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The Project Gutenberg EBook of Carnac's Folly, Complete, by Gilbert Parker
This eBook is for the use of anyone anywhere at no cost and with
almost no restrictions whatsoever. You may copy it, give it away or
re-use it under the terms of the Project Gutenberg License included
with this eBook or online at www.gutenberg.net
Title: Carnac's Folly, Complete
Author: Gilbert Parker
Last Updated: March 14, 2009
Release Date: October 18, 2006 [EBook #6299]
Language: English
Character set encoding: ASCII
*** START OF THIS PROJECT GUTENBERG EBOOK CARNAC'S FOLLY, COMPLETE ***
Produced by David Widger
CARNAC'S FOLLY
By Gilbert Parker
CONTENTS:
BOOK I
I. IN THE DAYS OF CHILDHOOD
II. ELEVEN YEARS PASS
III. CARNAC'S RETURN
IV. THE HOUSE ON THE HILL
V. CARNAC AS MANAGER
VI. LUKE TARBOE HAS AN OFFER
VII. "AT OUR PRICE"
VIII. JOHN GRIER MAKES ANOTHER OFFER
IX. THE PUZZLE
X. DENZIL TELLS HIS STORY
XI. CARNAC'S TALK WITH HIS MOTHER
XII. CARNAC SAYS GOOD-BYE
BOOK II
XIII. CARNAC'S RETURN
XIV. THE HOUSE OF THE THREE TREES
XV. CARNAC AND JUNTA
XVI. JOHN GRIER MAKES A JOURNEY
XVII. THE READING OF THE WILL
BOOK III
XVIII. A GREAT DECISION
XIX. CARNAC BECOMES A CANDIDATE
XX. JUNIA AND TARBOE HEAR THE NEWS
XXI. THE SECRET MEETING
XXII. POINT TO POINT
XXIII. THE MAN WHO WOULD NOT
XXIV. THE BLUE PAPER
XXV. DENZIL TAKES A HAND IN THE GAME
XXVI. THE CHALLENGE
XXVII. EXIT
XXVIII. A WOMAN WRITES A LETTER
XXIX. CARNAC AND HIS MOTHER
XXX. TARBOE HAS A DREAM
XXXI. THIS WAY HOME
XXXII. 'HALVES, PARDNER, HALVES'
CHAPTER I. IN THE DAYS OF CHILDHOOD
"Carnac! Carnac! Come and catch me, Carnac!" It was a day of perfect
summer and hope and happiness in the sweet, wild world behind the near
woods and the far circle of sky and pine and hemlock. The voice that
called was young and vibrant, and had in it the simple, true soul of
things. It had the clearness of a bugle-call-ample and full of life and
all life's possibilities. It laughed; it challenged; it decoyed.
Carnac heard the summons and did his best to catch the girl in the wood
by the tumbling stream, where he had for many an hour emptied out his
wayward heart; where he had seen his father's logs and timbers caught
in jams, hunched up on rocky ledges, held by the prong of a rock, where
man's purpose could, apparently, avail so little. Then he had watched
the black-bearded river-drivers with their pike-poles and their levers
loose the key-logs of the bunch, and the tumbling citizens of the woods
and streams toss away down the current to the wider waters below. He was
only a lad of fourteen, and the girl was only eight, but she--Junia--was
as spry and graceful a being as ever woke the echoes of a forest.
He was only fourteen, but already he had visions and dreamed dreams. His
father--John Grier--was the great lumber-king of Canada, and Junia was
the child of a lawyer who had done little with his life, but had had
great joy of his two daughters, who were dear to him beyond telling.
Carnac was one of Nature's freaks or accidents. He was physically
strong and daring, but, as a boy, mentally he lacked concentration and
decision, though very clever. He was led from thing to thing like a ray
of errant light, and he did not put a hand on himself, as old Denzil,
the partly deformed servant of Junia's home, said of him on occasion;
and Denzil was a man of parts.
Denzil was not far from the two when Junia made her appeal and
challenge. He loved the girl exceedingly, and he loved Carnac little
less, though in a different way. Denzil was French of the French, with
habit of mind and character wholly his own.
Denzil's head was squat upon his shoulders, and his long, handsome body
was also squat, because his legs were as short, proportionately, as his
mind was long. His face was covered by a well-cared-for beard of dark
brown, streaked with grey; his features were rugged and fine; and his
eyes were like two coals burning under a gnarled headland; for his
forehead, ample and full, had lines which were not lines of age, but of
concentration. In his motions he was quiet and free, yet always there
was a kind of stealthiness in his movements, which made him seem less
frank than he really was.
For a time, with salient sympathy in his eyes, he watched the two
children playing. The whisking of their forms among the trees and over
the rocks was fine, gracious, and full of life-life without alarm. At
length he saw the girl falter slightly, then make a swift deceptive
movement to avoid the boy who pursued her. The movement did not delude
the boy. He had quickness of anticipation. An instant later the girl was
in his arms.
