenly biting, malicious and defiant. The moment’s softness she had felt was gone, and hardness returned. “If he hasn’t moved against me since he married me, he wouldn’t dare do so now.”
“Why hasn’t he moved? Because you’re a woman, and also he’d believe you’d repent of your conduct. But I believe he will act sternly against you at once. There is much at stake.”
“You want it for your own sake,” said Luzanne sharply. “You think he’d marry you if I gave him up.”
“Perhaps he’d ask me to marry him, if you weren’t in the way, but I’d have my own mind about that, and knowing what you’ve told me—truth or lie—I’d weigh it all carefully. Besides, he’s not the only man. Doesn’t that ever strike you? Why try to hold him by a spurious bond when there are other men as good-looking, as clever? Is your world so bare of men—no, I’m sure it isn’t,” she added, for she saw anger rising in the impulsive girl. “There are many who’d want to marry you, and it’s better to marry some one who loves you than to hold to one who doesn’t love you at all. Is it hate? He saved your life—and that’s how you came to know him first, and now you would destroy him! He’s a great man. He would not bend to his father’s will, and so he was left without a sou of his father’s money. All because he has a conscience, and an independence worthy of the best that ever lived.... That’s the soul of the man you are trying to hurt. If you had a real soul, there wouldn’t be even the thought of this crime. Do you think he wouldn’t loathe you, if you do this ghastly thing? Would any real man endure it for an hour? What do you expect to get but ugly revenge on a man who never gave anything except friendship?”
“Friendship—friendship-yes, he gave that, but emotion too.”
“You think that real men marry women for whom they only have emotion. You think that he—Carnac Grier—would marry any woman on that basis? Come, ma’m’selle, the truth! He didn’t know he was being married, and when you told him it was a real marriage he left you at once. You and yours tricked him—the man you’d never have known if he hadn’t saved your life. You thought that with your beauty—yes, you are beautiful—you’d conquer him, and that he’d give in, and become a real husband in a real home. Come now, isn’t that it?”
The other did not reply. Her face was alive with memories. The lower things were flying from it, a spirit of womanhood was living in her—feebly, but truly, living. She was now conscious of the insanity of her pursuit of Carnac. For a few moments she stood silent, and then she said with agitation:
“If I give this up”—she took from her breast the blue document—“he’d be safe in his election, and he’d marry you: is it not so, ma’m’selle?”
“He’d be safe for his election, but he has never asked me to marry him, and there are others besides him.”—She was thinking of Tarboe. “Tell me,” she added suddenly, “to whom have you told this thing in Montreal? Did you mean to challenge him yourself?”
“I told it only to M’sieu’ Barouche, and he said he would use it at the right moment—and the right moment has come,” she added. “He asked me for a copy of it last night, and I said I’d give it to him to-day. It’s because of him I’ve been here quiet all these weeks as Ma’m’selle Larue.”
“He is worse than you, mademoiselle, for he has known Carnac’s family, and he has no excuse. If a man can’t win his fight fairly, he oughtn’t to be in public life.”
After a few dark moments, with a sudden burst of feeling, Luzanne said: “Well, Carnac won’t be out of public life through me!”
She took the blue certificate from her breast and was about to tear it up, when Junia stopped her.
“Don’t do that,” Junia said, “don’t tear it up yet, give it to me. I’ll tear it up at the right moment. Give it to me, my dear.”
She held out her hand, and the blue certificate was presently in her fingers. She felt a sudden weakness in her knees, for it seemed she held the career of Carnac Grier, and it moved her as she had never been moved.
With the yielding of the certificate, Luzanne seemed suddenly to lose self-control. She sank on the bed beside the wall with a cry of distress.
“Mon Dieu—oh, Mon Dieu!” Then she sprang to her feet. “Give it back, give it back tome,” she cried, with frantic pain. “It’s all I have of him—it’s all I have.”
“I won’t give it back,” declared Junia quietly. “It’s a man’s career, and you must let it go. It’s the right thing to do. Let it stand, mademoiselle.”
She fully realized the half-insane mind and purpose of the girl, and she wrapped her arms around the stricken figure.
“See, my dear,” she said, “it’s no use. You can’t have it back. Your soul is too big for that now. You can be happy in the memory that you gave Carnac back his freedom.”
“But the record stands,” said the girl helplessly. “Tell the truth and have it removed. You owe that to the man who saved your life. Have it done at once at Shipton.”
“What will you do with the certificate?” She glanced at Junia’s bosom where the paper was hidden. “I will give it to Carnac, and he can do what he likes with it.”
