DEAR CARNAC,I hear from Mr. Tarboe of the lies being told against you. Here isthe proof. She has gone. She told it to Barode Barouche, and hewas to have announced it last night, but I saw her first. You cannow deny the story. The game is yours. Tell the man Roudin toproduce the woman—she is now in New York, if the train was notlost. I will tell you all when you are M.P.JUNIA.
With a smile, Carnac placed the certificate in his pocket. How lucky it was he had denied the marriage and demanded that Roudin produce the woman! He was safe now, safe and free. It was no good any woman declaring she was married to him if she could not produce the proof—and the proof was in his pocket and the woman was in New York.
“Come, Monsieur Roudin, tell us about the woman, and bring her to the polls. There is yet time, if you’re telling the truth. Who is she? Where does she live? What’s her name?”
“Mrs. Carnac Grier—that’s her name,” responded Roudin with a snarl, and the crowd laughed, for Carnac’s boldness gave them a sense of security.
“What was her maiden name?”
“Larue,” answered the other sharply.
“What was her Christian name, since you know so much, monsieur?”
He had no fear now, and his question was audacity, but he knew the game was with him, and he took the risks. His courage had reward, for Roudin made no reply. Carnac turned to the crowd.
“Here’s a man tried to ruin my character by telling a story about a woman whose name he doesn’t know. Is that playing the game after the rules—I ask you?”
There were cries from the crowd supporting him, and he grew bolder. “Let the man tell his story and I’ll meet it here face to face. I fear nothing. Out with your story, monsieur. Tell us why you haven’t brought her into the daylight, why she isn’t claiming her husband at the polls. What’s the story? Let’s have it now.”
The truth was, Roudin dared not tell what he knew. It was based wholly on a talk he had partly overheard between Barode Barouche and Luzanne in the house where she stayed and where he, Roudin, lodged. It had not been definite, and he had no proofs. He was a sensationalist, and he had had his hour and could say no more, because of Barode Barouche. He could not tell the story of his overhearing, for why had not Barouche told the tale? With an oath he turned away and disappeared. As he went he could hear his friends cheering Carnac.
“Carnac Grier lies, but he wins the game,” he said.
“Grier’s in—Carnac’s in—Carnac’s got the seat!” This was the cry heard in the streets at ten-thirty at night when Carnac was found elected by a majority of one hundred and ten.
Carnac had not been present at the counting of the votes until the last quarter-hour, and then he was told by his friends of the fluctuations of the counting—how at one time his defeat seemed assured, since Barode Barouche was six hundred ahead, and his own friends had almost given up hope. One of his foes, however, had no assurance of Carnac’s defeat. He was too old an agent to believe in returns till all were in, and he knew of the two incidents by which Carnac had got advantage—at the Island over Eugene Grandois, and at the Mill over Roudin the very day of polling; and it was at these points he had hoped to score for Barouche a majority. He watched Barouche, and he deplored the triumph in his eye, for there was no surety of winning; his own was the scientific mind without emotions or passions. He did not “enthuse,” and he did not despair; he kept his head.
Presently there were fluctuations in favour of Carnac, and the six hundred by which Barouche led were steadily swallowed up; he saw that among the places which gave Carnac a majority were the Island and the Mill. He was also nonplussed by Carnac’s coolness. For a man with an artist’s temperament, he was well controlled. When he came into the room, he went straight to Barouche and shook hands with him, saying they’d soon offer congratulations to the winner. As the meeting took place the agent did not fail to note how alike in build and manner were the two men, how similar were their gestures.
When at last the Returning Officer announced the result, the agent dared not glance at his defeated chief. Yet he saw him go to Carnac and offer a hand.
“We’ve had a straight fight, Grier, and I hope you’ll have luck in Parliament. This is no place for me. It’s your game, and I’ll eat my sour bread alone.”
He motioned to the window with a balcony, beyond which were the shouting thousands. Then he smiled at Carnac, and in his heart he was glad he had not used the facts about Luzanne before the public. The boy’s face was so glowing that his own youth came back, and a better spirit took residence in him. He gave thanks to the Returning Officer, and then, with his agent, left the building by the back door. He did not wait for the announcement of Carnac’s triumph, and he knew his work was done for ever in public life.
Soon he had said his say at the club where his supporters, discomfited, awaited him. To demands for a speech, he said he owed to his workers what he could never repay, and that the long years they had kept him in Parliament would be the happiest memory of his life.
“We’ll soon have you back,” shouted a voice from the crowd.
“It’s been a good fight,” said Barode Barouche. Somehow the fact he had not beaten his son by the story of his secret marriage was the sole comfort he had. He advised his followers to “play the game” and let the new member have his triumph without belittlement.
