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, troubled expression was in her face.
“They can’t pull it off together,” she said to herself, and Carnac is too full of independence. He wants nothing from anybody. He needs no one; he follows no one—except me. Yes, he follows—he loves me.
She watched her husband till he almost viciously thrust aside the bushes staying his progress, and broke into the space by the pear-tree where Carnac sat with palette and brush, gazing at the distant roofs on which the sun was leaving its last kiss.
Carnac got to his feet with a smile, and with a courage in his eye equal to that which had ever been in his father’s face—in the face of John Grier. It was strange that the other’s presence troubled him, that even as a small child, to be in the same room for any length of time vexed him. Much of that had passed away. The independence of the life he lived, the freedom from resting upon the financial will of the lumber king had given him light, air and confidence. He loved his mother. What he felt for John Grier was respect and admiration. He knew he was not spoken to now with any indolent purpose.
They had seen little of each other of late years. His mother had given him the money to go to New York and Paris, which helped out his own limited income. He wondered what should bring his father to him now. There was interested reflection in his eye. With his habit of visualization, he saw behind John Grier, as he came on now, the long procession of logs and timbers which had made his fortune, stretch back on the broad St. Lawrence, from the Mattawan to the Madawaska, from the Richelieu to the Marmora. Yet, what was it John Grier had done? In a narrow field he had organized his life perfectly, had developed his opportunities, had safeguarded his every move. The smiling inquiry in his face was answered by the old man saying abruptly:
“Fabian’s gone. He’s deserted the ship.”
The young man had the wish to say in reply, “At last, eh!” but he avoided it.
“Where has he gone?”
“I bought him out to-day, and I hear he’s going to join Belloc.”
“Belloc! Belloc! Who told you that?” asked the young man.
“Junia Shale—she told me.”
Carnac laughed. “She knows a lot, but how did she know that?”
“Sheer instinct, and I believe she’s right.”
“Right—right—to fight you, his own father!” was the inflammable reply.
“Why, that would be a lowdown business!”
“Would it be lower down than your not helping your father, when you can?”
Somehow he yearned over his wayward, fantastic son. The wilful, splendid character of the youth overcame the insistence in the other’s nature.
“You seem to be getting on all right,” remarked Carnac with the faint brown moustache, the fine, showy teeth, the clean-shaven cheeks, and auburn hair hanging loosely down.
“You’re wrong. Things aren’t doing as well with me as they might. Belloc and the others make difficult going. I’ve got too much to do myself. I want help.”
“You had it in Fabian,” remarked Carnac dryly. “Well, I’ve lost it, and it never was enough. He hadn’t vision, sense and decision.”
“And so you come to me, eh? I always thought you despised me,” said Carnac.
A half-tender, half-repellent expression came into the old man’s face. He spoke bluntly. “I always thought you had three times the brains of your brother. You’re not like me, and you’re not like your mother; there’s something in you that means vision, and seeing things, and doing them. If fifteen thousand dollars a year and a share in the business is any good to you—”
For an instant there had been pleasure and wonder in the young man’s eyes, but at the sound of the money and the share in the business he shrank back.
“I don’t think so, father. I’m happy enough. I’ve got all I want.”
“What the devil are you talking about!” the other burst out. “You’ve got all you want! You’ve no home; you’ve no wife; you’ve no children; you’ve no place. You paint, and you sculp, and what’s the good of it all? Have you ever thought of that? What’s there in it for you or anyone else? Have you no blood and bones, no sting of life in you? Look what I’ve done. I started with little, and I’ve built up a business that, if it goes all right, will be worth millions. I say, if it goes all right, because I’ve got to carry more than I ought.”
Carnac shook his head. “I couldn’t be any help to you. I’m not a man of action. I think, I devise, but I don’t act. I’d be no good in your business no, honestly, I’d be no good. I don’t think money is the end of life. I don’t think success is compensation for all you’ve done and still must do. I want to stand out of it. You’ve had your life; you’ve lived it where you wanted to live it. I haven’t, and I’m trying to find out where my duty and my labour lies. It is Art; no doubt. I don’t know for sure.”
“Good God!” broke in the old man. “You don’t know for sure—you’re twenty-five years old, and you don’t know where you’re going!”
“Yes, I know where I’m going—to Heaven by and by!” This was his satirical reply.
“Oh, fasten down; get hold of something that matters. Now, listen to me. I want you to do one thing—the thing I ought to do and can’t. I must stay here now that Fabian’s gone. I want you to go to the Madawaska River.”