As Denzil gazed, it seemed she was in his arms too long, and a sudden
anxiety took hold of him. That anxiety was deepened when he saw the boy
kiss the girl on the cheek. This act seemed to discompose the girl, but
not enough to make drama out of an innocent, yet sensuous thing. The boy
had meant nothing more than he had shown, and Denzil traced the act to
a native sense of luxury in his nature. Knowing the boy's father
and mother as he did, it seemed strange that Carnac should have such
demonstration in his character. Of all the women he knew, Carnac's
mother was the most exact and careful, though now and again he thought
of her as being shrouded, or apart; while the boy's father, the great
lumber-king, cantankerous, passionate, perspicuous, seemed to have but
one passion, and that was his business.
It was strange to Denzil that the lumber-king, short, thin, careless
in his clothes but singularly clean in his person, should have a son so
little like himself, and also so little like his mother. He, Denzil, was
a Catholic, and he could not understand a man like John Grier who,
being a member of the Episcopal Church, so seldom went to service and so
defied rules of conduct suitable to his place in the world.
As for the girl, to him she was the seventh wonder of the earth.
Wantonly alive, dexterously alert to all that came her way, sportive,
indifferent, joyous, she had all the boy's sprightliness, but none of
his weaknesses. She was a born tease; she loved bright and beautiful
things; she was a keen judge of human nature, and she had buoyant
spirits, which, however, were counterbalanced by moments of extreme
timidity, or, rather, reserve and shyness. On a day like this, when
everything in life was singing, she must sing too. Not a mile away was
a hut by the river where her father had brought his family for the
summer's fishing; not a half-mile away was a tent which Carnac Grier's
father had set up as he passed northward on his tour of inspection. This
particular river, and this particular part of the river, were trying to
the river-man and his clans. It needed a dam, and the great lumber-king
was planning to make one not three hundred yards from where they were.
The boy and the girl resting idly upon a great warm rock had their
own business to consider. The boy kept looking at his boots with the
brass-tipped toes. He hated them. The girl was quick to understand. "Why
don't you like your boots?" she asked.
A whimsical, exasperated look came into his face. "I don't know why they
brass a boy's toes like that, but when I marry I won't wear them--that's
all," he replied.
"Why do you wear them now?" she asked, smiling.
"You don't know my father."
"He's got plenty of money, hasn't he?" she urged. "Plenty; and
that's what I can't understand about him! There's a lot of waste in
river-driving, timber-making, out in the shanties and on the river, but
he don't seem to mind that. He's got fads, though, about how we are
to live, and this is one of them." He looked at the brass-tipped boots
carefully. A sudden resolve came into his face. He turned to the girl
and flushed as he spoke. "Look here," he added, "this is the last day
I'm going to wear these boots. He's got to buy me a pair without any
brass clips on them, or I'll kick."
"No, it isn't the last day you're going to wear them, Carnac."
"It is. I wonder if all boys feel towards their father as I do to mine.
He don't treat me right. He--"
"Oh, look," interrupted Junia. "Look-Carnac!" She pointed in dismay.
Carnac saw a portion of the bank of the river disappear with Denzil. He
ran over to the bank and looked down. In another moment he had made his
way to a descending path which led him swiftly to the river's edge. The
girl remained at the top. The boy had said to her: "You stay there. I'll
tell you what to do."
"Is-is he killed?" she called with emotion.
"Killed! No. He's all right," he called back to her. "I can see him
move. Don't be frightened. He's not in the water. It was only about
a thirty-foot fall. You stay there, and I'll tell you what to do," he
added.
A few moments later, the boy called up: "He's all right, but his leg
is broken. You go to my father's camp--it's near. People are sure to be
there, and maybe father too. You bring them along."
In an instant the girl was gone. The boy, left behind, busied himself in
relieving the deformed broken-legged habitant. He brought some water in
his straw hat to refresh him. He removed the rocks and dirt, and dragged
the little man out.
"It was a close call--bien sur," said Denzil, breathing hard. "I always
said that place wasn't safe, but I went on it myself. That's the way in
life. We do what we forbid ourselves to do; we suffer the shames we damn
in others--but yes."
There was a pause, then he added: "That's what you'll do in your life,
M'sieu' Carnac. That's what you'll do."
"Always?"
"Well, you never can tell--but no."
"But you always can tell," remarked the boy. "The thing is, do what you
feel you've got to do, and never mind what happens."
"I wish I could walk," remarked the little man, "but this leg of mine is
broke--ah, bah, it is!"
"Yes, you mustn't try to walk. Be still," answered the boy. "They'll be
here soon." Slowly and carefully he took off the boot and sock from
the broken leg, and, with his penknife, opened the seam of the corduroy
trouser. "I believe I could set that leg myself," he added.
"I think you could--bagosh," answered Denzil heavily. "They'll bring a
rope to haul me up?"
"Junia has a lot of sense, she won't forget anything."
"And if your father's there, he'll not forget anything," remarked
Denzil.
"He'll forget to make me wear these boots tomorrow," said the boy
stubbornly, his chin in his hands, his eyes fixed gloomily on the
brass-headed toes.
There was a long silence. At last from the stricken Denzil came the
words: "You'll have your own way about the boots."
Carnac murmured, and presently said:
"Lucky you fell where you did. Otherwise, you'd have been in the water,
and then I couldn't have been of any use."
"I hear them coming--holy, yes!"