By now the tears were streaming down the face of Luzanne Larue, and hard as it was for Junia, she tried to comfort her, for the girl should be got away at once, and only friendliness could achieve that. She would see Denzil—he was near by, waiting.
There would be a train in two hours for New York and the girl must take it-she must.
Barode Baruche was excited. He had sure hope of defeating Carnac with the help of Luzanne Larue. The woman had remained hidden since her coming, and the game was now in his hands. On the night before the poll he could declare the thing, not easy to be forgiven by the French-Canadian public, which has a strong sense of domestic duty. Carnac Grier was a Protestant, and that was bad, and if there was added an offence against domestic morality, he would be beaten at the polls as sure as the river ran. He had seen Luzanne several times, and though he did not believe in her, he knew the marriage certificate was real. He had no credence in Carnac’s lack of honour, yet it was strange he had not fought his wife, if his case was a good one.
Day by day he had felt Carnac’s power growing, and he feared his triumph unless some sensation stopped it. Well, he had at hand the sufficient sensation. He would produce both the certificate of marriage and the French girl who was the legal wife of Carnac Grier. That Luzanne was French helped greatly, for it would be used by Carnac’s foes as an insult to French Canada, and his pulses throbbed as he thought of the possible turmoil in the constituency.
Fortunately the girl was handsome, had ability, and spoke English with a French accent, and she was powerful for his purposes. He was out to prevent his own son from driving himself into private life, and he would lose no trick in the game, if he could help it.
Sentimental feeling—yes, he had it, but it did not prevent him from saving his own skin. Carnac had come out against him, and he must hit as hard as he could. It was not as though Carnac had been guilty of a real crime and was within the peril of the law. His offence was a personal one, but it would need impossible defence at the moment of election. In any case, if Carnac was legally married, he should assume the responsibilities of married life; and if he had honest reason for not recognizing the marriage, he should stop the woman from pursuing him. If the case kept Carnac out of public life and himself in, then justice would be done; for it was monstrous that a veteran should be driven into obscurity by a boy. In making his announcement he would be fighting his son as though he was a stranger and not of his own blood and bones. He had no personal connection with Carnac in the people’s minds.
On the afternoon of the day that Junia had had her hour with Luzanne, he started for the house where Luzanne was lodging. He could not travel the streets without being recognized, but it did not matter, for the house where the girl lodged was that of his sub agent, and he was safe in going to it. He did not know, however, that Denzil had been told by Junia to watch the place and learn what he meant to do.
Denzil had a popular respect of Barode Barouche as a Minister of the Crown; but he had a far greater love of Carnac. He remained vigilant until after Junia and Luzanne had started in a cab for the railway-station. They left near three-quarters of an hour before the train was to start for New York; and for the first quarter of an hour after they left, Denzil was in apprehension.
Then he saw Barouche enter the street and go to the house of his sub-agent. The house stood by itself, with windows open, and Denzil did not scruple to walk near it, and, if possible, listen. Marmette, the subagent, would know of the incident between Junia and Luzanne; and he feared. Barouche might start for the station, overtake Luzanne and prevent her leaving. He drew close and kept his ears open.
He was fortunate, he heard voices; Marmette was explaining to Barouche that Junia and Luzanne had gone to the station, as “Ma’m’selle” was bound for New York. Marmette had sent word to M. Barouche by messenger, but the messenger had missed him. Then he heard Barouche in anger say:
“You fool—why did you let her leave! It’s my bread and butter—and yours too—that’s at stake. I wanted to use her against Grier. She was my final weapon of attack. How long ago did she leave?” Marmette told him.
Denzil saw Barode Barouche leave the house with grim concern and talking hard to Paul Marmette. He knew the way they would go, so he fell behind a tree, and saw them start for the place where they could order a cab. Then he followed them. Looking at his watch he saw that, if they got a cab, they would get to the station before the train started, and he wondered how he could retard Barouche. A delay of three minutes would be enough, for it was a long way, and the distance could only be covered with good luck in the time. Yet Denzil had hope, for his faith in Junia was great, and he felt sure she would do what she planned. He had to trot along fast, because Barouche and Marmette were going hard, and he could not see his way to be of use yet. He would give his right hand to help Carnac win against the danger Junia had suggested. It could not be aught to Carnac’s discredit, or Junia would not have tried to get the danger out of Montreal; he had seen Luzanne, and she might be deadly, if she had a good weapon!