“No, I won’t go to the Madawaska,” replied Carnac after a long pause, “but”—with sudden resolution—“if it’s any good to you, I’ll stay here in the business, and you can go to the Madawaska. Show me what to do here; tell me how to do it, and I’ll try to help you out for a while—if it can be done,” he added hastily. “You go, but I’ll stay. Let’s talk it over at supper.”
He sighed, and turned and gazed warmly at the sunset on the roofs of the city; then turned to his father’s face, but it was not the same look in his eyes.
CHAPTER V. CARNAC AS MANAGER
Carnac was installed in the office, and John Grier went to the Madawaska. Before he left, however, he was with Carnac for near a week, showing the procedure and the main questions that might arise to be solved.
“It’s like this,” said Grier in their last talk, “you’ve got to keep a stiff hand over the foremen and overseers, and have strict watch of Belloc & Co. Perhaps there will be trouble when I’ve gone, but, if it does, keep a stiff upper lip, and don’t let the gang do you. You’ve got a quick mind and you know how to act sudden. Act at once, and damn the consequences! Remember, John Grier’s firm has a reputation, and deal justly, but firmly, with opposition. The way it’s organized, the business almost runs itself. But that’s only when the man at the head keeps his finger on the piston-rod. You savvy, don’t you?”
“I savvy all right. If the Belloc firm cuts up rusty, I’ll think of what you’d do and try to do it in the same way.”
The old man smiled. He liked the spirit in Carnac. It was the right kind for his business. “I predict this: if you have one fight with the Belloc lot, you’ll hate them too. Keep the flag flying. Don’t get rattled. It’s a big job, and it’s worth doing in a big way.
“Yes, it’s a big job,” said Carnac. “I hope I’ll pull it off.”
“You’ll pull it off, if you bend your mind to it. But there won’t be any time for your little pictures and statues. You’ll have to deal with the real men, and they’ll lose their glamour. That’s the thing about business—it’s death to sentimentality.”
Carnac flushed with indignation. “So you think Titian and Velasquez and Goyot and El Greco and Watteau and Van Dyck and Rembrandt and all the rest were sentimentalists, do you? The biggest men in the world worship them. You aren’t just to the greatest intellects. I suppose Shakespeare was a sentimentalist!”
The old man laughed and tapped his son on the shoulder.
“Don’t get excited, Carnac. I’d rather you ran my business well, than be Titian or Rembrandt, whoever they were. If you do this job well, I’ll think there’s a good chance of our working together.”
Carnac nodded, but the thought that he could not paint or sculp when he was on this work vexed him, and he only set his teeth to see it through. “All right, we’ll see,” he said, and his father went away.
Then Carnac’s time of work and trial began. He was familiar with the routine of the business, he had adaptability, he was a quick worker, and for a fortnight things went swimmingly. There was elation in doing work not his regular job, and he knew the eyes of the commercial and river world were on him. He did his best and it was an effective best. Junia had been in the City of Quebec, but she came back at the end of a fortnight, and went to his office to get a subscription for a local charity. She had a gift in this kind of work.
It was a sunny day in the month of June, and as she entered the office a new spirit seemed to enter with her.
The place became distinguished. She stood in the doorway for a moment, radiant, smiling, half embarrassed, then she said: “Please may I for a moment, Carnac?”
Carnac was delighted. “For many moments, Junia.”
“I’m not as busy as usual. I’m glad as glad to see you.”
She said with restraint: “Not for many moments. I’m here on business. It’s important. I wanted to get a subscription from John Grier for the Sailors’ Hospital which is in a bad way. Will you give something for him?”
Carnac looked at the subscription list. “I see you’ve been to Belloc first and they’ve given a hundred dollars. Was that wise-going to them first? You know how my father feels about Belloc. And we’re the older firm.”
The girl laughed. “Oh, that’s silly! Belloc’s money is as good as John Grier’s, and it only happened he was asked first because Fabian was present when I took the list, and it’s Fabian’s writing on the paper there.”
Carnac nodded. “That’s all right with me, for I’m no foe to Belloc, but my father wouldn’t have liked it. He wouldn’t have given anything in the circumstances.”
“Oh, yes, he would! He’s got sense with all his prejudices. I’ll tell you what he’d have done: he’d have given a bigger subscription than Belloc.”
Carnac laughed. “Well, perhaps you’re right; it was clever planning it so.”