“It’s the best fight I’ve had in thirty years,” he said at last, “and I’ve been beaten fairly.”
In another hour he was driving into the country on his way to visit an old ex-Cabinet Minister, who had been his friend through all the years of his Parliamentary life. It did not matter that the hour was late. He knew the veteran would be waiting for him, and unprepared for the bad news he brought. The night was spent in pain of mind, and the comfort the ex-Minister gave him, that a seat would be found for him by the Government, gave him no thrill. He knew he had enemies in the Government, that the Prime Minister was the friend of the successful only, and that there were others, glad of his defeat, who would be looking for his place. Also he was sure he had injured the chances of the Government by the defeat of his policy.
As though Creation was in league against him, a heavy storm broke about two o’clock, and he went to bed cursed by torturing thoughts. “Chickens come home to roost—” Why did that ancient phrase keep ringing in his ears when he tried to sleep? Beaten by his illegitimate son at the polls, the victim of his own wrong-doing—the sacrifice of penalty! He knew that his son, inheriting his own political gifts, had done what could have been done by no one else. All the years passed since Carnac was begotten laid their deathly hands upon him, and he knew he could never recover from this defeat. How much better it would have been if he had been struck twenty-seven years ago!
Youth, ambition and resolve would have saved him from the worst then. Age has its powers, but it has its defects, and he had no hope that his own defects would be wiped out by luck at the polls. Spirit was gone out of him, longing for the future had no place in his mind; in the world of public work he was dead and buried. How little he had got from all his life! How few friends he had, and how few he was entitled to have! This is one of the punishments that selfishness and wrong-doing brings; it gives no insurance for the hours of defeat and loss. Well, wealth and power, the friends so needed in dark days, had not been made, and Barode Barouche realized he had naught left. He had been too successful from the start; he had had all his own way; and he had taken no pains to make or keep friends. He well knew there was no man in the Cabinet or among his colleagues that would stir to help him—he had stirred to help no man in all the years he had served the public. It was no good only to serve the public, for democracy is a weak stick on which to lean. One must stand by individuals or there is no defence against the malicious foes that follow the path of defeat, that ambush the way. It is the personal friends made in one’s own good days that watch the path and clear away the ambushers. It is not big influential friends that are so important—the little unknown man may be as useful as the big boss in the mill of life; and if one stops to measure one’s friends by their position, the end is no more sure than if one makes no friends at all.
“There’s nothing left for me in life—nothing at all,” he said as he tossed in bed while the thunder roared and the storm beat down the shrubs. “How futile life is—‘Youth’s a dream, middle age a delusion, old age a mistake!’” he kept repeating to himself in quotation. “What does one get out of it? Nothing—nothing—nothing! It’s all a poor show at the best, and yet—is it? Is it all so bad? Is it all so poor and gaunt and hopeless? Isn’t there anything in it for the man who gives and does his best?”
Suddenly there came upon him the conviction that life is only futile to the futile, that it is only a failure to those who prove themselves incompetent, selfish and sordid; but to those who live life as it ought to be lived, there is no such thing as failure, or defeat, or penalty, or remorse or punishment. Because the straight man has only good ends to serve, he has no failures; though he may have disappointments, he has no defeats; for the true secret of life is to be content with what is decreed, to earn bread and make store only as conscience directs, and not to set one’s heart on material things.
He got out of bed soon after daylight, dressed, and went to the stable and hitched his horse to the buggy. The world was washed clean, that was sure. It was muddy under foot, but it was a country where the roads soon dried, and he would suffer little inconvenience from the storm. He bade his host good-bye and drove away intent to reach the city in time for breakfast. He found the roads heavy, and the injury of the storm was everywhere to be seen. Yet it all did not distract him, for he was thinking hard of the things that lay ahead of him to do—the heart-breaking things that his defeat meant to him.
At last he approached a bridge across a stream which had been badly swept by the storm. It was one of the covered bridges not uncommon in Canada. It was not long, as the river was narrow, and he did not see that the middle pier of the bridge had been badly injured. Yet as he entered the bridge, his horse still trotting, he was conscious of a hollow, semi-thunderous noise which seemed not to belong to the horse’s hoofs and the iron wheels of the carriage. He raised his eyes to see that the other end of the bridge was clear, and at that moment he was conscious of an unsteady motion of the bridge, of a wavering of the roof, and then, before he had time to do aught, he saw the roof and the sides and the floor of the bridge collapse and sink slowly down.