Presently, he saw Barouche and his agent stop at the door of a livery-stable, and were told that no cabs were available. There were none in the street, and time was pressing. Not far away, however, was a street with a tram-line, and this tram would take Barouche near the station from which Luzanne would start. So Barouche made hard for this street and had reached it when a phaeton came along, and in it was one whom Barouche knew. Barouche spoke to the occupant, and presently both men were admitted to the phaeton just as a tram-car came near.
As the phaeton would make the distance to the station in less time than the car, this seemed the sensible thing to do, and Denzil’s spirits fell. There remained enough time for Barouche to reach the station before the New York train started! He got aboard the tram himself, and watched the phaeton moving quickly on ahead. He saw the driver of the phaeton strike his horse with a whip, and the horse, suddenly breaking into a gallop, slipped and fell to the ground on the tramtrack. A moment later the tram came to a stop behind the fallen horse, and Denzil saw the disturbed face of Barode Barouche looking for another trap—in any case, it would take three or four minutes to get the horse up and clear the track for the tram. There was no carriage in sight—only a loaded butcher’s cart, a road-cleaner, and a heavily loaded van. These could be of no use to Barouche.
In his corner, Denzil saw the play with anxious eyes.
It was presently found that the horse had injured a leg in falling and could not be got to its feet, but had presently to be dragged from the tram-lines. It had all taken near five minutes of the time before the train went, and, with despair, Barouche mounted the steps of the tram. He saw Denzil, and shrewdly suspected he was working in the interests of Carnac. He came forward to Denzil.
“You’re a long way from home, little man,” he said in a voice with an acid note.
“About the same as you from home, m’sieu’,” said Denzil.
“I’ve got business everywhere in this town,” remarked Barouche with sarcasm—“and you haven’t, have you? You’re travelling privately, eh?”
“I travel as m’sieu’ travels, and on the same business,” answered Denzil with a challenging smile.
The look Barouche gave him then Denzil never forgot. “I didn’t know you were in politics, mon vieux! What are you standing for? When are you going to the polls—who are you fighting, eh?”
“I’m fighting you, m’sieu’, though I ain’t in politics, and I’m going to the polls now,” Denzil answered. Denzil had gained in confidence as he saw the arrogance of Barode Barouche. He spoke with more vigour than usual, and he felt his gorge rising, for here was a man trying to injure his political foe through a woman; and Denzil resented it. He did not know the secret of Luzanne Larue, but he did realize there was conflict between Junia Shale and Barouche, and between Barouche and Carnac Grier, and that enlisted his cooperation. By nature he was respectful; but the politician now was playing a dirty game, and he himself might fight without gloves, if needed. That was why his eyes showed defiance at Barouche now. He had said the thing which roused sharp anger in Barouche. It told Barouche that Denzil knew where he was going and why. Anger shook him as he saw Denzil take out his watch.
“The poll closes in three minutes, m’sieu’,” Denzil added with a dry smile, for it was clear Barouche could not reach the station in time, if the train left promptly. The swiftest horses could not get him there, and these were not the days of motor-cars. Yet it was plain Barouche meant to stick to it, and he promptly said:
“You haven’t the right time, beetle. The poll closes only when the train leaves, and your watch doesn’t show that, so don’t put on airs yet.”
“I’ll put on airs if I’ve won, m’sieu’,” Denzil answered quietly, for he saw people in the tram were trying to hear.
Barouche had been recognized, and a murmur of cheering began, followed by a hum of disapproval, for Barouche had lost many friends since Carnac had come into the fray. A few folk tried to engage Barouche in talk, but he responded casually; yet he smiled the smile which had done so much for him in public life, and the distance lessened to the station. The tram did not go quite to the station, and as it stopped, the two men hurried to the doors. As they did so, an engine gave a scream, and presently, as they reached the inside of the station, they saw passing out at the far end, the New York train.
“She started five minutes late, but she did start,” said Denzil, and there was malice in his smile.
As he looked at his watch, he saw Junia passing out of a door into the street, but Barode Barouche did not see her—his eyes were fixed on the departing train.
For a moment Barouche stood indecisive as to whether he should hire a locomotive and send some one after the train, and so get in touch with Luzanne in that way, or send her a telegram to the first station where the train would stop in its schedule; but presently he gave up both ideas. As he turned towards the exit of the station, he saw Denzil, and he came forward.
“I think you’ve won, mon petit chien,” he said with vindictiveness, “but my poll comes to-morrow night, and I shall win.”
“No game is won till it’s all played, m’sieu’, and this innings is mine!”
“I am fighting a bigger man than you, wasp,” snarled Barouche.
“As big as yourself and bigger, m’sieu’,” said Denzil with a smile.