“I didn’t plan it. It was accident, but I had to consider everything and I saw how to turn it to account. So, if you are going to give a subscription for John Grier you must do as he would do.”
Carnac smiled, put the paper on his desk, and took the pen.
“Make it measure the hate John Grier has to the Belloc firm,” she said ironically.
Carnac chuckled and wrote. “Will that do?” He handed her the paper.
“One hundred and fifty dollars—oh, quite, quite good!” she said. “But it’s only a half hatred after all. I’d have made it a whole one.”
“You’d have expected John Grier to give two hundred, eh? But that would have been too plain. It looks all right now, and it must go at that.”
She smiled. “Well, it’ll go at that. You’re a good business man. I see you’ve given up your painting and sculping to do this! It will please your father, but are you satisfied?”
“Satisfied—of course, I’m not; and you know it. I’m not a money-grabber. I’m an artist if I’m anything, and I’m not doing this permanently. I’m only helping my father while he’s in a hole.”
The girl suddenly grew serious. “You mean you’re not going to stick to the business, and take Fabian’s place in it? He’s been for a week with Belloc and he’s never coming back here. You have the brains for it; and you could make your father happy and inherit his fortune—all of it.”
Carnac flushed indignantly. “I suppose I could, but it isn’t big enough for me. I’d rather do one picture that the Luxembourg or the London National Gallery would buy than own this whole business. That’s the turn of my mind.”
“Yes, but if you didn’t sell a picture to the Luxembourg or the National Gallery. What then?”
“I’d have a good try for it, that’s all. Do you want me to give up Art and take to commerce? Is that your view?”
“I suggested to John Grier the day that Fabian sold his share that you might take his place; and I still think it a good thing, though, of course, I like your painting. But I felt sorry for your father with none of his own family to help him; and I thought you might stay with him for your family’s sake.”
“You thought I’d be a martyr for love of John Grier—and cold cash, did you? That isn’t the way the blood runs in my veins. I think John Grier might get out of the business now, if he’s tired, and sell it and let some one else run it. John Grier is not in want. If he were, I’d give up everything to help him, and I’d not think I was a martyr. But I’ve a right to make my own career. It’s making the career one likes which gets one in the marrow. I’d take my chances of success as he did. He has enough to live on, he’s had success; let him get down and out, if he’s tired.”
The girl held herself firmly. “Remember John Grier has made a great name for himself—as great in his way as Andrew Carnegie or Pierpont Morgan—and he’s got pride in his name. He wants his son to carry it on, and in a way he’s right.”
“That’s good argument,” said Carnac, “but if his name isn’t strong enough to carry itself, his son can’t carry it for him. That’s the way of life. How many sons have ever added to their father’s fame? The instances are very few. In the modern world, I can only think of the Pitts in England. There’s no one else.”
The girl now smiled again. The best part in her was stirred. She saw. Her mind changed. After a moment she said: “I think you’re altogether right about it. Carnac, you have your own career to make, so make it as it best suits yourself. I’m sorry I spoke to your father as I did. I pitied him, and I thought you’d find scope for your talents in the business. It’s a big game, but I see now it isn’t yours, Carnac.”
He nodded, smiling. “That’s it; that’s it, I hate the whole thing.”
She shook hands. As his hand enclosed her long slim fingers, he felt he wished never to let them go, they were so thrilling; but he did, for the thought of Luzanne came to his mind.
“Good-bye, Junia, and don’t forget that John Grier’s firm is the foe of the Belloc business,” he said satirically.
She laughed, and went down the hill quickly, and as she went Carnac thought he had never seen so graceful a figure.
“What an evil Fate sent Luzanne my way!” he said.
Two days later there came an ugly incident on the river. There was a collision between a gang of John Grier’s and Belloc’s men and one of Grier’s men was killed. At the inquest, it was found that the man met his death by his own fault, having first attacked a Belloc man and injured him. The Belloc man showed the injury to the jury, and he was acquitted. Carnac watched the case closely, and instructed his lawyer to contend that the general attack was first made by Belloc’s men, which was true; but the jury decided that this did not affect the individual case, and that the John Grier man met his death by his own fault.
“A shocking verdict!” he said aloud in the Court when it was given.
“Sir,” said the Coroner, “it is the verdict of men who use their judgment after hearing the evidence, and your remark is offensive and criminal.”
“If it is criminal, I apologize,” said Carnac.