With a cry, he sprang from the carriage to retrace his way; but he only climbed up a ladder that grew every instant steeper; and all at once he was plunged downwards after his horse and carriage into the stream. He could swim, and as he swept down this thought came to him—that he might be able to get the shore, as he heard the cries of people on the bank. It was a hope that died at the moment of its birth, however, for he was struck by a falling timber on the head.
When, an hour later, he was found in an eddy of the river by the shore, he was dead, and his finders could only compose his limbs decently. But in the afternoon, the papers of Montreal had the following head-lines; DEFEAT AND DEATH OF BARODE BAROUCHE THE END OF A LONG AND GREAT CAREER
As soon as Carnac Grier heard the news, he sent a note to his mother telling her all he knew. When she read the letter, she sank to the floor, overcome. Her son had triumphed indeed.
The whole country rang with the defeat and death of Barode Barouche, and the triumph of the disinherited son of John Grier. Newspapers drew differing lessons from the event, but all admitted that Carnac, as a great fighter, was entitled to success. The Press were friendly to the memory of Barode Barouche, and some unduly praised his work, and only a few disparaged his career.
When news of the tragedy came to Mrs. Grier, she was reading in the papers of Carnac’s victory, and in her mind was an agonizing triumph, pride in a stern blow struck for punishment. The event was like none she could have imagined.
It was at this moment the note came from Carnac telling of Barouche’s death, and it dropped from her hand to the floor. The horror of it smote her being, and, like one struck by lightning, she sank to the floor unconscious. The thing had hit her where soul and body were closely knit; and she had realized for the first time how we all must pay to the last penny for every offence we commit against the laws of life and nature. Barode Barouche had paid and she must pay—she also who had sinned with him must pay. But had she not paid?
For long she lay unconscious, but at last the servant, unknowing why she was not called to remove the breakfast things, found her huddled on the floor, her face like that of death. The servant felt her heart, saw she was alive, and worked with her till consciousness came back.
“That’s right, ma’am, keep up heart. I’ll send for M’sieu’ Carnac at once, and we’ll have you all right pretty quick.”
But Mrs. Grier forbade Carnac to be sent for, and presently in her bed, declined to have the doctor brought. “It’s no use,” she said. “A doctor can do no good. I need rest, that’s all.”
Then she asked for notepaper and pen and ink, and so she was left alone. She must tell her beloved son why it was there never had been, and never could be, understanding between John Grier and himself. She had arrived at that point where naught was to be gained by further concealment. So through long hours she struggled with her problem, and she was glad Carnac did not come during the vexing day. He had said when he sent her word of his victory, that he feared he would not be able to see her the next day at all, as he had so much to do. She even declined to see Junia when she came, sending word that she was in bed, indisposed.
The letter she wrote ran thus:
MY BELOVED CARNAC,Your news of the death of Barode Barouche has shocked me. You willunderstand when I tell you I have lived a life of agony ever sinceyou became a candidate. This is why: you were fighting the man whogave you to the world.Let me tell you how. I loved John Grier when I married him, andlonged to make my life fit in with his. But that could not easilybe, for his life was wedded to his business, and he did not believein women. To him they were incapable of the real business of life,and were only meant to be housekeepers to men who make the world goround. So, unintentionally, he neglected me, and I was young andcomely then, so the world said, and I was unwise and thoughtless.Else, I should not have listened to Barode Barouche, who, one summerin camp on the St. Lawrence River near our camp, opened up for menew ways of thought, and springs of feeling. He had the gifts thathave made you what you are, a figure that all turn twice to see. Hehad eloquence, he was thoughtful in all the little things which JohnGrier despised. In the solitude of the camp he wound himself aboutmy life, and roused an emotion for him false to duty. And so oneday—one single day, for never but the once was I weak, yet that wasenough, God knows.... He went away because I would not seehim again; because I would not repeat the offence which gave meyears of sorrow and remorse.After you became a candidate, he came and offered to marry me, triedto reopen the old emotion; but I would have none of it. He wasconvinced he would defeat you, and he wanted to avoid fighting you.But when I said, ‘Give up the seat to him,’ he froze. Of course,his seat belonged to his party and not alone to himself; but thatwas the test I put him to, and the answer he gave was, ‘You want meto destroy my career in politics! That is your proposal, is it?’He was not honest either in life or conduct. I don’t think he everwas sorry for me or for you, until perhaps these last few weeks; butI have sorrowed ever since the day you came to me very day, everyhour, every minute; and the more because I could not tell John Grierthe truth.Perhaps I ought to have told the truth long ago, and faced theconsequences. It might seem now that I would have ruined my homelife, and yours, and Barode Barouche’s, and John Grier’s life if Ihad told the truth; but who knows! There are many outcomes tolife’s tragedies, and none might have been what I fancied. It islittle comfort that Barode Barouche has now given all for payment ofhis debt. It gives no peace of mind. And it may be you will thinkI ought not to tell you the truth. I don’t know, but I feel youwill not misunderstand. I tell you my story, so that you may againconsider if it is not better to face the world with the truth aboutLuzanne. We can live but once, and it is to our good if we refusethe secret way. It is right you should know the truth about yourbirth, but it is not right you should declare it to all the worldnow. That was my duty long ago, and I did not do it. It is notyour duty, and you must not do it. Barode Barouche is gone; JohnGrier has gone; and it would only hurt Fabian and his wife and youto tell it now. You inherit Barode Barouche’s gifts, and you havehis seat, you represent his people—and they are your people too.You have French blood in your veins, and you have a chance to carryon with honour what he did with skill. Forgive me, if you can.Your lovingMOTHER.P.S. Do nothing till you see me.
