XXIX. CARNAL AND HIS MOTHER
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."
XXX. TARBOE HAS A DREAM
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.
XXXI. THIS WAY HOME
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.
Chapter XXXII
"HALVES, PARDNER, HALVES"
It was Thanksgiving Day, and all the people of the Province were en fete. The day was clear, and the air was thrilling with the spirits of the north country; the vibrant sting of oxygen, the blessed resilience of the river and the hills.
It was a great day on the St. Lawrence, for men were preparing to go to the backwoods, to the "shanties," and hosts were busy with the crops, storing them; while all in trade and industry were cheerful. There was a real benedicite in the air. In every church. Catholic and Protestant, hands of devoted workers had made beautiful altar and communion table, and lectern and pulpit, and in the Methodist chapel and the Presbyterian kirk, women had made the bare interiors ornate. The bells of all the churches were ringing, French and English; and each priest, clergyman and minister was moving his people in his own way and by his own ritual to bless God and live.
In the city itself, the Mayor had arranged a festival in the evening, and there were gathered many people to give thanks. But those most conspicuous were the poor, unsophisticated habitants, who were on good terms with the refreshment provided. Their enthusiasm was partly due to the presence of Carnac Grier. In his speech to the great crowd, among other things the Mayor said: "It is our happiness that we have here one whose name is familiar to all in French-Canada--that of the new Member of Parliament, Monsieur Carnac Grier. In Monsieur Grier we have a man who knows his own mind, and it is filled with the interests of the French as well as the English. He is young, he has power, and he will use his youth and power to advance the good of the whole country. May he live long!"
Carnac never spoke better in his life than in his brief reply. When he had finished, some one touched his arm. It was Luke Tarboe.
"A good speech, Grier. Can you give me a few moments?"
"Here?" asked Carnac, smiling.
"Not here, but in the building. There is a room where we can be alone, and I have to tell you something of great importance."
"Of great importance? Well, so have I to tell you, Tarboe."
A few minutes later they were in the Mayor's private parlour, hung with the portraits of past Governors and Mayors, and carrying over the door the coat-of-arms of the Province.
Presently Carnac said: "Let me give you my news first, Tarboe: I am to marry Junia Shale--and soon."
Tarboe nodded. "I expected that. She is worth the best the world can offer." There was a ring of honesty in his tone. "All the more reason why I should tell you what my news is, Carnac. I'm going to tell you what oughtn't yet to be told for another two years, but I feel it due you, for you were badly used, and so I break my word to your father."
Carnac's hand shot out in protest, but Tarboe took no notice. "I mean to tell you now in the hour of your political triumph that--"
"That I can draw on you for ten thousand dollars, perhaps?" shot out Carnac.
"Not for ten thousand, but in two years' time--or to-morrow--for a hundred and fifty times that if you want it."
Carnac shrugged his shoulders. "I don't know what you're driving at, Tarboe. Two years from now--or to-morrow--I can draw on you for a hundred and fifty times ten thousand dollars! What does that mean? Is it you're tired of the fortune left you by the biggest man industrially French-Canada has ever known?"
"I'll tell you the truth--I never had a permanent fortune, and I was never meant to have the permanent fortune, though I inherited by will. That was a matter between John Grier and myself. There was another will made later, which left the business to some one else."
"I don't see."
"Of course you don't see, and yet you must." Tarboe then told the story of the making of the two wills, doing justice to John Grier.
"He never did things like anyone else, and he didn't in dying. He loved you, Carnac. In spite of all he said and did he believed in you. He knew you had the real thing in you, if you cared to use it."
"Good God! Good God!" was all Carnac could at first say. "And you agreed to that?"
"What rights had I? None at all. I'll come out of it with over a half- million dollars--isn't that enough for a backwoodsman? I get the profits of the working for three years, and two hundred thousand dollars besides. I ought to be satisfied with that."
"Who knows of the will besides yourself?" asked Carnac sharply.
"No one. There is a letter to the bank simply saying that another will exists and where it is, but that's all.
"And you could have destroyed that will in my favour?"
"That's so." The voice of Tarboe was rough with feeling, his face grew dark. "More than once I willed to destroy it. It seemed at first I could make better use of the property than you. The temptation was big, but I held my own, and now I've no fear of meeting anyone in Heaven or Hell. I've told you all. . . .
"Not quite all. There's one thing more. The thought of Junia Shale made me want to burn the second will, and I almost did it; but I'm glad I didn't."
"If you had, and had married her, you wouldn't have been happy. You can't be fooling a wife and be safe."
"I guess I know that--just in time. . . . I have a bad heart, Carnac. Your property came to me against my will through your father, but I wanted the girl you're going to marry, and against my will you won her. I fought for her. I thought there was a chance for me, because of the rumour you were secretly married--"
"I'll tell you about it, Tarboe, now. It was an ugly business." And he told in a dozen sentences the story of Luzanne and the false marriage.
When he had finished, Tarboe held out his hand. "It was a close shave, Carnac."
After a few further remarks, Tarboe said: "I thought there was a chance for me with Junia Shale, but there never was a real one, for she was yours from a child. You won her fairly, Carnac. If you'll come to the office to-morrow morning, I'll show you the will."
"You'll show me the will?" asked Carnac with an edge to his tone.
"What do you mean?" Tarboe did not like the look in the other's eyes.
"I mean, what you have you shall keep, and what John Grier leaves me by that will, I will not keep."
"You will inherit, and you shall keep."
"And turn you out!" remarked Carnac ironically. "I needn't be turned out. I hoped you'd keep me as manager. Few could do it as well, and, as Member of Parliament, you haven't time yourself. I'll stay as manager at twenty thousand dollars a year, if you like."
Carnac could not tell him the real reason for declining to inherit, but that did not matter. Yet there flashed into his heart a love, which he had never felt so far in his life, for John Grier. The old man had believed he would come out right in the end, and so had left him the fortune in so odd a way. How Carnac longed to tell Tarboe the whole truth about Barode Barouche, and yet dare not! After a short time of hesitation and doubt, Carnac said firmly:
"I'll stand by the will, if you'll be my partner and manager, Tarboe. If you'll take half the business and manage the whole of it, I'll sell the half for a dollar to you, and we can run together to the end."
Tarboe's face lighted; there was triumph in his eyes. It was all better than he had dared to hope, for he liked the business, and he loathed the way the world had looked at John Grier's will.
"Halves, pardner, halves!" he said, assenting gladly, and held out his hand.
They clasped hands warmly.
The door opened and Junia appeared. She studied their faces anxiously. When she saw the smiling light in them:
"Oh, you two good men!" she said joyously, and held out a hand to each.