“You must apologize for its offensiveness, or you will be arrested, sir.”
This nettled Carnac. “I will not apologize for its offensiveness,” he said firmly.
“Constable, arrest this man,” said the Coroner, and the constable did so.
“May I be released on bail?” asked Carnac with a smile.
“I am a magistrate. Yes, you may be released on bail,” said the Coroner.
Carnac bowed, and at once a neighbour became security for three thousand dollars. Then Carnac bowed again and left the Court with—it was plain—the goodwill of most people present.
Carnac returned to his office with angry feelings at his heart. The Belloc man ought to have been arrested for manslaughter, he thought. In any case, he had upheld the honour of John Grier’s firm by his protest, and the newspapers spoke not unfavourably of him in their reports. They said he was a man of courage to say what he did, though it was improper, from a legal standpoint. But human nature was human nature!
The trial took place in five days, and Carnac was fined twenty-five cents, which was in effect a verdict of not guilty; and so the newspapers said. It was decided that the offence was only legally improper, and it was natural that Carnac expressed himself strongly.
Junia was present at the trial. After it was over, she saw Carnac for a moment. “I think your firm can just pay the price and exist!” she said. “It’s a terrible sum, and it shows how great a criminal you are!”
“Not a ‘thirty-cent’ criminal, anyhow,” said Carnac. “It is a moral victory, and tell Fabian so. He’s a bit huffy because I got into the trouble, I suppose.”
“No, he loathed it all. He’s sorry it occurred.”
There was no further talk between them, for a subordinate of Carnac’s came hurriedly to him and said something which Junia did not hear. Carnac raised his hat to her, and hurried away.
“Well, it’s not so easy as painting pictures,” she said. “He gets fussed over these things.”
It was later announced by the manager of the main mill that there was to be a meeting of workers to agitate for a strike for higher pay. A French-Canadian who had worked in the mills of Maine and who was a red-hot socialist was the cause of it. He had only been in the mills for about three months and had spent his spare time inciting well-satisfied workmen to strike. His name was Luc Baste—a shock-haired criminal with a huge chest and a big voice, and a born filibuster. The meeting was held and a deputation was appointed to wait on Carnac at his office. Word was sent to Carnac, and he said he would see them after the work was done for the day. So in the evening about seven o’clock the deputation of six men came, headed by Luc Baste.
“Well, what is it?” Carnac asked calmly.
Luc Baste began, not a statement of facts, but an oration on the rights of workers, their downtrodden condition and their beggarly wages. He said they had not enough to keep body and soul together, and that right well did their employers know it. He said there should be an increase of a half-dollar a day, or there would be a strike.
Carnac dealt with the matter quickly and quietly. He said Luc Baste had not been among them a long time and evidently did not know what was the cost of living in Montreal. He said the men got good wages, and in any case it was not for him to settle a thing of such importance. This was for the head of the firm, John Grier, when he returned. The wages had been raised two years before, and he doubted that John Grier would consent to a further rise. All other men on the river seemed satisfied and he doubted these ought to have a cent more a day. They were getting the full value of the work. He begged all present to think twice before they brought about catastrophe. It would be a catastrophe if John Grier’s mills should stop working and Belloc’s mills should go on as before. It was not like Grier’s men to do this sort of thing.
The men seemed impressed, and, presently, after one of them thanking him, the deputation withdrew, Luc Baste talking excitedly as they went. The manager of the main mill, with grave face, said:
“No, Mr. Grier, I don’t think they’ll be satisfied. You said all that could be said, but I think they’ll strike after all.”
“Well, I hope it won’t occur before John Grier gets back,” said Carnac.
That night a strike was declared.
Fortunately, only about two-thirds of the men came out, and it could not be called a complete success. The Belloc people were delighted, but they lived in daily fear of a strike in their own yards, for agitators were busy amongst their workmen. But the workers waited to see what would happen to Grier’s men.
Carnac declined to reconsider. The wages were sufficient and the strike unwarranted! He kept cool, even good-natured, and with only one-third of his men at work, he kept things going, and the business went on with regularity, if with smaller output. The Press unanimously supported him, for it was felt the strike had its origin in foreign influence, and as French Canada had no love for the United States there was journalistic opposition to the strike. Carnac had telegraphed to his father when the strike started, but did not urge him to come back. He knew that Grier could do nothing more than he himself was doing, and he dreaded new influence over the strikers. Grier happened to be in the backwoods and did not get word for nearly a week; then he wired asking Carnac what the present situation was. Carnac replied he was standing firm, that he would not yield a cent increase in wages, and that, so far, all was quiet.