There was that in his tone which made Barouche regard him closely. He saw there was no real knowledge of the relationship of Carnac and himself in Denzil’s eyes; but he held out his hand with imitation courtesy, as though to say good-bye.
“Give me a love-clasp, spider,” he said with a kind of sneer. “I’d like your love as I travel to triumph.” A light of hatred came into Denzil’s eyes. “Beetledog—wasp—spider” he had been called by this big man—well, he should see that the wasp could give as good as it got. His big gnarled hand enclosed the hand of Barode Barouche, then he suddenly closed on it tight. He closed on it till he felt it crunching in his own and saw that the face of Barode Barouche was like that of one in a chair of torture. He squeezed, till from Barouche’s lips came a gasp of agony, and then he let go.
“You’ve had my love-clasp, m’sieu’,” Denzil said with meaning, “and when you want it again let me know. It’s what M’sieu’ Carnac will do with you to-morrow night. Only he’ll not let go, as I did, before the blood comes. Don’t be hard on those under you, m’sieu’. Remember wasps and spiders can sting in their own way, and that dogs can bite.”
“Little black beast,” was the short reply, “I’ll strip your hide for Hell’s gridiron in good time.”
“Bien, m’sieu’, but you’ll be in hell waiting, for I’m going to bury you here where you call better men than yourself dogs and wasps and spiders and beetles. And I’ll not strip your ‘hide,’ either. That’s for lower men than me.”
A moment later they parted, Denzil to find Junia, and Barouche to prepare his speech for the evening. Barouche pondered. What should he do—should he challenge Carnac with his marriage with Luzanne Larue? His heart was beating hard.
The day of the election came. Never had feeling run higher, never had racial lines been so cut across. Barode Barouche fought with vigour, but from the going of Luzanne Larue, there passed from him the confidence he had felt since the first day of Carnac’s candidature. He had had temptation to announce to those who heard him the night before the poll what Luzanne had told; but better wisdom guided him, to his subsequent content. He had not played a scurvy trick on his son for his own personal advantage. Indeed, when his meetings were all over, he was thankful for the disappearance of Luzanne. At heart he was not all bad. A madness had been on him. He, therefore, slept heavily from midnight till morning on the eve of the election, and began the day with the smile of one who abides the result with courage.
Several times he came upon Carnac in the streets, and they saluted courteously; yet he saw the confidence of Carnac in his bearing. Twice also he came upon Junia and he was startled by the look she gave him. It was part of his punishment that Junia was the source of his undoing where Luzanne was concerned. Junia knew about Luzanne; but if she condemned him now, what would she think if she knew that Carnac was his own son!
“A devilish clever girl that,” he said to himself. “If he wins, it’ll be due to her, and if he wins—no, he can’t marry her, for he’s already married; but he’ll owe it all to her. If he wins!... No, he shall not win; I’ve been in the game too long; I’ve served too many interests; I’ve played too big a part.”
It was then he met his agent, who said: “They’re making strong play against us—the strongest since you began politics.”
“Strong enough to put us in danger?” inquired Barouche. “You’ve been at the game here for thirty years, and I’d like to know what you think—quite honestly.”
His agent was disturbed. “I think you’re in danger; he has all your gifts, and he’s as clever as Old Nick besides. He’s a man that’ll make things hum, if he gets in.”
“If he gets in—you think...?”
“He has as good a chance as you, m’sieu’. Here’s a list of doubtful ones, and you’ll see they’re of consequence.”
“They are indeed,” said Barouche, scanning the list. “I’d no idea these would be doubtful.”
“Luke Tarboe’s working like the devil for Carnac. People believe in him. Half the men on that list were affected by Tarboe’s turning over. Tarboe is a master-man; he has fought like hell.”
“Nevertheless, I’ve been too long at it to miss it now,” said the rueful member with a forced smile. “I must win now, or my game is up.”
The agent nodded, but there was no certainty in his eye. Feeling ran higher and higher, but there was no indication that Barouche’s hopes were sure of fulfilment. His face became paler as the day wore on, and his hands freer with those of his late constituents. Yet he noticed that Carnac was still glib with his tongue and freer with his hands. Carnac seemed everywhere, on every corner, in every street, at every polling booth; he laid his trowel against every brick in the wall. Carnac was not as confident as he seemed, but he was nearing the end of the trail; and his feet were free and his head clear. One good thing had happened. The girl who could do him great harm was not in evidence, and it was too late to spoil his chances now, even if she came. What gave him greatest hope was the look on Junia’s face as he passed her. It was the sign of the conqueror—something he could not under stand. It was knowledge and victory.
