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.