It happened, however, that on the day he wired, the strikers tried to prevent the non-strikers from going to work and there was a collision. The police and a local company of volunteers intervened and then the Press condemned unsparingly the whole affair. This outbreak did good, and Luc Baste was arrested for provoking disorder. No one else was arrested, and this was a good thing, for, on the whole, even the men that followed Luc did not trust him. His arrest cleared the air and the strike broke. The next day, all the strikers returned, but Carnac refused their wages for the time they were on strike, and he had triumphed.
On that very day John Grier started back to Montreal. He arrived in about four days, and when he came, found everything in order. He went straight from his home to the mill and there found Carnac in control.
“Had trouble, eh, Carnac?” he asked with a grin, after a moment of greeting. Carnac shrugged his shoulders, but said nothing.
“It’s the first strike I ever had in my mills, and I hope it will be the last. I don’t believe in knuckling down to labour tyranny, and I’m glad you kept your hand steady. There’ll be no more strikes in my mills—I’ll see to that!”
“They’ve only just begun, and they’ll go on, father. It’s the influence of Canucs who have gone to the factories of Maine. They get bitten there with the socialistic craze, and they come back and make trouble. This strike was started by Luc Baste, a French-Canadian, who had been in Maine. You can’t stop these things by saying so. There was no strike among Belloc’s men!”
“No, but did you have no trouble with Belloc’s men?”
Carnac told him of the death of the Grier man after the collision, of his own arrest and fine of twenty-five cents and of the attitude of the public and the Press. The old man was jubilant. “Say, you did the thing in style. It was the only way to do it. You landed ‘em with the protest fair and easy. You’re going to be a success in the business, I can see that.”
Carnac for a moment looked at his father meditatively. Then, seeing the surprise in John Grier’s face, he said: “No, I’m not going to be a success in it, for I’m not going on with it. I’ve had enough. I’m through.”
“You’ve had enough—you’re through—just when you’ve proved you can do things as well as I can do them! You ain’t going on! Great Jehoshaphat!”
“I mean it; I’m not going on. I’m going to quit in another month. I can’t stick it. It galls me. It ain’t my job. I do it, but it’s artificial, it ain’t the real thing. My heart isn’t in it as yours is, and I’d go mad if I had to do this all my life. It’s full of excitement at times, it’s hard work, it’s stimulating when you’re fighting, but other times it’s deadly dull and bores me stiff. I feel as though I were pulling a train of cars.”
Slowly the old man’s face reddened with anger. “It bores you stiff, eh? It’s deadly dull at times! There’s only interest in it when there’s a fight on, eh? You’re right; you’re not fit for the job, never was and never will be while your mind is what it is. Don’t take a month to go, don’t take a week, or a day, go this morning after I’ve got your report on what’s been done. It ain’t the real thing, eh? No, it ain’t. It’s no place for you. Tell me all there is to tell, and get out; I’ve had enough too, I’ve had my fill. ‘It bores me stiff’!”
John Grier was in a rage, and he would listen to no explanation. “Come now, out with your report.”
Carnac was not upset. He kept cool. “No need to be so crusty,” he said.
CHAPTER VI. LUKE TARBOE HAS AN OFFER
Many a man behind his horses’ tails on the countryside has watched the wild reckless life of the water with wonder and admiration. He sees a cluster of logs gather and climb, and still gather and climb, and between him and that cluster is a rolling waste of timber, round and square.
Suddenly, a being with a red shirt, with loose prairie kind of hat, knee-boots, having metal clamps, strikes out from the shore, running on the tops of the moving logs till he reaches the jam. Then the pike-pole, or the lever, reaches the heart of the difficulty, and presently the jam breaks, and the logs go tumbling into the main, while the vicious-looking berserker of the water runs back to the shore over the logs, safe and sound. It is a marvel to the spectator, that men should manipulate the river so. To him it is a life apart; not belonging to the life he lives-a passing show.
It was a stark surprise of the river which makes this story possible. There was a strike at Bunder’s Boom—as it was called—between Bunder and Grier’s men. Some foreman of Grier’s gang had been needlessly offensive. Bunder had been stupidly resentful. When Grier’s men had tried to force his hand also, he had resisted. It chanced that, when an impasse seemed possible to be broken only by force, a telegram came to John Grier at Montreal telling him of the difficulty. He lost no time in making his way northwards.