Returning from Barode Barouche’s home to his mother’s House on the Hill, Carnac was in a cheerless mood. With Barouche’s death to Carnac it was as though he himself had put aside for ever the armour of war, for Barouche was the only man in the world who had ever tempted him to fight, or whom he had fought.
There was one thing he must do: he must go to Junia, tell her he loved her, and ask her to be his wife. She had given him the fatal blue certificate of his marriage and the marriage could now be ended with Luzanne’s consent, for she would not fight the divorce he must win soon. He could now tell the truth, if need be, to his constituents, for there would be time enough to recover his position, if it were endangered, before the next election came, and Junia would be by his side to help him! Junia—would she, after all, marry him now? He would soon know. To-night he must spend with his mother, but to-morrow he would see Junia and learn his fate, and know about Luzanne. Luzanne had been in Montreal, had been ready to destroy his chance at the polls, and Junia had stopped it. How? Well, he should soon know. But now, at first, for his mother.
When he entered the House on the Hill, he had a sudden shiver. Somehow, the room where his mother had sat for so many years, and where he had last seen his father, John Grier, had a coldness of the tomb. There was a letter on the centre table standing against the lamp. He saw it was in his mother’s handwriting, and addressed to himself.
He tore it open, and began to read. Presently his cheeks turned pale. More than once he put it down, for it seemed impossible to go on, but with courage he took it up again and read on to the end.
“God—God in Heaven!” he broke out when he had finished it. For a long time he walked the floor, trembling in body and shaking in spirit. “Now I understand everything,” he said at last aloud in a husky tone. “Now I see what I could not see—ah yes, I see at last!”
For another time of silence and turmoil he paced the floor, then he stopped short. “I’m glad they both are dead,” he said wearily. Thinking of Barode Barouche, he had a great bitterness. “To treat any woman so—how glad I am I fought him! He learned that such vile acts come home at last.”
Then he thought of John Grier. “I loathed him and loved him always,” he said with terrible remorse in his tone. “He used my mother badly, and yet he was himself; he was the soul that he was born, a genius in his own way, a neglecter of all that makes life beautiful—and yet himself, always himself. He never pottered. He was real—a pirate, a plunderer, but he was real. And he cared for me, and would have had me in the business if he could. Perhaps John Grier knows the truth now!... I hope he does. For, if he does, he’ll see that I was not to blame for what I did, that it was Fate behind me. He was a big man, and if I’d worked with him, we’d have done big things, bigger than he did, and that was big enough.”
“Do nothing till you see me,” his mother had written in a postscript to her letter, and, with a moroseness at his heart and scorn of Barouche at his lips, he went slowly up to his mother’s room. At her door he paused. But the woman was his mother, and it must be faced. After all, she had kept faith ever since he was born. He believed that. She had been an honest wife ever since that fatal summer twenty-seven years before.
“She has suffered,” he said, and knocked at her door. An instant later he was inside the room. There was only a dim light, but his mother was sitting up in her bed, a gaunt and yet beautiful, sad-eyed figure of a woman. For a moment Carnac paused. As he stood motionless, the face of the woman became more drawn and haggard, the eyes more deeply mournful. Her lips opened as though she would speak, but no sound came, and Carnac could hardly bear to look at her. Yet he did look, and all at once there rushed into his heart the love he had ever felt for her. After all, he was her son, and she had not wronged him since his birth. And he who had wronged her and himself was dead, his pathway closed for ever to the deeds of life and time. As he looked, his eyes filled with tears and his lips compressed. At last he came to the bed. Her letter was in his hand.
“I have read it, mother.”
She made no reply, but his face was good for her eyes to see. It had no hatred or repulsion.
“I know everything now,” he added. “I see it all, and I understand all you have suffered these many years.”
