Carnac\'s Folly, Complete - Gilbert Parker
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'
BOOK I
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."