Carnac strained his ears. "Yes, you're right. I hear them too."
A few moments later, Carnac's father came sliding down the bank, a rope
in his hands, some workmen remaining above.
"What's the matter here?" he asked. "A fall, eh! Dang little fool--now,
you are a dang little fool, and you know it, Denzil."
He nodded to his boy, then he raised the wounded man's head and
shoulders, and slipped the noose over until it caught under his arms.
The old lumber-king's movements were swift, sure and exact. A moment
later he lifted Denzil in his arms, and carried him over to the steep
path up which he was presently dragged.
At the top, Denzil turned to Carnac's father. "M'sieu', Carnac hates
wearing those brass-toed boots," he said boldly.
The lumber-king looked at his boy acutely. He blew his nose hard, with a
bandana handkerchief. Then he nodded towards the boy.
"He can suit himself about that," he said.
With accomplished deftness, with some sacking and two poles, a hasty
but comfortable ambulance was made under the skilful direction of the
river-master. He had the gift of outdoor life. He did not speak as he
worked, but kept humming to himself.
"That's all right," he said, as he saw Denzil on the stretcher. "We'll
get on home now."
"Home?" asked his son.
"Yes, Montreal--to-night," replied his father. "The leg has to be set."
"Why don't you set it?" asked the boy.
The river-master gazed at him attentively. "Well, I might, with your
help," he said. "Come along."
CHAPTER II. ELEVEN YEARS PASS
Eleven years had passed since Denzil's fall, and in that time much
history had been made. Carnac Grier, true to his nature, had travelled
from incident to incident, from capacity to capacity, apparently without
system, yet actually with the keenest desire to fulfil himself; with an
honesty as inveterate as his looks were good and his character filled
with dark recesses. In vain had his father endeavoured to induce him to
enter the lumber business; to him it seemed too conventional and fixed.
Yet, in his way, he knew the business well. By instinct, over the
twenty-five years of his life, he had observed and become familiar with
the main features of the work. He had once or twice even buried himself
in the shanties of the backwoods, there to inhale and repulse the fetid
air, to endure the untoward, half-savage life, the clean, strong food,
the bitter animosities and the savage friendships. It was a land where
sunshine travelled, and in the sun the bright, tuneful birds made lively
the responsive world. Sometimes an eagle swooped down the stream; again
and again, hawks, and flocks of pigeons which frequented the lonely
groves on the river-side, made vocal the world of air; flocks of wild
ducks, or geese, went whirring down the long spaces of water between the
trees on either bank; and some one with a fiddle or a concertina made
musical the evening, while the singing voices of rough habitants rang
through the air.
It was all spirited; it smelt good; it felt good; but it was not for
Carnac. When he had a revolt against anything in life, the grim storm
scenes of winter in the shanties under the trees and the snow-swept
hills came to his mind's eye. The summer life of the river, and what
is called "running the river," had for him great charms. The smell of
hundreds of thousands of logs in the river, the crushed bark, the slimy
ooze were all suggestive of life in the making. But the savage seclusion
of the wild life in winter repelled his senses. Besides, the lumber
business meant endless figures and measurements in stuffy offices and he
retreated from it all.
He had an artistic bent. From a small child he had had it, and it grew
with his years. He wanted to paint, and he painted; he wanted to sculp
in clay, and he sculped in clay; but all the time he was conscious it
was the things he had seen and the life he had lived which made his
painting and his sculpture worth while. It was absurd that a man of his
great outdoor capacity should be the slave of a temperamental quality,
and yet it was so. It was no good for his father to condemn, or his
mother to mourn, he went his own way.
He had seen much of Junia Shale in these years and had grown fond of
her, but she was away much with an aunt in the West, and she was sent
to boarding-school, and they saw each other only at intervals. She liked
him and showed it, but he was not ready to go farther. As yet his
art was everything to him, and he did not think of marriage. He was
care-free. He had a little money of his own, left by an uncle of his
mother, and he had also an allowance from his mother--none from his
father--and he was satisfied with life.
His brother, Fabian, being the elder, by five years, had gone into his
father's business as a partner, and had remained there. Fabian had at
last married an elder sister of Junia Shale and settled down in a house
on the hill, and the lumber-king, John Grier, went on building up his
splendid business.
At last, Carnac, feeling he was making small headway with his painting,
determined to go again to New York and Paris. He had already spent
a year in each place and it had benefited him greatly. So, with that
sudden decision which marked his life, he started for New York. It was
immediately after the New Year and the ground was covered with snow. He
looked out of the window of the train, and there was only the long line
of white country broken by the leafless trees and rail-fences and the
mansard-roofs and low cottages with their stoops, built up with earth
to keep them warm; and the sheds full of cattle; and here and there a
sawmill going hard, and factories pounding away and men in fur coats
driving the small Indian ponies; and the sharp calls of the men with the
sleigh bringing wood, or meat, or vegetables to market. He was by nature
a queer compound of Radical and Conservative, a victim of vision and
temperament. He was full of pride, yet fuller of humility of a real
kind. As he left Montreal he thought of Junia Shale, and he recalled the
day eleven years before when he had worn brass-toed boots, and he
had caught Junia in his arms and kissed her, and Denzil had had his
accident. Denzil had got unreasonably old since then; but Junia remained
as she was the joyous day when boyhood took on the first dreams of
manhood.