But some one else had come upon the scene. It was Luke Tarboe. He had arrived at a moment when the Belloc river crowd had almost wrecked Bunder’s Boom, and when a collision between the two gangs seemed inevitable. What he did remained a river legend. By good temper and adroitness, he reconciled the leaders of the two gangs; he bought the freedom of the river by a present to Bunder’s daughter; he won Bunder by four bottles of “Three Star” brandy. When the police from a town a hundred miles away arrived at the same time as John Grier, it was to find the Grier and Belloc gangs peacefully prodding side by side.
When the police had gone, John Grier looked Tarboe up and down. The brown face, the clear, strong brown eyes and the brown hatless head rose up eighteen inches above his own, making a gallant summit to a robust stalk.
“Well, you’ve done easier things than that in your time, eh?” John Grier asked.
Tarboe nodded. “It was touch and go. I guess it was the hardest thing I ever tried since I’ve been working for you, but it’s come off all right, hasn’t it?” He waved a hand to the workmen on the river, to the tumbling rushes of logs and timber. Then he looked far up the stream, with hand shading his brown eyes to where a crib-or raft-was following the eager stream of logs. “It’s easy going now,” he added, and his face had a look of pleasure.
“What’s your position, and what’s your name?” asked John Grier.
“I’m head-foreman of the Skunk Nest’s gang—that’s this lot, and I got here—just in time! I don’t believe you could have done it, Mr. Grier. No master is popular in the real sense with his men. I think they’d have turned you down. So it was lucky I came.”
A faint smile hovered at his lips, and his eyes brooded upon the busy gangs of men. “Yes, I’ve had a lot of luck this time. There’s nothing like keeping your head cool and your belly free from drink.” Now he laughed broadly. “By gosh, it’s all good! Do you know, Mr. Grier, I came out here a wreck eight years ago. I left Montreal then with a spot in my lungs, that would kill me, they said. I’ve never seen Montreal since, but I’ve had a good time out in the woods, in the shanties in the winters; on the rivers in the summer. I’ve only been as far East as this in eight years.”
“What do you do in the winter, then?”
“Shanties-shanties all the time. In the summer this; in the Fall taking the men back to the shanties. Bossing the lot; doing it from love of the life that’s been given back to me. Yes, this is the life that makes you take things easy. You don’t get fussed out here. The job I had took a bit of doing, but it was done, and I’m lucky to have my boss see the end of it.”
He smiled benignly upon John Grier. He knew he was valuable to the Grier organization; he knew that Grier had heard of him under another name. Now Grier had seen him, and he felt he would like to tell John Grier some things about the river he ought to know. He waved a hand declining the cigar offered him by his great chief.
“Thanks, I don’t smoke, and I don’t drink, and I don’t chew; but I eat—by gosh, I eat! Nothing’s so good as good food, except good reading.”
“Good reading!” exclaimed John Grier. “Good reading—on the river!”
“Well, it’s worked all right, and I read a lot. I get books from Montreal, from the old library at the University.”
“At what University?” struck in the lumber-king. “Oh, Laval! I wouldn’t go to McGill. I wanted to know French, so I went to Laval. There I came to know Father Labasse. He was a great man, Father Labasse. He helped me. I was there three years, and then was told I was going to die. It was Labasse who gave me this tip. He said, ‘Go into the woods; put your teeth into the trees; eat the wild herbs, and don’t come back till you feel well.’ Well, I haven’t gone back, and I’m not going back.”
“What do you do with your wages?” asked the lumber-king.
“I bought land. I’ve got a farm of four hundred acres twenty miles from here. I’ve got a man on it working it.”
“Does it pay?”
“Of course. Do you suppose I’d keep a farm that didn’t pay?”
“Who runs it?”
“A man that broke his leg on the river. One of Belloc’s men. He knows all about farming. He brought his wife and three children up, and there he is—making money, and making the land good. I’ve made him a partner at last. When it’s good enough by and by, I’ll probably go and live there myself. Anybody ought to make farming a success, if there’s water and proper wood and such things,” he added.
There was silence for a few moments. Then John Grier looked Tarboe up and down sharply again, noting the splendid physique, the quizzical, mirth-provoking eye, and said: “I can give you a better job if you’ll come to Montreal.”
