Carnac\'s Folly, Volume 2.

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CARNAC'S FOLLY

By Gilbert Parker

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

CHAPTER XIII

CARNAC'S RETURN

"Well, what's happened since I've been gone, mother?" asked Carnac. "Is
nobody we're interested in married, or going to be married?"

It was spring-time eight months after Carnac had vanished from Montreal,
and the sun of late April was melting the snow upon the hills, bringing
out the smell of the sprouting verdure and the exultant song of the
birds.

His mother replied sorrowfully: "Junia's been away since last fall. Her
aunt in the West was taken ill, and she's been with her ever since. Tell
me, dearest, is everything all right now? Are you free to do what you
want?"

He shook his head morosely. "No, everything's all wrong. I blundered,
and I'm paying the price."

"You didn't find Luzanne Larue?"

"Yes, I found her, but it was no good. I said there was divorce, and she
replied I'd done it with my eyes open, and had signed our names in the
book of the hotel as Mr. and Mrs. Carnac Grier and divorce would not be
possible. Also, I'd let things go for a year, and what jury would give
me relief! I consulted a lawyer. He said she had the game in her hands,
and that a case could be put up that would discredit me with jury or
judge, so there it is. . . . Well, bad as she is, she's fond of me
in her way. I don't think she's ever gone loose with any man; this is
only a craze, I'm sure. She wanted me, and she meant to have me."

His mother protested: "No pure, straight, honest girl would--"

Carnac laughed bitterly, and interrupted. "Don't talk that way, mother.
The girl was brought up among exiles and political criminals in the
purlieu of Montmartre. What's possible in one place is impossible in
another. Devil as she is, I want to do her justice."

"Did she wear a wedding-ring?"

"No, but she used my name as her own: I saw it on the paper door-plate.
She said she would wait awhile longer, but if at the end of six months I
didn't do my duty, she'd see the thing through here among my own people."

"Six months--it's overdue now!" she said in agitation.

He nodded helplessly. "I'm in hell as things are. There's only this to
be said: She's done naught yet, and she mayn't do aught!"

They were roused by the click of the gate. "That's your father--that's
John Grier," she said.

They heard the front door open and shut, a footstep in the hall, then the
door opened and John Grier came into the room.

Preoccupation, abstraction, filled his face, as he came forward. It was
as though he was looking at something distant that both troubled and
pleased him. When he saw Carnac he stopped, his face flushed. For an
instant he stood unmoving, and then he held out his hand.

"So you've come back, Carnac. When did you get here?"

As Carnac released his hand from John Grier's cold clasp, he said: "A
couple of hours ago."

The old man scrutinized him sharply, carefully. "Getting on--making
money?" he asked. "Got your hand in the pocket of the world?"

Carnac shook his head. "I don't care much about the pocket of the world,
but they like my work in London and New York. I don't get Royal Academy
prices, but I do pretty well."

"Got some pride, eh?"

"I'm always proud when anybody outside Montreal mentions your name!
It makes me feel I have a place in the world."

"Guess you've made your own place," said the other, pleasure coming to
his cheek. "You've got your own shovel and pick to make wealth."

"I care little about wealth. All I want is enough to clothe and feed me,
and give me a little home."

"A little home! Yes, it's time," remarked the other, as he seated
himself in his big chair by the table. "Why don't you marry?"

The old man's eyes narrowed until there could only be seen a slit of fire
between the lids, and a bitter smile came to his lips. He had told his
wife a year ago that he had cut Carnac out of all business consideration.
So now, he added:

"Tarboe's taken your place in the business, Carnac. Look out he doesn't
take your little home too."

"He's had near a year, and he hasn't done it yet."

"Is that through any virtue of yours?"

"Probably not," answered Carnac ironically. "But I've been away; he's
been here. He's had everything with him. Why hasn't he pulled it off
then?"

"He pulls off everything he plans. He's never fallen over his own feet
since he's been with me, and, if I can help it, he won't have a fall when
I'm gone."