Life was a queer thing, and he had not yet got his bearings in it. He
had a desire to reform the world and he wanted to be a great painter or
sculptor, or both; and he entered New York with a new sense developed.
He was keen to see, to do, and to feel. He wanted to make the world ring
with his name and fame, yet he wanted to do the world good also, if he
could. It was a curious state of mind for the English boy, who talked
French like a native and loved French literature and the French people,
and was angry with those English-Canadians who were so selfish they
would never learn French.
Arrived in New York he took lodgings near old Washington Square, where
there were a few studios near the Bohemian restaurants and a life as
nearly continental as was possible in a new country. He got in touch
with a few artists and began to paint, doing little scenes in the Bowery
and of the night-life of New York, and visiting the Hudson River and
Long Island for landscape and seascape sketches.
One day he was going down Broadway, and near Union Square he saved a
girl from being killed by a street-car. She had slipped and fallen on
the track and a car was coming. It was impossible for her to get away
in time, and Carnac had sprung to her and got her free. She staggered to
her feet, and he saw she was beautiful and foreign. He spoke to her in
French and her eyes lighted, for she was French. She told him at once
that her name was Luzanne Larue. He offered to get a cab and take her
home, but she said no, she was fit to walk, so he went with her slowly
to her home in one of the poor streets on the East side. They talked as
they went, and Carnac saw she was of the lower middle-class, with more
refinement than was common in that class, and more charm. She was a
fascinating girl with fine black eyes, black hair, a complexion of
cream, and a gift of the tongue. Carnac could not see that she was very
subtle. She seemed a marvel of guilelessness. She had a wonderful head
and neck, and as he was planning a picture of an early female martyr, he
decided to ask her to sit to him.
Arrived at her humble home, he was asked to enter, and there he met her
father, Isel Larue, a French monarchist who had been exiled from Paris
for plotting against the Government. He was handsome with snapping black
eyes, a cruel mouth and a droll and humorous tongue. He was grateful
to Carnac for saving his daughter's life. Coffee and cigarettes
were produced, and they chatted and smoked while Carnac took in the
surroundings. Everything was plain, but spotlessly clean, and he learned
that Larue made his living by doing odd jobs in an electric firm. He
was just home from his work. Luzanne was employed every afternoon in a
milliner's shop, but her evenings were free after the housework was done
at nine o'clock. Carnac in a burst of enthusiasm asked if she would sit
to him as a model in the mornings. Her father instantly said, of course
she would.
This she did for many days, and sat with her hair down and bared neck,
as handsome and modest as a female martyr should. Carnac painted her
with skill. Sometimes he would walk with her to lunch and make her eat
something sustaining, and they talked freely then, though little
was said while he was painting her. At last one day the painting was
finished, and she looked up at him wistfully when he told her he would
not need another sitting. Carnac, overcome by her sadness, put his arms
round her and kissed her mouth, her eyes, her neck ravenously. She made
only a slight show of resistance. When he stopped she said: "Is that
the way you keep your word to my father? I am here alone and you embrace
me--is that fair?"
"No, it isn't, and I promise I won't do it again, Luzanne. I am sorry. I
wanted our friendship to benefit us both, and now I've spoiled it all."
"No, you haven't spoiled it all," said Luzanne with a sigh, and she
buttoned up the neck of her blouse, flushing slightly as she did so.
Her breast heaved and suddenly she burst into tears. It was evident she
wanted Carnac to comfort her, perhaps to kiss her again, but he did
not do so. He only stood over her, murmuring penance and asking her to
forget it.
"I can't forget it--I can't. No man but my father has ever kissed me
before. It makes me, oh! so miserable!" but she smiled through her
tears. Suddenly she dried her eyes. "Once a man tried to kiss me--and
something more. He was rich and he'd put money into Madame Margot's
millinery business. He was brilliant, and married, but he had no rules
for his morals--all he wanted was money and pleasures which he bought.
I was attracted by him, but one day he tried to kiss me. I slapped his
face, and then I hated him. So, when you kissed me to-day, I thought of
that, and it made me unhappy--but yes."
"You did not slap my face, Luzanne?"
She blushed and hung her head. "No, I did not; you are not a bad man.
He would have spoiled my life. He made it clear I could have all
the luxuries money could buy--all except marriage!" She shrugged her
shoulders.
Carnac was of an impressionable nature, but brought to face the
possibility of marriage with Luzanne, he shrank. If ever he married it
would be a girl like Junia Shale, beautiful, modest, clever and well
educated. No, Luzanne could never be for him. So he forbore doing more
than ask her to forgive him, and he would take her to lunch-the last
lunch of the picture-if she would. With features in chagrin, she put on
her hat, yet when she turned to him, she was smiling.
He visited her home occasionally, and Luzanne's father had a friend,
Ingot by name, who was sometimes present. This man made himself almost
unbearable at first; but Luzanne pulled Ingot up acridly, and he
presently behaved well. Ingot disliked all men in better positions than
himself, and was a revolutionary of the worst sort--a revolutionary and
monarchist. He was only a monarchist because he loved conspiracy and
hated the Republican rulers who had imprisoned him--"those bombastics,"
he called them. It was a constitutional quarrel with the world. However,
he became tractable, and then he and Larue formed a plot to make Carnac
marry Luzanne. It was hatched by Ingot, approved by Larue, and at length
consented to by the girl, for so far as she could love anyone, she loved
Carnac; and she made up her mind that if he married her, no matter how,
she would make him so happy he would forgive all.
About four months after the incident in the studio, a picnic was
arranged for the Hudson River. Only the four went. Carnac had just sold
a picture at a good price--his Christian Martyr picture--and he was in
high spirits. They arrived at the spot arranged for the picnic in time
for lunch, and Luzanne prepared it. When the lunch was ready, they sat
down. There was much gay talk, compliments to Carnac came from both
Larue and Ingot, and Carnac was excited and buoyant. He drank much
wine and beer, and told amusing stories of the French-Canadians which
delighted them all. He had a gift of mimicry and he let himself go.
"You got a pretty fine tongue in your head--but of the best," said Ingot
with a burst of applause. "You'd make a good actor, a holy good actor.
You got a way with you. Coquelin, Salvini, Bernhardt! Voila, you're just
as good! Bagosh, I'd like to see you on the stage."
"So would I," said Larue. "I think you could play a house full in
no time and make much cash--I think you could. Don't you think so,
Luzanne?"
Luzanne laughed. "He can act very first-class, I'm sure," she said,
and she turned and looked Carnac in the eyes. She was excited, she was
handsome, she was slim and graceful, and Carnac felt towards her as he
did the day at the studio, as though he'd like to kiss her. He knew it
was not real, but it was the man in him and the sex in her.
For an hour and a half the lunch went on, all growing gayer, and then
at last Ingot said: "Well, I'm going to have a play now here, and Carnac
Grier shall act, and we all shall act. We're going to have a wedding
ceremony between M'sieu' Grier and Luzanne--but, hush, why not!" he
added, when Luzanne shook her finger at him, and said she'd do nothing
of the kind, having, however, agreed to it beforehand. "Why not! There's
nothing in it. They'll both be married some day and it will be good
practice for them. They can learn now how to do it. It's got to be
done--but yes. I'll find a Judge in the village. Come now, hands up,
those that will do it."
With a loud laugh Larue held up his hand, Carnac, who was half-drunk,
did the same, and after a little hesitation Luzanne also.
"Good--a gay little comedy, that's what it is. I'm off for the Judge,"
and away went Ingot hard afoot, having already engaged a Judge, called
Grimshaw, in the village near to perform the ceremony. When he had
gone, Larue went off to smoke and Luzanne and Carnac cleared up the
lunch-things and put all away in the baskets. When it was finished,
Carnac and Luzanne sat down under a tree and talked cheerfully, and
Luzanne was never so effective as she was that day. They laughed over
the mock ceremony to be performed.
"I'm a Catholic, you know," said Luzanne, "and it isn't legal in my
church with no dispensation to be married to a Protestant like you. But
as it is, what does it matter!"
"Well, that's true," said Carnac. "I suppose I ought to be acting the
lover now; I ought to be kissing you, oughtn't I?"
"As an actor, yes, but as a man, better not unless others are present.
Wait till the others come. Wait for witnesses, so that it can look like
the real thing.
"See, there they come now." She pointed, and in the near distance Ingot
could be seen approaching with a short, clean-shaven, roly-poly sort of
man who did not look legal, but was a real magistrate. He came waddling
along in good spirits and rather pompously. At that moment Larue
appeared. Presently Ingot presented the Judge to the would--be bride
and bridegroom. "You wish to be married-you are Mr. Grier?" said Judge
Grimshaw.
"That's me and I'm ready," said Carnac. "Get on with the show. What's
the first thing?"
"Well, the regular thing is to sign some forms, stating age, residence,
etc., and here they are all ready. Brought 'em along with me. Most
unusual form of ceremony, but it'll do. It's all right. Here are the
papers to sign."
Carnac hastily scratched in the needed information, and Luzanne doing
the same, the magistrate pocketed the papers.
"Now we can perform the ceremony," said the Judge. "Mr. Larue, you go
down there with the young lady and bring her up in form, and Mr. Carnac
Grier waits here."
Larue went away with Luzanne, and presently turned, and she, with her
arm in his, came forward. Carnac stood waiting with a smile on his face,
for it seemed good acting. When Luzanne came, her father handed her
over, and the marriage ceremony proceeded. Presently it concluded, and
Grimshaw, who had had more drink than was good for him, wound up the
ceremony with the words: "And may the Lord have mercy on you!"
Every one laughed, Carnac kissed the bride, and the Judge handed her the
marriage certificate duly signed. It was now Carnac's duty to pay in
the usual way for the ceremony, and he handed the Judge ten dollars; and
Grimshaw rolled away towards the village, Ingot having also given him
ten.
"That's as good a piece of acting as I've ever seen," said Larue with a
grin. "It beats Coquelin and Henry Irving."
"I didn't think there was much in it," said Carnac, laughing, "though
it was real enough to cost me ten dollars. One has to pay for one's fun.
But I got a wife cheap at the price, and I didn't pay for the wedding
ring."
"No, the ring was mine," said Larue. "I had it a long time. It was my
engagement ring, and I want it back now."
Luzanne took it off her finger--it was much too large--and gave it to
him. "It's easy enough to get another," she said in a queer voice.
"You did the thing in style, young man," said Ingot to Carnac with a
nod.
"I'll do it better when it's the real thing," said Carnac. "I've had my
rehearsal now, and it seemed almost real."
"It was almost real," said Ingot, with his head turned away from Carnac,
but he winked at Larue and caught a furtive look from Luzanne's eye.
"I think we'd better have another hour hereabouts, then get back to New
York," said Larue. "There's a circus in the village--let us go to that."
At the village, they did the circus, called out praise to the clown,
gave the elephant some buns, and at five o'clock started back to New
York. Arrived at New York, they went to a hotel off Broadway for dinner,
and Carnac signed names in the hotel register as "Mr. and Mrs. Carnac
Grier." When he did it, he saw a furtive glance pass from Luzanne's eyes
to her father. It was disconcerting to him. Presently the two adjourned
to the sitting-room, and there he saw that the table was only laid for
two. That opened his eyes. The men had disappeared and he and Luzanne
were alone. She was sitting on a sofa near the table, showing to good
advantage. She was composed, while Carnac was embarrassed. Carnac began
to take a grip on himself.
The waiter entered. "When shall I serve dinner, sir?" he said.
Carnac realized that the dinner had been ordered by the two men, and
he said quietly: "Don't serve it for a half-hour yet--not till I ring,
please. Make it ready then. There's no hurry. It's early."
The waiter bowed and withdrew with a smile, and Carnac turned to
Luzanne. She smiled, got up, came over, laid a hand on his arm, and
said: "It's quiet and nice here, Carnac dear," and she looked up
ravishingly in his face.
"It's too quiet and it's not at all nice," he suddenly replied. "Your
father and Ingot have gone. They've left us alone on purpose. This is a
dirty game and I'm not going to play it any longer. I've had enough of
it. I've had my fill. I'm going now. Come, let's go together."
She looked a bit smashed and overdone. "The dinner!" she said in
confusion.
"I'll pay for that. We won't wait any longer. Come on at once, please."
She put on her things coolly, and he noticed a savage stealthiness as
she pushed the long pins through her hat and hair. He left the room.
Outside the hotel, Carnac held out his hand.
"Good night and good-bye, Luzanne," he said huskily. "You can get home
alone, can't you?"
She laughed a little, then she said: "I guess so. I've lived in New York
some years. But you and I are married, Carnac, and you ought to take me
to your home."
There was something devilish in her smile now. Then the whole truth
burst upon Carnac. "Married--married! When did I marry you? Good God!"
"You married me this afternoon after lunch at Shipton. I have the
certificate and I mean to hold you to it."
"You mean to hold me to it--a real marriage to-day at Shipton! You and
your father and Ingot tricked me into this."
"He was a real Judge, and it was a real marriage."
"It is a fraud, and I'll unmask it," Carnac declared in anger.
"It would be difficult to prove. You signed our names in the hotel
register as Mr. and Mrs. Carnac Grier. I mean to stick to that
name--Mrs. Carnac Grier. I'll make you a good wife, Carnac--do believe
it.
"I'll believe nothing but the worst of you ever. I'll fight the thing
out, by God!"
She shook her head and smiled. "I meant you to marry me, when you saved
my life from the streetcar. I never saw but one man I wanted to marry,
and you are that man, Carnac. You wouldn't ask me, so I made you marry
me. You could go farther and fare worse. Come, take me home--take me
home, my love. I want you to love me."
"You little devil!" Carnac declared. "I'd rather cut my own throat. I'm
going to have a divorce. I'm going to teach you and the others a lesson
you won't forget."
"There isn't a jury in the United States you could convince after what
you've done. You've made it impossible. Go to Judge Grimshaw and see
what he will say. Go and ask the hotel people and see what they will
say. You're my husband, and I mean you shall live with me, and I'll love
you better than any woman on earth can love you.... Won't you?" She held
out her hand.
With an angry exclamation, Carnac refused it, and then she suddenly
turned on her heel, slipped round a corner and was gone.
Carnac was dumbfounded. He did not know what to do. He went dazedly
home, and slept little that night. The next day he went out to Shipton
and saw Judge Grimshaw and told him the whole tale. The Judge shook his
head.
"It's too tall a story. Why, you went through the ceremony as if it was
the real thing, signed the papers, paid my fee, and kissed the bride.
You could not get a divorce on such evidence. I'm sorry for you, if you
don't want the girl. She's very nice, and 'd make a good wife. What does
she mean to do?"
"I don't know. She left me in the street and went back to her home. I
won't live with her."
"I can't help you anyhow. She has the certificate. You are validly
married. If I were you, I'd let the matter stand."
So they parted, and Carnac sullenly went back to his apartments. The
next day he went to see a lawyer, however. The lawyer opened his eyes at
the story. He had never heard anything like it.
"It doesn't sound as if you were sober when you did it. Were you, sir?
