As election affairs progressed, Mrs. Grier kept withdrawn from public
ways. She did not seek supporters for her son. As the weeks went on,
the strain became intense. Her eyes were aflame with excitement, but
she grew thinner, until at last she was like a ghost haunting familiar
scenes. Once, and once only, did she have touch with Barode Barouche
since the agitation began. This was how it happened:
Carnac was at Ottawa, and she was alone, in the late evening. As she sat
sewing, she heard a knock at the front door. Her heart stood still. It
was a knock she had not heard for over a quarter of a century, but it
had an unforgettable touch. She waited a moment, her face pale, her eyes
shining with tortured memory. She waited for the servant to answer the
knock, but presently she realized that the servant probably had not
heard. Laying down her work, she passed into the front hall. There for
an instant she paused, then opened the door.
It was Barode Barouche. Then the memory of a summer like a terrible
dream shook her. She trembled. Some old quiver of the dead days swept
through her. How distant and how--bad it all was! For one instant the
old thrill repeated itself and then was gone--for ever.
“What is it you wish here?” she asked.
“Will you not shut the door?” he responded, for her fingers were on the
handle. “I cannot speak with the night looking in. Won’t you ask me to
your sitting-room? I’m not a robber or a rogue.”
Slowly she closed the door. Then she turned, and, in the dim light, she
said:
“But you are both a robber and a rogue.”
He did not answer until they had entered the sittin-groom.
“I gave you that which is out against me now. Is he not brilliant,
capable and courageous?”
There was in her face a stern duty.
“It was Fate, monsieur. When he and I went to your political meeting at
Charlemont it had no purpose. No blush came to his cheek, because he
did not know who his father is. No one in the world knows--no one except
myself, that must suffer to the end. Your speech roused in him the
native public sense, the ancient fire of the people from whom he did not
know he came. His origin has been his bane from the start. He did not
know why the man he thought his father seemed almost a stranger to him.
He did not understand, and so they fell apart. Yet John Grier would have
given more than he had to win the boy to himself. Do you ever think what
the boy must have suffered? He does not know. Only you and I know!” She
paused.
He thrust out a hand as though to stay her speech, but she went on again
“Go away from me. You have spoiled my life; you have spoiled my boy’s
life, and now he fights you. I give him no help save in one direction.
I give to him something his reputed father withheld from him. Don’t you
think it a strange thing”--her voice was thick with feeling--“that he
never could bear to take money from John Grier, and that, even as a
child, gifts seemed to trouble him. I think he wanted to give back again
all that John Grier had ever paid out to him or for him; and now, at
last, he fights the man who gave him birth! I wanted to tell John Grier
all, but I did not because I knew it would spoil his life and my boy’s
life. It was nothing to me whether I lived or died. But I could not bear
Carnac should know. He was too noble to have his life spoiled.”
Barode Barouche drew himself together. Here was a deep, significant
problem, a situation that needed more expert handling than he had
ever shown. As he stood by the table, the dim light throwing haggard
reflections on her face, he had a feeling that she was more than normal.
He saw her greater than he had ever imagined her. Something in him
revolted at a war between his own son and himself. Also, he wanted to
tell her of the danger in which Carnac was--how Luzanne had come, and
was hidden away in the outskirts of the city, waiting for the moment
when the man who rejected her should be sacrificed.
Now that Barouche was face to face with Alma Grier, however, he felt the
appalling nature of his task. In all the years he had taken no chance to
pay tribute to the woman who, in a real sense, had been his mistress of
body and mind for one short term of life, and who once, and once only,
had yielded to him. They were both advanced in years, and Life and Time
had taken toll. She was haggard, yet beautiful in a wan way. He did
not believe the vanished years had placed between them an impassable
barrier.
He put his chances to the test at last.
“Yes, I know--I understand. You remained silent because your nature
was too generous to injure anyone. Down at the bottom of his heart,
cantankerous, tyrannical as he was, John Grier loved you, and I loved
you also.”
She made a protest of her hand. “Oh, no! You never knew what love
was--never! You had passion, you had hunger of the body, but of love you
did not know. I know you, Barode Barouche. You have no heart, you have
only sentiment and imagination. No--no, you could not be true. You could
never know how.”
Suddenly a tempest of fire seemed to burn in his eyes, in his whole
being. His face flushed: his eyes gleamed; his hands were thrust out
with passion.
“Will you not understand that were I as foul as hell, a woman like you
would make me clean again? The wild sin of our youth has eaten into the
soul of my life. You think I have been indifferent to you and to our
boy. No, never-never! That I left you both to yourselves was the best
proof I was not neglectful. I was sorry, with all my soul, that you
should have suffered through me. In the first reaction, I felt that
nothing could put me right with you or with eternal justice. So I shrank
away from you. You thought it was lust satisfied. I tell you it was
honour shamed. Good God! You thought me just the brazen roue, who seized
what came his way, who ate the fruit within his grasp, who lived to
deceive for his own selfish joy.
“Did you think that? Then, if you did, I do not wonder you should be
glad to see my son fighting me. It would seem the horrible revenge
Destiny should take.” He took a step nearer to her. His face flamed,
his arms stretched out. “I have held you in these arms. I come with
repentance in my heart, with--”
Her face now was flushed. She interrupted him.
“I don’t believe in you, Barode Barouche. At least my husband did not
go from his hearthstone looking for what belonged to others. No--No--no;
however much I suffered, I understood that what he did not feel for me
at least he felt for no one else. To him, life was his business, and to
the long end business mastered his emotions. I have no faith in you! In
the depth of my soul something cries out: ‘He is not true. His life is
false.’ To leave me that was right, but, monsieur, not as you left me.
You pick the fruit and eat it and spit upon the ground the fibre and the
skin. I am no longer the slave of your false eloquence. It has nothing
in it for me now, nothing at all--nothing.”
“Yet your son--has he naught of me? If your son has genius, I have the
right to say a part of it came from me. Why should you say that all
that’s good in the boy is yours--that the boy, in all he does and
says, is yours! No--no. Your long years of suffering have hardened into
injustice and wrong.”
Suddenly he touched her arm. “There are women as young as you were when
I wronged you, who would be my wife now--young, beautiful, buoyant;
but I come to you because I feel we might still have some years of
happiness. Together, where our boy’s fate mattered, we two could help
him on his way. That is what I feel, my dear.”
When he touched her arm she did not move, yet there was in his fingers
something which stirred ulcers long since healed and scarred. She
stepped back from him.
“Do not touch me. The past is buried for ever. There can be no
resurrection. I know what I should do, and I will do it. For the rest
of my life, I shall live for my son. I hope he will defeat you. I don’t
lift a hand to help him except to give him money, not John Grier’s
money but my own, always that. You are fighting what is stronger than
yourself. One thing is sure, he is nearer to the spirit of your race
than you. He will win--but yes, he will win!”
Her face suffused with warmth, became alive with a wonderful fire, her
whole being had a simple tragedy. Once again, and perhaps for the last
time, she had renewed the splendour of her young womanhood. The vital
warmth of a great idea had given an expression to her face which had
long been absent from it.
He fell back from her. Then suddenly passion seized him. The gaunt
beauty of her roused a spirit of contest in him. The evil thing in him,
which her love for her son had almost conquered, came back upon him. He
remembered Luzanne, and now with a spirit alive with anger he said to
her:
“No--no--no, he cannot win.” He stretched out a hand. “I have that which
will keep for me the place in Parliament that has been mine; which will
send him back to the isolation whence he came. Do you think I don’t know
how to win an election? Why from east to west, from north to south in
this Province of Quebec my name, my fame, have been all-conquering.
Suppose he did defeat me, do you think that would end my political life?
It would end nothing. I should still go on.”
A scornful smile came to her lips. “So you think your party would find
a seat for you who had been defeated by a young man who never knew what
political life meant till he came to this campaign? You think they would
find you a seat? I know you are coming to the end of your game, and when
he defeats you, it will finish everything for you. You will disappear
from public life, and your day will be done. Men will point at you as
you pass along the street, and say: ‘There goes Barode Barouche. He was
a great man in his day. He was defeated by a boy with a painter’s brush
in his hand.’ He will take from you your livelihood. You will go, and
he will stay; he will conquer and grow strong. Go from me, Barode
Barouche,” she cried, thrusting out her hands against him, “go from me.
I love my son with all my soul. His father has no place in my heart.”
There had been upon him the wild passion of revenge. It had mastered
him before she spoke, and while she spoke, but, as she finished, the
understanding spirit of him conquered. Instead of telling her of Luzanne
Larue, and of what he would do if he found things going against him,
instead of that he resolved to say naught. He saw he could not conquer
her. For a minute after she had ceased speaking, he watched her in
silence, and in his eyes was a remorse which would never leave them. She
was master.
Slowly, and with a sense of defeat, he said to her: “Well, we shall
never meet again like this. The fight goes on. I will defeat Carnac. No,
do not shake your head. He shall not put me from my place. For you and
me there is no future--none; yet I want to say to you before we part
for ever now, that you have been deeper in my life than any other woman
since I was born.”
He said no more. Catching up his hat from the chair, and taking his
stick, he left the room. He opened the front door, stepped out, shut it
behind him and, in a moment, was lost in the night.