Suddenly he got to his feet; a fit of passion seized him. "What's Junia
to me--nothing! I've every reason to dislike her, but she comes and goes
as if the place belonged to her. She comes to my office; she comes to
this house; she visits Fabian; she tries to boss everybody. Why don't
you regularize it? Why don't you marry her, and then we'll know where we
are? She's got more brains than anybody else in our circle. She's got
tact and humour. Her sister's a fool; she's done harm. Junia's got
sense. What are you waiting for? I wouldn't leave her for Tarboe! Look
here, Carnac, I wanted you to do what Tarboe's doing, and you wouldn't.
You cheeked me--so I took him in. He's made good every foot of the way.
He's a wonder. I'm a millionaire. I'm two times a millionaire, and I
got the money honestly. I gave one-third of it to Fabian, and he left
us. I paid him in cash, and now he's fighting me."

Carnac bristled up: "What else could he do? He might have lived on the
interest of the money, and done nothing. You trained him for business,
and he's gone on with the business you trained him for. There are other
lumber firms. Why don't you quarrel with them? Why do you drop on
Fabian as if he was dirt?"

"Belloc's a rogue and a liar."

"What difference does that make? Isn't it a fair fight? Don't you want
anybody to sit down or stand up till you tell them to? Is it your view
you shall tyrannize, browbeat, batter, and then that everybody you love,
or pretend to love, shall bow down before you as though you were eternal
law? I'm glad I didn't. I'm making my own life. You gave me a chance
in your business, and I tried it, and declined it. You gave it to some
one else, and I approved of it. What more do you want?"

Suddenly a new spirit of defiance awoke in him. "What I owe you I don't
know, but if you'll make out what you think is due, for what you've done
for me in the way of food and clothes and education, I'll see you get it
all. Meanwhile, I want to be free to move and do as I will."

John Grier sat down in his chair again, cold, merciless, with a scornful
smile.

"Yes, yes," he said slowly, "you'd have made a great business man if
you'd come with me. You refused. I don't understand you--I never did.
There's only one thing that's alike in us, and that's a devilish self-
respect, self-assertion, self-dependence. There's nothing more to be
said between us--nothing that counts. Don't get into a passion, Carnac.
It don't become you. Good-night--good-night."

Suddenly his mother's face produced a great change in Carnac. Horror,
sorrow, remorse, were all there. He looked at John Grier; then at his
mother. The spirit of the bigger thing crept into his heart. He put his
arm around his mother and kissed her.

"Good-night, mother," he said. Then he went to his father and held out a
hand. "You don't mind my speaking what I think?" he continued, with a
smile. "I've had a lot to try me. Shake hands with me, father. We
haven't found the way to walk together yet. Perhaps it will come; I hope
so."

Again a flash of passion seized John Grier. He got to his feet. "I'll
not shake hands with you, not to night. You can't put the knife in and
turn it round, and then draw it out and put salve on the wound and say
everything's all right. Everything's all wrong. My family's been my
curse. First one, then another, and then all against me,--my whole
family against me!"

He dropped back in his chair sunk in gloomy reflection.

"Well, good-night," said Carnac. "It will all come right some day."

A moment afterwards he was gone. His mother sat down in her seat by the
window; his father sat brooding by the table.

Carnac stole down the hillside, his heart burning in him. It had not
been a successful day.

CHAPTER XIV

THE HOUSE OF THE THREE TREES

During Carnac's absence, Denzil had lain like an animal, watching, as it
were, the doorway out of which Tarboe came and went. His gloom at last
became fanaticism. During all the eight months of Carnac's absence he
prowled in the precincts of memory.

While Junia was at home he had been watchfully determined to save her
from Tarboe, if possible. He had an obsession of wrong-mindedness which
is always attached to crime. Though Luke Tarboe had done him no wrong,
and was entitled, if he could, to win Junia for himself, to the mind of
Denzil the stain of his brother's past was on Tarboe's life. He saw
Tarboe and Junia meet; he knew Tarboe put himself in her way, and he was
right in thinking that the girl, with a mind for comedy and coquetry, was
drawn instinctively to danger.

Undoubtedly the massive presence of Tarboe, his animal-like, bull-headed
persistency, the fun at his big mouth and the light in his bold eye had a
kind of charm for her. It was as though she placed herself within the
danger zone to try her strength, her will; and she had done it without
real loss. More than once, as she waited in the office for old John
Grier to come, she had a strange, intuitive feeling that Tarboe might
suddenly grip her in his arms.