“Oh, my son, you forgive your mother?” She was trembling with emotion.
He leaned over and caught her wonderful head to his shoulder. “I love you, mother,” he said gently. “I need you—need you more than I ever did.”
“I have no heart any more, and I fear for you—”
“Why should you fear for me? You wanted me to beat him, didn’t you?” His face grew hard, his lips became scornful. “Wasn’t it the only way to make him settle his account?”
“Yes, the only way. It was not that I fear for you in politics. I was sure you would win the election. It was not that, it was the girl.”
“That’s all finished. I am free at last,” he said. He held the blue certificate before her eyes.
Her face was deadly pale, her eyes expanded, her breath came sharp and quick. “How was it don how was it done? Was she here in Montreal?”
“I don’t know how it was done, but she was here, and Junia got this from her. I shan’t know how till I’ve seen Junia.”
“Junia is the best friend,” said the stricken woman gently, “in all the world; she’s—”
“She’s so good a friend she must be told the truth,” he said firmly.
“Oh, not while I live! I could not bear that—”
“How could I ask Junia to marry me and not tell her all the truth—mother, can’t you see?”
The woman’s face flushed scarlet. “Ah, yes, I see, my boy—I see.”
“Haven’t we had enough of secrecy—in your letter you lamented it! If it was right for you to be secret all these years, is it not a hundred times right now for me to tell you the truth.... I have no name—no name,” he added, tragedy in his tone.
“You have my name. You may say I have no right to it, but it is the only name I can carry; they both are dead, and I must keep it. It wrongs no one living but you, and you have no hatred of me: you think I do not wrong you—isn’t that so?”
His cheek was hot with feeling. “Yes, that’s true,” he said. “You must still keep your married name.” Then a great melancholy took hold of him, and he could hardly hide it from her. She saw how he was moved, and she tried to comfort him.
“You think Junia will resent it all?... But that isn’t what a girl does when she loves. You have done no wrong; your hands are clean.”
“But I must tell her all. Tarboe is richer, he has an honest birth, he is a big man and will be bigger still. She likes him, she—”
“She will go to you without a penny, my son.”
“It will be almost without a penny, if you don’t live,” he said with a faint smile. “I can’t paint—for a time anyhow. I can’t earn money for a time. I’ve only my salary as a Member of Parliament and the little that’s left of my legacy; therefore, I must draw on you. And I don’t seem to mind drawing upon you; I never did.”
She smiled with an effort. “If I can help you, I shall justify living on.”
The day Carnac was elected it was clear to Tarboe that he must win Junia at once, if he was ever to do so, for Carnac’s new honours would play a great part in influencing her. In his mind, it was now or never for himself; he must bring affairs to a crisis.
Junia’s father was poor, but the girl had given their home an air of comfort and an art belonging to larger spheres. The walls were covered with brown paper, and on it were a few of her own water-colour drawings, and a few old engravings of merit. Chintz was the cover on windows and easy chairs, and in a corner of the parlour was a chintz-covered lounge where she read of an evening. So it was that, with Carnac elected and Barode Barouche buried, she sat with one of Disraeli’s novels in her hand busy with the future. She saw for Carnac a safe career, for his two chief foes were gone—Luzanne Larue and Barode Barouche. Now she understood why Carnac had never asked her to be his wife. She had had no word with Carnac since his election—only a letter to thank her for the marriage certificate and to say that after M. Barouche was buried he would come to her, if he might. He did say, however, in the letter that he owed her his election.
“You’ve done a great, big thing for me, dearest friend, and I am your ever grateful Carnac”—that was the way he had put it. Twice she had gone to visit his mother, and had been told that Mrs. Grier was too ill to see her—overstrain, the servant had said. She could not understand being denied admittance; but it did not matter, for one day Mrs. Grier should know how she—Junia-had saved her son’s career.
So she thought, as she gazed before her into space from the chintz-covered lounge on the night of the day Barode Barouche was buried. There was a smell of roses in the room. She had gathered many of them that afternoon. She caught a bud from a bunch on a table, and fastened it in the bosom of her dress. Somehow, as she did it, she had a feeling she would like to clasp a man’s head to her breast where the rose was—one of those wild thoughts that come to the sanest woman at times. She was captured by the excitement in which she had moved during the past month—far more now than she had been in all the fight itself.
There came a knock at the outer door, and before that of her own room opened, she recognized the step of the visitor. So it was Tarboe had come. He remembered that day in the street when he met Junia, and was shown there were times when a woman could not be approached with emotion. He had waited till the day he knew she was alone, for he had made a friend of her servant by judicious gifts of money.