Also, he had a new feeling towards Tarboe, who had given him such powerful support. There was, then, in the man the bigger thing, the light of fairness and reason! He had had no talk with Tarboe, and he desired none, but he had seen him at three of his meetings, and he had evidence of arduous effort on his behalf. Tarboe had influenced many people in his favour, men of standing and repute, and the workmen of the Grier firm had come, or were coming, his way. He had always been popular with them, in spite of the strike he had fought, but they voted independently of their employers; and he was glad to know that most of them were with him in the fight.
His triumph over Eugene Grandois at the Island had been a good influence, and he had hopes of capturing the majority of the river people. Yet, strange to say, the Church had somewhat reversed its position, and at the last had swung round to Barouche, quietly, though not from the pulpit, supporting him. The old prejudice in favour of a Catholic and a Frenchman was alive again.
Carnac was keyed to anxiety, but outwardly seemed moving with brilliant certainty. He walked on air, and he spoke and acted like one who had the key of the situation in his fingers, and the button of decision at his will. It was folly electioneering on the day of the poll, and yet he saw a few labour leaders and moved them to greater work for him. One of these told him that at the Grier big-mill was one man working to defeat him by personal attacks. It had something to do with a so-called secret marriage, and it would be good to get hold of the man, Roudin, as soon as possible.
A secret marriage! So the thing had, after all, been bruited and used-what was the source of the information? Who was responsible? He must go to the mill at once, and he started for it. On the way he met Luke Tarboe.
“There’s trouble down at the mill,” Tarboe said. “A fellow called Roudin has been spreading a story that you’re married and repudiate your wife. It’d be good to fight it now before it gets going. There’s no truth in it, of course,” he added with an opposite look in his eye, for he remembered the letter Carnac received one day in the office and his own conclusion then.
“It’s a lie, and I’ll go and see Roudin at once.... You’ve been a good friend to me in the fight, Tarboe, and I’d like a talk when it’s all over.”
“That’ll be easy enough, Grier. Don’t make any mistake-this is a big thing you’re doing; and if a Protestant Britisher can beat a Catholic Frenchman in his own habitant seat, it’s the clinching of Confederation. We’ll talk it over when you’ve won.”
“You think I’m going to win?” asked Carnac with thumping heart, for the stark uncertainty seemed to overpower him, though he smiled.
“If the lie doesn’t get going too hard, I’m sure you’ll pull it off. There’s my hand on it. I’d go down with you to the mill, but you should go alone. You’ve got your own medicine to give. Go it alone, Grier. It’s best—and good luck to you!”
A few moments later Carnac was in the yard of the mill, and in one corner he saw the man he took to be Roudin talking to a group of workmen. He hurried over, and heard Roudin declaring that he, Carnac, was secretly married to a woman whom he repudiated, and was that the kind of man to have as member of Parliament? Presently Roudin was interrupted by cheers from supporters of Carnac, and he saw it was due to Carnac’s arrival. Roudin had courage. He would not say behind a man’s back what he would not say to his face.
“I was just telling my friends here, m’sieu’, that you was married, and you didn’t acknowledge your wife. Is that so?”
Carnac’s first impulse was to say No, but he gained time by challenging.
“Why do you say such things to injure me? Is that what Monsieur Barouche tells you to say?”
Roudin shook his head protestingly.
“If Monsieur Barouche does that he oughtn’t to hold the seat, he ought to be sent back to his law offices.”
“No, I didn’t hear it from M’sieu’ Barouche. I get it from better hands than his,” answered Roudin.
“Better hands than his, eh? From the lady herself, perhaps?”
“Yes, from the lady herself, m’sieu’.”
“Then bring the lady here and let us have it out, monsieur. It’s a lie. Bring the lady here, if you know her.”
Roudin shrugged a shoulder. “I know what I know, and I don’t have to do what you say—no—no!”
“Then you’re not honest. You do me harm by a story like that. I challenge you, and you don’t respond. You say you know the woman, then produce her—there’s no time to be lost. The poll closes in four hours. If you make such statements, prove them. It isn’t playing the game—do you think so, messieurs?” he added to the crowd which had grown in numbers. At that moment a man came running from the en trance towards Carnac. It was Denzil.
“A letter for you, an important letter,” he kept crying as he came nearer. He got the letter into Carnac’s hands.
“Read it at once, m’sieu’,” Denzil said urgently. Carnac saw the handwriting was Junia’s, and he tore open the letter, which held the blue certificate of the marriage with Luzanne. He conquered the sudden dimness of his eyes, and read the letter. It said: