John Grier’s business had beaten all past records. Tarboe was
everywhere: on the river, in the saw-mills, in the lumber-yards, in the
office. Health and strength and goodwill were with him, and he had the
confidence of all men in the lumber-world. It was rumoured that he was
a partner of John Grier, and it was a good thing for him as well as
for the business. He was no partner, however; he was on a salary with a
bonus percentage of the profits; but that increased his vigour.
There were times when he longed for the backwoods life; when the smell
of the pines and the firs and the juniper got into his nostrils; when he
heard, in imagination, the shouts of the river-men as they chopped down
the trees, sawed the boles into standard lengths, and plunged the big
timbers into the stream, or round the fire at night made call upon the
spirit of recreation. In imagination, he felt the timbers creaking
and straining under his feet; he smelt the rich soup from the cook’s
caboose; he drank basins of tea from well-polished metal; he saw the
ugly rows in the taverns, where men let loose from river duty tried to
regain civilian life by means of liquor and cards; he heard the stern
thud of a hard fist against a piece of wood; he saw twenty men spring
upon another twenty with rage in their faces; he saw hundreds of men
arrived in civilization once again striking for their homes and
loved ones, storming with life. He saw the door flung open, and the
knee-booted, corduroyed river-man, with red sash around his waist and
gold rings in his ears, seize the woman he called wife and swing her
to him with a hungry joy; he saw the children pushed gently here, or
roughly, but playfully, tossed in the air and caught again; but he also
saw the rough spirits of the river march into their homes like tyrants
returned, as it were, cursing and banging their way back to their
rightful nests.
Occasionally he would wish to be in it all again, out in the wild woods
and on the river and in the shanty, free and strong and friendly and a
bit ferocious. All he had known of the backwoods life filled his veins,
tortured him at times.
From the day that both wills were made and signed, no word had been
spoken concerning them between him and John Grier. He admired certain
characteristics of John Grier; some secret charities, some impulsive
generosity, some signs of public spirit. The old man was fond of
animals, and had given water-troughs to the town; and his own horses and
the horses he used in the woods were always well fed. Also, in all his
arrangements for the woods, he was generous. He believed in feeding his
men well. It was rough food--beans, potatoes, peas, lentils, pork in
barrels-salted pork; but there was bread of the best, rich soup, pork
well boiled and fried, with good tea, freshly made. This was the regular
fare, and men throve on it.
One day, however, shortly after Carnac’s return home, there came a
change in the scene. Things had been going badly for a couple of days
and the old man had been seriously overworked. He had not listened to
the warnings of Tarboe, or to the hints thrown out by his own punished
physique. He was not a man to take hints. Everything that vexed his life
roused opposition. This Tarboe knew, but he also knew that the business
must suffer, if the old man suffered.
When John Grier left the office it was with head bowed and mind
depressed. Nothing had happened to cause him grave anxiety, yet he had
been below par for several hours. Why was he working so hard? Why was
life to him such a concentration? Why did he seek for more money and to
get more power? To whom could it go? Not to Fabian; not to his wife.
To Tarboe--well, there was not enough in that! This man had only lately
come into his life, and was only near to him in a business sense. Carnac
was near in every sense that really mattered, and Carnac was out of it
all.
He was not loved, and in his heart of hearts he knew it, but he had had
his own way, and he loved himself. No one seemed to care for him, not
even his wife. How many years was it since they had roomed together?
Yet as he went towards his own home now, he recalled the day they were
married, and for the first time had drawn as near to each other as life
could draw. He had thought her wonderful then, refined, and oh! so rich
in life’s gifts. His love had almost throttled her. She was warm and
bountiful and full of temperament. So it went for three years, and
then slowly he drew away from her until at last, returning from the
backwoods, he had gone to another room, and there had stayed. Very
occasionally he had smothered her with affection, but that had passed,
until now, middle-aged, she seemed to be not a room away from him, but a
thousand rooms away. He saw it with no reproach to himself. He forgot it
was he who had left her room, and had set up his own tabernacle, because
his hours differed from hers, and because she tossed in her bed at
nights, and that made him restless too.
Yet, if his love had been the real thing, he would have stayed, because
their lives were so similar, and the rules of domestic life in French
Canada were so fixed. He had spoiled his own household, destroyed his
own peace, forsaken his own nest, outlived his hope and the possibility
of further hope, except more business success, more to leave behind him.
That was the stern truth. Had he been a different man the devotion
his wife had shown would have drawn him back to her; had she been a
different woman, unvexed by a horrible remembrance, she would have made
his soul her own and her soul his own once again. She had not dared to
tell him the truth; afraid more for her boy’s sake than for her own.
She had been glad that Tarboe had helped to replace the broken link
with Fabian, that he had taken the place which Carnac, had he been John
Grier’s son, ought to have taken. She could not blame Carnac, and she
could not blame her husband, but the thing ate into her heart.
John Grier found her sitting by her table in the great living-room,
patient and grave, and yet she smiled at him, and rose as he came into
the room. His troubled face brought her forward quickly. She stretched
out a hand appealingly to him.
“What’s the matter, John? Has anything upset you?”
“I’m not upset.”
“Yes you are,” she urged, “but, yes, you are! Something has gone wrong.”
“Nothing’s gone wrong that hasn’t been wrong for many a year,” he said.
“What’s been wrong for many a year?”
“The boys you brought into this world--your sons!” he burst out. “Why
isn’t Carnac working with me? There must have been something damned bad
in the bringing up of those boys. I’ve not, got the love of any of you,
and I know it. Why should I be thrown over by every one?”
“Every one hasn’t thrown you over. Mr. Tarboe hasn’t. You’ve been in
great spirits about him. What’s the matter?”
He waved a hand savagely at her, with an almost insane look in his eyes.
“What’s he to me! He’s a man of business. In a business way I like him,
but I want my own flesh and blood by me in my business. I wanted Carnac,
and he wouldn’t come--a few weeks only he came. I had Fabian, and he
wouldn’t stay. If I’d had a real chance--”
He broke off, with an outward savage protest of his hands, his voice
falling.
“If you’d had your chance, you’d have made your own home happy,”
she said sadly. “That was your first duty, not your business--your
home--your home! You didn’t care about it. There were times when for
months you forgot me; and then--then--”
Suddenly a dreadful suspicion seized his brain. His head bent forward,
his shoulders thrust out, he stumbled towards her.
“Then--well, what then!” he gasped. “Then--you--forgot--”
She realized she had gone too far, saw the storm in his mind.
“No--no--no, I didn’t forget you, John. Never--but--”
She got no farther. Suddenly his hands stretched out as if to seize
her shoulders, his face became tortured--he swayed. She caught him. She
lowered him to the floor, and put a hassock under his head. Then she
rang the bell--rang it--and rang again.
When help came, all was too late. John Grier had gone for ever.