She flushed at the thought of it; it seemed so absurd. Yet that very
thought had passed through the mind of the man. He was by nature a
hunter; he was self-willed and reckless. No woman had ever moved him in
his life until this girl crossed his path, and he reached out towards her
with the same will to control that he had used in the business of life.
Yet, while this brute force suggested physical control of the girl, it
had its immediate reaction. She was so fine, so delicate, and yet so
full of summer and the free unfettered life of the New World, so
unimpassioned physically, yet so passionate in mind and temperament,
that he felt he must atone for the wild moment's passion--the passion
of possession, which had made him long to crush her to his breast. There
was nothing physically repulsive in it; it was the wild, strong life of
conquering man, of which he had due share. For, as he looked at her
sitting in his office, her perfect health, her slim boyishness, her
exquisite lines and graceful turn of hand, arm and body, or the flower-
like turn of the neck, were the very harmony and poetry of life. But she
was terribly provoking too; and he realized that she was an unconscious
coquette, that her spirit loved mastery as his did.

Denzil could not know this, however. It was impossible for him to
analyse the natures of these two people. He had instinct, but not enough
to judge the whole situation, and so for two months after Carnac
disappeared he had lived a life of torture. Again and again he had
determined to tell Junia the story of Tarboe's brother, but instinctive
delicacy stopped him. He could not tell her the terrible story which
had robbed him of all he loved and had made him the avenger of the dead.
A half-dozen times after she came back from John Grier's office, with
slightly heightening colour, and the bright interest in her eyes, and had
gone about the garden fondling the flowers, he had started towards her;
but had stopped short before her natural modesty. Besides, why should he
tell her? She had her own life to make, her own row to hoe. Yet, as the
weeks passed, it seemed he must break upon this dangerous romance; and
then suddenly she went to visit her sick aunt in the Far West. Denzil
did not know, however, that, in John Grier's office as she had gone over
figures of a society in which she was interested, the big hand of Tarboe
had suddenly closed upon her fingers, and that his head bent down beside
hers for one swift instant, as though he would whisper to her. Then she
quickly detached herself, yet smiled at him, as she said reprovingly:

"You oughtn't to do that. You'll spoil our friendship."

She did not wait longer. As he stretched out his hands to her, his face
had gone pale: she vanished through the doorway, and in forty-eight hours
was gone to her sick aunt. The autumn had come and the winter and the
spring, and the spring was almost gone when she returned; and, with her
return, Catastrophe lifted its head in the person of Denzil.

Perhaps it was imperative instinct that brought Junia back in an hour
coincident with Carnac's return--perhaps. In any case, there it was.
They had both returned, as it were, in the self-same hour, each having
endured a phase of emotion not easy to put on paper.

Denzil told her of Carnac's return, and she went to the house where
Carnac's mother lived, and was depressed at what she saw and felt. Mrs.
Grier's face was not that of one who had good news. The long arms almost
hurt when they embraced her. Yet Carnac was a subject of talk between
them--open, clear eyed talk. The woman did not know what to say, except
to praise her boy, and the girl asked questions cheerfully, unimportantly
as to sound, but with every nerve tingling. There was, however, so much
of the comedienne in her, so much coquetry, that only one who knew her
well could have seen the things that troubled her behind all. As though
to punish herself, she began to speak of Tarboe, and Mrs. Grier's face
clouded; she spoke more of Tarboe, and the gloom deepened. Then, with
the mask of coquetry still upon her she left Carnac's mother abashed,
sorrowful and alone.

Tarboe had called in her absence. Entering the garden, he saw Denzil at
work. At the click of the gate Denzil turned, and came forward.

"She ain't home," he said bluntly. "She's out. She ain't here. She's
up at Mr. Grier's house, bien sur."

To Tarboe Denzil's words were offensive. It was none of Denzil's
business whether he came or went in this house, or what his relations
with Junia were. Democrat though he was, he did not let democracy
transgress his personal associations. He knew that the Frenchman was
less likely to say and do the crude thing than the Britisher.

Tarboe knew of the position held by Denzil in the Shale household; and
that long years of service had given him authority. All this, however,
could not atone for the insolence of Denzil's words, but he had
controlled men too long to act rashly.

"When will Mademoiselle be back?" he asked, putting a hand on himself.

"To-night," answered Denzil, with an antipathetic eye.

"Don't be a damn fool. Tell me the hour when you think she will be at
home. Before dinner--within the next sixty minutes?"

"Ma'm'selle is under no orders. She didn't say when she would be back--
but no!"

"Do you think she'll be back for dinner?" asked Tarboe, smothering his
anger, but get to get his own way.

"I think she'll be back for dinner!" and he drove the spade into the
ground.

"Then I'll sit down and wait." Tarboe made for the verandah.

Denzil presently trotted after and said: "I'd like a word with you."

Tarboe turned round. "Well, what have you got to say?"

"Better be said in my house, not here," replied Denzil. His face was
pale, but there was fire in his eyes. There was no danger of violence,
and, if there were, Tarboe could deal with it. Why should there be
violence? Why should that semi-insanity in Denzil's eyes disturb him?
The one thing to do was to forge ahead. He nodded.

"Where are you taking me?" he asked presently, as they passed through
the gate.

"To my little house by the Three Trees. I've got things I'd like to show
you, and there's some things I'd like to say. You are a big hulk of a
man, and I'm nobody, but yet I've been close to you and yours in my time
--that's so, for sure."

"You've been close to me and mine in your time, eh? I didn't know that."

"No, you didn't know it. Nobody knew it--I've kept it to myself. Your
family wasn't all first-class--but no."

They soon reached the plain board-house, with the well-laid foundation of
stone, by the big Three Trees. Inside the little spare, undecorated
room, Tarboe looked round. It was all quiet and still enough. It was
like a lodge in the wilderness. Somehow, the atmosphere of it made him
feel apart and lonely. Perhaps that was a little due to the timbered
ceiling, to the walls with cedar scantlings showing, to the crude look of
everything-the head of a moose, the skins hanging down the sides of the
walls, the smell of the cedar, and the swift movement of a tame red
squirrel, which ran up the walls and over the floor and along the
chimney-piece, for Denzil avoided the iron stove so common in these new
cold lands, and remained faithful to a huge old-fashioned mantel.

Presently Denzil faced him, having closed the door. "I said I'd been
near to your family and you didn't believe me. Sit down, please to, and
I'll tell you my story."

Seating himself with a little curt laugh, Tarboe waved a hand as though
to say: "Go ahead. I'm ready."

It was difficult for Denzil to begin. He walked up and down the room,
muttering and shaking his head. Presently, however, he made the Sign of
the Cross upon himself, and, leaning against the wall, and opposite to
Tarboe, he began the story he had told Carnac.

His description of his dead fiancee had flashes of poetry and
excruciating touches of life:

"She had no mother, and there was lots of things she didn't know because
of that--ah, plenty! She had to learn, and she brought on her own
tragedy by not knowing that men, even when good to look at, can't be
trusted; that every place, even in the woods and the fields where every
one seems safe to us outdoor people, ain't safe--but no. So she trusted,
and then one day--"

For the next five minutes the words poured from him in moroseness. He
drew a picture of the lonely wood, of the believing credulous girl and
the masterful, intellectual, skilful man. In the midst of it Tarboe
started. The description of the place and of the man was familiar. He
had a vision of a fair young girl encompassed by clanger; he saw her in
the man's arms; the man's lips to hers, and--

"Good God--good God!" he said twice, for a glimmer of the truth struck
him. He knew what his brother had done. He could conceive the revenge
to his brother's amorous hand. He listened till the whole tale was told;
till the death of the girl in the pond at home--back in her own little
home. Then the rest of the story shook him.

"The verdict of the coroner's court was that he was shot by his own hand
--by accident," said Denzil. "That was the coroner's verdict, but yes!
Well, he was shot by his own gun, but not by his own hand. There was
some one who loved the girl, took toll. The world did not know, and does
not know, but you know--you--you, the brother of him that spoiled a
woman's life! Do you think such a man should live? She was the sweetest
girl that ever lived, and she loved me! She told me the truth--and he
died by his own gun--in the woods; but it wasn't accident--it wasn't
accident--but no! The girl had gone, but behind her was some one that
loved her, and he settled it once for all."

As he had told the story, Denzil's body seemed to contract; his face took
on an insane expression. It was ghastly pale, but his eyes ware aflame.
His arms stretched out with grim realism as he told of the death of
Almeric Tarboe.

"You've got the whole truth, m'sieu'. I've told it you at last. I've
never been sorry for killing him--never--never--never. Now, what are you
going to do about it--you--his brother--you that come here making love
too?"

As the truth dawned upon Tarboe, his great figure stretched itself. A
black spirit possessed him.

When Denzil had finished, Tarboe stood up. There was dementia, cruelty,
stark purpose in his eyes, in every movement.