Tarboe shook his head. “Haven’t had a sick day for eight years; I’m as hard as nails; I’m as strong as steel. I love this wild world of the woods and fields and—”
“And the shebangs and grog-shops and the dirty, drunken villages?” interrupted the old man.
“No, they don’t count. I take them in, but they don’t count.”
“Didn’t you have hard times when you first came?” asked John Grier. “Did you get right with the men from the start?”
“A little bit of care is a good thing in any life. I told them good stories, and they liked that. I used to make the stories up, and they liked that also. When I added some swear words they liked them all the better. I learned how to do it.”
“Yes, I’ve heard of you, but not as Tarboe.”
“You heard of me as Renton, eh?”
“Yes, as Renton. I wonder I never came across you till to-day.”
“I kept out of your way; that was the reason. When you came north, I got farther into the backwoods.”
“Are you absolutely straight, Tarboe?” asked John Grier eagerly. “Do you do these things in the Garden of Eden way, or can you run a bit crooked when it’s worth while?”
“If I’d ever seen it worth while, I’d say so. I could run a bit crooked if I was fighting among the big ones, or if we were at war with—Belloc, eh!” A cloud came into the eyes of Tarboe. “If I was fighting Belloc, and he used a weapon to flay me from behind, I’d never turn my back on him!”
A grim smile came into Tarboe’s face. His jaw set almost viciously, his eyes hardened. “You people don’t play your game very well, Mr. Grier. I’ve seen a lot that wants changing.”
“Why don’t you change it, then?”
Tarboe laughed. “If I was boss like you, I’d change it, but I’m not, and I stick to my own job.”
The old man came close to him, and steadily explored his face and eyes. “I’ve never met anybody like you before. You’re the man can do things and won’t do them.”
“I didn’t say that. I said what I meant—that good health is better than everything else in the world, and when you’ve got it, you should keep it, if you can. I’m going to keep mine.”
“Well, keep it in Montreal,” said John Grier. “There’s a lot doing there worth while. Is fighting worth anything to one that’s got aught in him? There’s war for the big things. I believe in war.” He waved a hand. “What’s the difference between the kind of thing you’ve done to-day, and doing it with the Belloc gang—with the Folson gang—with the Longville gang—and all the rest? It’s the same thing. I was like you when I was young. I could do things you’ve done to-day while I laid the base of what I’ve got. How old are you?”
“I’m thirty—almost thirty-one.”
“You’ll be just as well in Montreal to-morrow as you are here to-day, and you’d be twice as clever,” said John Grier. His eyes seemed to pierce those of the younger man. “I like you,” he continued, suddenly catching Tarboe’s arm. “You’re all right, and you wouldn’t run straight simply because it was the straight thing to do.”
Tarboe threw back his head and laughed and nodded. The old man’s eyes twinkled. “By gracious, we’re well met! I never was in a bigger hole in my life. One of my sons has left me. I bought him out, and he’s joined my enemy Belloc.”
“Yes, I know,” remarked Tarboe.
“My other son, he’s no good. He’s as strong as a horse—but he’s no good. He paints, he sculps. He doesn’t care whether I give him money or not. He earns his living as he wants to earn it. When Fabian left me, I tried Carnac. I offered to take him in permanently. He tried it, but he wouldn’t go on. He got out. He’s twenty-six. The papers are beginning to talk about him. He doesn’t care for that, except that it brings in cash for his statues and pictures. What’s the good of painting and statuary, if you can’t do the big things?”
“So you think the things you do are as big as the things that Shakespeare, or Tennyson, or Titian, or Van Dyck, or Watt, or Rodin do—or did?”
“Bigger-much bigger,” was the reply.
The younger man smiled. “Well, that’s the way to look at it, I suppose. Think the thing you do is better than what anybody else does, and you’re well started.”
“Come and do it too. You’re the only man I’ve cottoned to in years. Come with me, and I’ll give you twelve thousand dollars a year; and I’ll take you into my business.—I’ll give you the best chance you ever had. You’ve found your health; come back and keep it. Don’t you long for the fight, for your finger at somebody’s neck? That’s what I felt when I was your age, and I did it, and I’m doing it, but I can’t do it as I used to. My veins are leaking somewhere.” A strange, sad, faded look came into his eyes. “I don’t want my business to be broken by Belloc,” he added. “Come and help me save it.”
“By gosh, I will!” said the young man after a moment, with a sudden thirst in his throat and bite to his teeth. “By gum, yes, I’ll go with you.”