“I hope you’re glad to see me,” he said with an uncertain smile, as he saw her surprise.
“I hope I am,” she replied, and motioned him to a seat. He chose a high-backed chair with a wide seat near the lounge. He made a motion of humorous dissent to her remark, and sat down.
“Well, we pulled it off somehow, didn’t we?” she said. “Carnac Grier is M.P.”
“And his foe is in his grave,” remarked Tarboe dryly. “Providence pays debts that ought to be paid. This election has settled a lot of things,” she returned with a smile.
“I suppose it has, and I’ve come here to try and find one of the settlements.”
“Well, find them,” she retorted.
“I said one of the settlements only. I have to be accurate in my life.”
“I’m glad to hear of it. You helped Mr. Grier win his election. It was splendid of you. Think of it, Mr. Tarboe, Carnac Grier is beginning to get even with his foes.”
“I’m not a foe—if that’s what you mean. I’ve proved it.”
She smiled provokingly. “You’ve proved only you’re not an absolute devil, that’s all. You’ve not proved yourself a real man—not yet. Do you think it paid your debt to Carnac Grier that you helped get him into Parliament?”
His face became a little heated. “I’ll prove to you and to the world that I’m not an absolute devil in the Grier interests. I didn’t steal the property. I tried to induce John Grier to leave it to Carnac or his mother, for if he’d left it to Mrs. Grier it would have come to Carnac. He did not do it that way, though. He left it to me. Was I to blame for that?”
“Perhaps not, but you could have taken Carnac in, or given up the property to him—the rightful owner. You could have done that. But you were thinking of yourself altogether.”
“Not altogether. In the first place, I am bound to keep my word to John Grier. Besides, if Carnac had inherited, the property would have got into difficulties—there were things only John Grier and I understood, and Carnac would have been floored.”
“Wouldn’t you still have been there?”
“Who knows! Who can tell! Maybe not!”
“Carnac Grier is a very able man.”
“But of the ablest. He’ll be a success in Parliament. He’ll play a big part; he won’t puddle about. I meant there was a risk in letting Carnac run the business at the moment, and—”
“And there never was with you!”
“None. My mind had grasped all John Grier intended, and I have the business at my fingers’ ends. There was no risk with me. I’ve proved it. I’ve added five per cent to the value of the business since John Grier died. I can double the value of it in twenty years—and easy at that.”
“If you make up your mind to do it, you will,” she said with admiration, for the man was persuasive, and he was playing a game in which he was a master.
Her remarks were alive with banter, for Tarboe’s humour was a happiness to her.
“How did I buy your approval?” he questioned alertly.
“By ability to put a bad case in a good light. You had your case, and you have made a real success. If you keep on you may become a Member of Parliament some day!”
He laughed. “Your gifts have their own way of stinging. I don’t believe I could be elected to Parliament. I haven’t the trick of popularity of that kind.”
Many thoughts flashed through Tarboe’s mind. If he married her now, and the truth was told about the wills and the law gave Carnac his rights, she might hate him for not having told her when he proposed. So it was that in his desire for her life as his own, he now determined there should be no second will. In any case, Carnac had enough to live on through his mother. Also, he had capacity to support himself. There was a touch of ruthlessness in Tarboe. No one would ever guess what the second will contained—no one. The bank would have a letter saying where the will was to be found, but if it was not there!
He would ask Junia to be his wife now, while she was so friendly. Her eyes were shining, her face was alive with feeling, and he was aware that the best chances of his life had come to win her. If she was not now in the hands of Carnac, his chances were good. Yet there was the tale of the secret marriage—the letter he saw Carnac receive in John Grier’s office! The words of the ancient Greek came to him as he looked at her: “He who will not strike when the hour comes shall wither like a flower, and his end be that of the chaff of the field.”
His face flushed with feeling, his eyes grew bright with longing, his tongue was loosed to the enterprise. “Do you dream, and remember your dreams?” he asked with a thrill in his voice. “Do you?”
“I don’t dream often, but I sometimes remember my dreams.”
“I dream much, and one dream I have constantly.”
“What is it?” she asked with anticipation.
“It is the capture of a wild bird in a garden—in a cultivated garden where there are no nests, no coverts for the secret invaders. I dream that I pursue the bird from flower-bed to flower-bed, from bush to bush, along paths and the green-covered walls; and I am not alone in my chase, for there are others pursuing. It is a bitter struggle to win the wild thing. And why? Because there is pursuing one of the pursuers another bird of red plumage. Do you understand?”
He paused, and saw her face was full of colour and her eyes had a glow. Every nerve in her was pulsing hard.
“Tell me,” she said presently, “whom do you mean by the bird of red plumage? Is it a mere figure of speech? Or has it a real meaning?”
“It has a real meaning.”
He rose to his feet, bent over her and spoke hotly. “Junia, the end of my waiting has come. I want you as I never wanted anything in my life. I must know the truth. I love you, Junia. I have loved you from the first moment I saw you, and nothing is worth while with you not in it. Let us work together. It is a big, big game I’m playing.”
“Yes, it’s a big game you’re playing,” she said with emotion. “It is a big, big game, and, all things considered, you should win it, but I doubt you will. I feel there are matters bigger than the game, or than you, or me, or anyone else. And I do not believe in your bird of red plumage; I don’t believe it exists. It may have done so, but it doesn’t now.”
She also got to her feet, and Tarboe was so near her she could feel his hot breath on her cheek.
“No, it doesn’t exist now,” she repeated, “and the pursuer is not pursued. You have more imagination than belongs to a mere man of business—you’re an inexperienced poet.”
He caught her hand and drew it to his breast. “The only poetry I know is the sound of your voice in the wind, the laughter of your lips in the sun, the delight of your body in the heavenly flowers. Yes, I’ve drunk you in the wild woods; I’ve trailed you on the river; I’ve heard you in the grinding storm—always the same, the soul of all beautiful things. Junia, you shall not put me away from you. You shall be mine, and you and I together shall win our way to great ends. We will have opportunity, health, wealth and prosperity. Isn’t it worth while?”
“Yes,” she answered after a moment, “but it cannot be with you, my friend.”
She withdrew her fingers and stepped back; she made a gesture of friendly repulsion. “You have said all that can be said, you have gifts greater than you yourself believe; and I have been tempted; but it is no use, there are deeper things than luxuries and the magazines of merchandise—much deeper. No, no, I cannot marry you; if you were as rich as Midas, as powerful as Caesar, I would not marry you—never, never, never.”
“You love another,” he said boldly. “You love Carnac Grier.”
“I do not love you—isn’t that enough?”
“Almost—almost enough,” he said, embarrassed.
All Junia had ever felt of the soul of things was upon her as she arranged flowers and listened to the church bells ringing.
“They seem to be always ringing,” she said to herself, as she lightly touched the roses. “It must be a Saint’s Day—where’s Denzil? Ah, there he is in the garden! I’ll ask him.”
Truth is, she was deceiving herself. She wanted to talk with Denzil about all that had happened of late, and he seemed, somehow, to avoid her. Perhaps he feared she had given her promise to Tarboe who had, as Denzil knew, spent an hour with her the night before. As this came to Denzil’s brain, he felt a shiver go through him. Just then he heard Junia’s footsteps, and saw her coming towards him.
“Why are the bells ringing so much, Denzil? Is it a Saint’s Day?” she asked.
He took off his hat. “Yes, ma’m’selle, it is a Saint’s Day,” and he named it. “There were lots of neighbours at early Mass, and some have gone to the Church of St. Anne de Beaupre at Beaupre, them that’s got sickness.”
“Yes, Beaupre is as good as Lourdes, I’m sure. Why didn’t you go, Denzil?”
“Why should I go, ma’m’selle—I ain’t sick—ah, bah!”
“I thought you were. You’ve been in low spirits ever since our election, Denzil.”
“Nothing strange in that, ma’m’selle. I’ve been thinking of him that’s gone.”
“You mean Monsieur Barouche, eh?”
“Not of M’sieu’ Barouche, but of the father to the man that beat M’sieu’ Barouche.”
“Why should you be thinking so much of John Grier these days?”
“Isn’t it the right time? His son that he threw off without a penny has proved himself as big a man as his father—ah, surelee! M’sieu’ left behind him a will that gave all he had to a stranger. His own son was left without a sou. There he is now,” he added, nodding towards the street.
Junia saw Carnac making his way towards her house. “Well, I’ll talk with him,” she said, and her face flushed. She knew she must give account of her doings with Luzanne Larue.
A few moments later in the house, her hand lay in that of Carnac, and his eyes met hers.
“It’s all come our way, Junia,” he remarked gaily, though there was sadness in his tone.
“It’s as you wanted it. You won.”
“Thanks to you, Junia,” and he took from his pocket the blue certificate.
“That—oh, that was not easy to get,” she said with agitation. “She had a bad purpose, that girl.”
“She meant to announce it?”
“Yes, through Barode Barouche. He agreed to that.”
Carnac flushed. “He agreed to that—you know it?”
“Yes. The day you were made candidate she arrived here; and the next morning she went to Barode Barouche and told her story. He bade her remain secret till the time was ripe, and he was to be the judge of that. He was waiting for the night before the election. Then he was going to strike you and win!”