"What am I going to do? You killed my brother! Well, I'm going to kill
you. God blast your soul--I'm going to kill you!"

He suddenly swooped upon Denzil, his fingers clenched about the thick
throat, insane rage was on him.

At that moment there was a knock at the door, it opened, and Carnac
stepped inside. He realized the situation and rushed forward. There was
no time to struggle.

"Let him go," he cried. "You devil--let him go." Then with all his
might, he struck Tarboe in the face. The blow brought understanding back
to Tarboe. His fingers loosed from the Frenchman's throat, and Carnac
caught Denzil as he fell backwards.

"Good God!" said Carnac. "Good God, Tarboe! Wasn't it enough for your
brother to take this man's love without your trying to take his life?"

Carnac's blow brought conviction to Tarboe, whose terrible rage passed
away. He wiped the blood from his face.

"Is the little devil all right?" he whispered.

Denzil spoke: "Yes. This is the second time M'sieu' Carnac has saved my
life."

Carnac intervened. "Tell me, Tarboe, what shall you do, now you know the
truth?"

At last Tarboe thrust out a hand. "I don't know the truth," he said.

By this Carnac knew that Denzil was safe from the law.

CHAPTER XV

CARNAC AND JUNIA

Tarboe did not see Junia that evening nor for many evenings, but Carnac
and Junia met the next day in her own house. He came on her as she was
arranging the table for midday dinner. She had taken up again the
threads of housekeeping, cheering her father, helping the old French-
woman cook--a huge creature who moved like a small mountain, and was a
tyrant in her way to the old cheerful avocat, whose life had been a
struggle for existence, yet whose one daughter had married a rich
lumberman, and whose other daughter could marry wealth, handsomeness
and youth, if she chose.

When Carnac saw Junia she was entering the dining-room with flowers and
fruit, and he recalled the last time they met, when she had thrust the
farewell bouquet of flowers into his hand. That was in the early autumn,
and this was in late spring, and the light in her face was as glowing as
then. A remembrance of the scene came to the minds of both, and the girl
gave a little laugh.

"Well, well, Carnac," she said gaily, her cheek flushing, her eyes warm
with colour: "well, I sent you away with flowers. Did they bring you
luck?" She looked him steadily in the eyes.

"Yes, they brought me a perfect remembrance--of one who has always been
to me like the balm of Gilead."

"Soothing and stimulating, eh?" she asked, as she put the flowers on the
table and gave him her hand--no, she suddenly gave him both hands with a
rush of old-time friendship, which robbed it of all personal emotion.

For a moment he held her hands. He felt them tremble in his warm clasp,
the delicate, shivering pulsation of youth, the womanly feeling. It was
for an instant only, because she withdrew her fingers. Then she caught
up an apple from the dish she had brought in, and tossed it to him.

"For a good boy," she said. "You have been a good boy, haven't you?"

"I think so, chiefly by remembering a good girl."

"That's a pretty compliment--meant for me?"

"Yes, meant for you. I think you understand me better than anyone else."

He noticed her forehead wrinkle slightly, and a faint, incredulous smile
come to her lips.

"I shouldn't think I understand you, Carnac," she said, over her
shoulder, as she arranged dishes on the sideboard. "I shouldn't think I
know you well. There's no Book of Revelations of your life except in
your face."

She suddenly turned full on him, and held his eyes. "Carnac, I think
your face looks honest. I've always thought so, and yet I think you're
something of a scamp, a rogue and a thief."

There was determination at her lips, through which, though only slightly
apart, her beautiful teeth, so straight, so regular, showed. "You don't
play fair. What's the good of having a friend if you don't tell your
friend your troubles? And you've been in trouble, Carnac, and you're
fighting it through alone. Is that wise? You ought to tell some bad
man, or some good woman--if they're both clever--what's vexing you.

"You see the bad clever man would probably think out something that would
have the same effect as the good clever woman. They never would think
out the same thing, but each 'd think out what would help you."

"But you've just said I'm a bad clever man. Why shouldn't I work out my
own trouble?"

"Oh, you're bad enough," she answered, "but you're not clever enough."

He smiled grimly. "I'm not sure though about the woman. Perhaps I'll
tell the good clever woman some day and let her help me, if she can.
But I'd warn her it won't be easy."

"Then there's another woman in it!"

He did not answer. He could not let her know the truth, yet he was sure
she would come to know it one way or another.

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