It was a mad prank, anyhow!"
"I had been drinking, but I wasn't drunk. I'd been telling them stories
and they used them as a means of tempting me to act in the absurd
marriage ceremony. Like a fool I consented. Like a fool--but I wasn't
drunk."
"No, but when you were in your right mind and sober you signed your
names as Mr. and Mrs. Carnac Grier in the register of a hotel. I will
try to win your case for you, but it won't be easy work. You see the
Judge himself told you the same thing. But it would be a triumph to
expose a thing of that kind, and I'd like to do it. It wouldn't be
cheap, though. You'd have to foot the bill. Are you rich?"
"No, but my people are," said Carnac. "I could manage the cash, but
suppose I lost!"
"Well, you'd have to support the woman. She could sue you for cruelty
and desertion, and the damages would be heavy."
Carnac shook his head, paid his fee and left the office.
He did not go near Luzanne. After a month he went to Paris for eight
months, and then back to Montreal.
CHAPTER III. CARNAC'S RETURN
Arrived in Montreal, there were attempts by Carnac to settle down to
ordinary life of quiet work at his art, but it was not effective, nor
had it been in Paris, though the excitement of working in the great
centre had stimulated him. He ever kept saying to himself, "Carnac, you
are a married man--a married man, by the tricks of rogues!" In Paris, he
could more easily obscure it, but in Montreal, a few hundred miles from
the place of his tragedy, pessimism seized him. He now repented he did
not fight it out at once. It would have been courageous and perhaps
successful. But whether successful or not, he would have put himself
right with his own conscience. That was the chief thing. He was
straightforward, and back again in Canada, Carnac flung reproaches at
himself.
He knew himself now to be in love with Junia Shale, and because he was
married he could not approach her. It galled him. He was not fond of
Fabian, for they had little in common, and he had no intimate friends.
Only his mother was always sympathetic to him, and he loved her. He saw
much of her, but little of anyone else. He belonged to no clubs, and
there were few artists in Montreal. So he lived his own life, and when
he met Junia he cavilled at himself for his madness with Luzanne. The
curious thing was he had not had a word from her since the day of the
mock marriage. Perhaps she had decided to abandon the thing! But that
could do no good, for there was the marriage recorded in the registers
of New York State.
Meanwhile, things were not going well with others. There befell a
day when matters came to a crisis in the Grier family. Since Fabian's
marriage with Junia Shale's sister, Sybil, he had become discontented
with his position in his father's firm. There was little love between
him and his father, and that was chiefly the father's fault. One day,
the old man stormed at Fabian because of a mistake in the management,
and was foolish enough to say that Fabian had lost his grip since his
marriage.
Fabian, enraged, demanded freedom from the partnership, and offered to
sell his share. In a fit of anger, the old man offered him what was at
least ten per cent more than the value of Fabian's share. The sombre
Fabian had the offer transferred to paper at once, and it was signed by
his father--not without compunction, because difficult as Fabian was
he might go further and fare worse. As for Fabian's dark-haired,
brown-faced, brown-eyed wife, to John Grier's mind, it seemed a good
thing to be rid of her.
When Fabian left the father alone in his office, however, the stark
temper of the old man broke down. He had had enough. He muttered to
himself. Presently he was roused by a little knock at the door. It
was Junia, brilliant, buoyant, yellow haired, with bright brown eyes,
tingling cheeks, and white laughing teeth that showed against her red
lips. She held up a finger at him.
"I know what you've done, and it's no good at all. You can't live
without us, and you mustn't," she said. The old man glowered still, but
a reflective smile crawled to his lips. "No, it's finished," he replied.
"It had to come, and it's done. It can't be changed. Fabian wouldn't
alter it, and I shan't."
His face was stern and dour. He tangled his short fingers in the hair on
top of his head.
"I wouldn't say that, if I were you," she responded cheerily. "Fabian
showed me the sum you offered for his share. It's ridiculous. The
business isn't worth it."
"What do you know about the business?" remarked the other.
"Well, whatever it was worth an hour ago, it's worth less now," she
answered with suggestion. "It's worth much less now," she added.
"What do you mean by that?" he asked sharply, sitting upright, his hands
clasping his knees almost violently, his clean-shaven face showing lines
of trouble.
"I mean he's going to join the enemy," she answered quickly.
"Join the enemy!" broke from the old man's lips with a startled accent.
"Yes, the firm of Belloc."
The old man did not speak, but a curious whiteness stole over his face.
"What makes you say that!" he exclaimed, anger in his eyes.
"Well, Fabian has to put money into something," she answered, "and the
only business he knows is lumber business. Don't you think it's natural
he should go to Belloc?"
"Did he ever say so?" asked the old man with savage sullenness. "Tell
me. Did he ever say so?"
The girl shook back her brave head with a laugh. "Of course he never
said so, but I know the way he'll go."
The old man shook his head. "I don't believe it. He's got no love for
Belloc."
The girl felt like saying, "He's got no love for you," but she
refrained. She knew that Fabian had love for his father, but he had
inherited a love for business, and that would overwhelm all other
feelings. She therefore said: "Why don't you get Carnac to come in? He's
got more sense than Fabian--and he isn't married!"