“She told you that—Luzanne told you that?”
“And much else. Besides, she told me you had saved her life from the street-cars; that you had played fair at the start.”
“First and last I played fair,” he said indignantly.
Her eyes were shining. “Not from first to last, Carnac. You ought not to have painted her, or made much of her and then thrown her over. She knew—of course she knew, after a time, that you did not mean to propose to her, and all the evil in her came out. Then she willed to have you in spite of yourself, believing, if you were married, her affection would win you in the end. There it was—and you were to blame.”
“But why should you defend her, Junia?”
Her tongue became bitter now. “Just as you would, if it was some one else and not yourself.”
His head was sunk on his breast, his eyes were burning. “It was a horrible thing for Barouche to plan.”
“Why so horrible? If you were hiding a marriage for whatever reason, it should be known to all whose votes you wanted.”
“Barouche was the last man on earth to challenge me, for he had a most terrible secret.”
“What was it?” Her voice had alarm, for she had never seen Carnac so disturbed.
“He was fighting his own son—and he knew it!” The words came in broken accents.
“He was fighting his own son, and he knew it! You mean to say that!” Horror was in her voice.
“I mean that the summer before I was born—”
He told her the story as his mother had told it to him. Then at last he said:
“And now you know Barode Barouche got what he deserved. He ruined my mother’s life; he died the easiest death such a man could die. He has also spoiled my life.”
“Nothing can spoil your life except yourself,” she declared firmly, and she laid a hand upon his arm. “Who told you all this—and when?”
“My mother in a letter last night. I had a talk with her afterwards.”
“Who else knows?”
“Only you.”
“And why did you tell me?”
“Because I want you to know why our ways must for ever lie apart.”
“I don’t grasp what you mean,” she declared in a low voice.
“You don’t grasp why, loving you, I didn’t ask you to marry me long ago; but you found out for yourself from the one who was responsible, and freed me and saved me; and now you know I am an illegitimate son.”
“And you want to cut me out of your life for a bad man’s crime, not your own.... Listen, Carnac. Last night I told Mr. Tarboe I could not marry him. He is rich, he has control of a great business, he is a man of mark. Why do you suppose I did it, and for over two years have done the same?—for he has wanted me all that time. Does not a girl know when a real man wants her? And Luke Tarboe is a real man. He knows what he wants, and he goes for it, and little could stop him as he travels. Why do you suppose I did it?” Her face flushed, anger lit her eyes. “Because there was another man; but I’ve only just discovered he’s a sham, with no real love for me. It makes me sorry I ever knew him.”
“Me—no real love for you! That’s not the truth: it’s because I have no real name to give you—that’s why I’ve spoken as I have. Never have I cared for anyone except you, Junia, and I could have killed anyone that wronged you—”
“Kill yourself then,” she flashed.
“Have I wronged you, Junia?”
“If you kept me waiting and prevented me from marrying a man I could have loved, if I hated you—if you did that, and then at last told me to go my ways, don’t you think it wronging me! Don’t be a fool, Carnac. You’re not the only man on earth a good girl could love. I tell you, again and again I have been moved towards Luke Tarboe, and if he had had understanding of women, I should now be his wife.”
“You tell me what I have always known,” he interposed. “I knew Tarboe had a hold on your heart. I’m not so vain as to think I’ve always been the one man for you. I lived long in anxious fear, and—”
“And now you shut the door in my face! Looked at from any standpoint, it’s ugly.”
“I want you to have your due,” he answered with face paler. “You’re a great woman—the very greatest, and should have a husband born in honest wedlock.”
“I’m the best judge of what I want,” she declared almost sharply, yet there was a smile at her lips. “Why, I suppose if John Grier had left you his fortune, you’d give it up; you’d say, ‘I have no right to it,’ and would give it to my brother-in-law, Fabian.”
“I should.”
“Yet Fabian had all he deserved from his father. He has all he should have, and he tried to beat his father in business. Carnac, don’t be a bigger fool than there’s any need to be. What is better than that John Grier’s business should be in Tarboe’s hands—or in yours? Remember, John Grier might have left it all to your mother, and, if he had, you’d have taken it, if she had left it to you. You’d have taken it even if you meant to give it away afterwards. There are hospitals to build. There are good and costly things to do for the State.”
Suddenly she saw in his eyes a curious soft understanding, and she put her hand on his shoulder. “Carnac,” she said gently, “great, great Carnac, won’t you love me?”
For an instant he felt he must still put her from him, then he clasped her to his breast.
“But I really had to throw myself into your arms!” she said later.