She spoke boldly, for she knew the character of the man. She was only
nineteen. She had always come in and gone out of Grier's house and
office freely and much more since her sister had married Fabian.
A storm gathered between the old man's eyes; his brow knitted. "Carnac's
got brains enough, but he goes monkeying about with pictures and statues
till he's worth naught in the business of life."
"I don't think you understand him," the girl replied. "I've been trying
to understand him for twenty-five years," the other said malevolently.
"He might have been a big man. He might have bossed this business when
I'm gone. It's in him, but he's a fly-away--he's got no sense. The ideas
he's got make me sick. He talks like a damn fool sometimes."
"But if he's a 'damn fool'--is it strange?" She gaily tossed a kiss at
the king of the lumber world. "The difference between you and him is
this: he doesn't care about the things of this world, and you do; but
he's one of the ablest men in Canada. If Fabian won't come back, why not
Carnac?"
"We've never hit it off."
Suddenly he stood up, his face flushed, his hands outthrust themselves
in rage, his fingers opened and shut in abandonment of temper.
"Why have I two such sons!" he exclaimed. "I've not been bad. I've
squeezed a few; I've struck here and there; I've mauled my enemies, but
I've been good to my own. Why can't I run square with my own family?" He
was purple to the roots of his hair.
Savagery possessed him. Life was testing him to the nth degree. "I've
been a good father, and a good husband! Why am I treated like this?"
She watched him silently. Presently, however, the storm seemed to pass.
He appeared to gain control of himself.
"You want me to have in Carnac?" he asked, with a little fleck of foam
at the corners of his mouth.
"If you could have Fabian back," she remarked, "but you can't! It's been
coming for a long time. He's got your I.O.U. and he won't return; but
Carnac's got plenty of stuff in him. He never was afraid of anything or
anybody, and if he took a notion, he could do this business as well
as yourself by and by. It's all a chance, but if he comes in he'll put
everything else aside."
"Where is he?" the old man asked. "He's with his mother at your home."
The old man took his hat from the window-sill. At that moment a clerk
appeared with some papers. "What have you got there?" asked Grier
sharply. "The Belloc account for the trouble on the river," answered the
clerk.
"Give it me," Grier said, and he waved the clerk away. Then he glanced
at the account, and a grim smile passed over his face. "They can't have
all they want, and they won't get it. Are you coming with me?" he asked
of the girl, with a set look in his eyes. "No. I'm going back to my
sister," she answered.
"If he leaves me--if he joins Belloc!" the old man muttered, and again
his face flushed.
A few moments afterwards the girl watched him till he disappeared up the
hill.
"I don't believe Carnac will do it," she said to herself. "He's got the
sense, the brains, and the energy; but he won't do it."
She heard a voice behind her, and turned. It was the deformed but potent
Denzil. He was greyer now. His head, a little to one side, seemed sunk
in his square shoulders, but his eyes were bright.
"It's all a bad scrape--that about Fabian Grier," he said. "You can't
ever tell about such things, how they'll go--but no, bagosh!"
CHAPTER IV. THE HOUSE ON THE HILL
John Grier's house had a porch with Corinthian pillars. Its elevation
was noble, but it was rather crudely built, and it needed its grove of
maples to make it pleasant to the eye. It was large but not too ample,
and it had certain rooms with distinct character.
Inside the house, John Grier paused a moment before the door of the
sitting-room where his wife usually sat. All was silent. He opened the
door. A woman rose to meet him. She was dressed in black. Her dark hair,
slightly streaked with grey, gave her distinction. Her eyes had soft
understanding; her lips had a reflective smile. There was, however,
uneasiness in her face; her fingers slightly trembled on the linen she
was holding.
"You're home early, John," she said in a gentle, reserved voice.
He twisted a shoulder. "Yes, I'm home early," he snapped. "Your boy
Fabian has left the business, and I've bought his share." He named the
sum. "Ghastly, ain't it? But he's gone, and there's no more about it.
It's a bad thing to marry a woman that can't play fair."
He noted the excessive paleness of his wife's face; the bright eyes
stared and stared, and the lips trembled. "Fabian--Fabian gone!" she
said brokenly.
"Yes, and he ain't coming back."
"What's he going to do?" she asked in a bitter voice.
"Join Belloc--fight his own father--try to do me in the race," growled
the old man.
"Who told you that?"
"Junia, she told me."
"What does she know about it? Who told her that?" asked the woman with
faded lips.
"She always had sense, that child. I wish she was a man."
He suddenly ground his heel, and there was distemper in face and voice;
his shoulders hunched; his hands were thrust down in his pockets. He
wheeled on her. "Where's your other boy? Where's Carnac?"
The woman pointed to the lawn. "He's catching a bit of the city from the
hill just beyond the pear-tree."
"Painting, eh? I heard he was here. I want to talk to him."
"I don't think it will do any good," was the sad reply. "He doesn't
think as you do."
"You believe he's a genius," snarled the other.
"You know he is."
"I'll go and find him."
She nodded. "I wish you luck," she said, but there was no conviction in
her tone. Truth was, she did not wish him luck in this. She watched
him leave by the French window and stride across the lawn. A strange,