“Grier’s in--Carnac’s in--Carnac’s got the seat!” This was the cry heard
in the streets at ten-thirty at night when Carnac was found elected by a
majority of one hundred and ten.
Carnac had not been present at the counting of the votes until the last
quarter-hour, and then he was told by his friends of the fluctuations
of the counting--how at one time his defeat seemed assured, since Barode
Barouche was six hundred ahead, and his own friends had almost given up
hope. One of his foes, however, had no assurance of Carnac’s defeat. He
was too old an agent to believe in returns till all were in, and he knew
of the two incidents by which Carnac had got advantage--at the Island
over Eugene Grandois, and at the Mill over Roudin the very day of
polling; and it was at these points he had hoped to score for Barouche
a majority. He watched Barouche, and he deplored the triumph in his
eye, for there was no surety of winning; his own was the scientific
mind without emotions or passions. He did not “enthuse,” and he did not
despair; he kept his head.
Presently there were fluctuations in favour of Carnac, and the six
hundred by which Barouche led were steadily swallowed up; he saw that
among the places which gave Carnac a majority were the Island and the
Mill. He was also nonplussed by Carnac’s coolness. For a man with an
artist’s temperament, he was well controlled. When he came into the
room, he went straight to Barouche and shook hands with him, saying
they’d soon offer congratulations to the winner. As the meeting took
place the agent did not fail to note how alike in build and manner were
the two men, how similar were their gestures.
When at last the Returning Officer announced the result, the agent dared
not glance at his defeated chief. Yet he saw him go to Carnac and offer
a hand.
“We’ve had a straight fight, Grier, and I hope you’ll have luck in
Parliament. This is no place for me. It’s your game, and I’ll eat my
sour bread alone.”
He motioned to the window with a balcony, beyond which were the shouting
thousands. Then he smiled at Carnac, and in his heart he was glad he had
not used the facts about Luzanne before the public. The boy’s face
was so glowing that his own youth came back, and a better spirit took
residence in him. He gave thanks to the Returning Officer, and then,
with his agent, left the building by the back door. He did not wait for
the announcement of Carnac’s triumph, and he knew his work was done for
ever in public life.
Soon he had said his say at the club where his supporters, discomfited,
awaited him. To demands for a speech, he said he owed to his workers
what he could never repay, and that the long years they had kept him in
Parliament would be the happiest memory of his life.
“We’ll soon have you back,” shouted a voice from the crowd.
“It’s been a good fight,” said Barode Barouche. Somehow the fact he
had not beaten his son by the story of his secret marriage was the sole
comfort he had. He advised his followers to “play the game” and let the
new member have his triumph without belittlement.
“It’s the best fight I’ve had in thirty years,” he said at last, “and
I’ve been beaten fairly.”
In another hour he was driving into the country on his way to visit an
old ex-Cabinet Minister, who had been his friend through all the years
of his Parliamentary life. It did not matter that the hour was late. He
knew the veteran would be waiting for him, and unprepared for the bad
news he brought. The night was spent in pain of mind, and the comfort
the ex-Minister gave him, that a seat would be found for him by
the Government, gave him no thrill. He knew he had enemies in the
Government, that the Prime Minister was the friend of the successful
only, and that there were others, glad of his defeat, who would be
looking for his place. Also he was sure he had injured the chances of
the Government by the defeat of his policy.
As though Creation was in league against him, a heavy storm broke about
two o’clock, and he went to bed cursed by torturing thoughts. “Chickens
come home to roost--” Why did that ancient phrase keep ringing in his
ears when he tried to sleep? Beaten by his illegitimate son at the
polls, the victim of his own wrong-doing--the sacrifice of penalty! He
knew that his son, inheriting his own political gifts, had done what
could have been done by no one else. All the years passed since Carnac
was begotten laid their deathly hands upon him, and he knew he could
never recover from this defeat. How much better it would have been if he
had been struck twenty-seven years ago!
Youth, ambition and resolve would have saved him from the worst then.
Age has its powers, but it has its defects, and he had no hope that his
own defects would be wiped out by luck at the polls. Spirit was gone out
of him, longing for the future had no place in his mind; in the world of
public work he was dead and buried. How little he had got from all his
life! How few friends he had, and how few he was entitled to have! This
is one of the punishments that selfishness and wrong-doing brings; it
gives no insurance for the hours of defeat and loss. Well, wealth and
power, the friends so needed in dark days, had not been made, and Barode
Barouche realized he had naught left. He had been too successful from
the start; he had had all his own way; and he had taken no pains to make
or keep friends. He well knew there was no man in the Cabinet or among
his colleagues that would stir to help him--he had stirred to help no
man in all the years he had served the public. It was no good only to
serve the public, for democracy is a weak stick on which to lean. One
must stand by individuals or there is no defence against the malicious
foes that follow the path of defeat, that ambush the way. It is the
personal friends made in one’s own good days that watch the path and
clear away the ambushers. It is not big influential friends that are so
important--the little unknown man may be as useful as the big boss in
the mill of life; and if one stops to measure one’s friends by their
position, the end is no more sure than if one makes no friends at all.
“There’s nothing left for me in life--nothing at all,” he said as he
tossed in bed while the thunder roared and the storm beat down the
shrubs. “How futile life is--‘Youth’s a dream, middle age a delusion,
old age a mistake!’” he kept repeating to himself in quotation. “What
does one get out of it? Nothing--nothing--nothing! It’s all a poor show
at the best, and yet--is it? Is it all so bad? Is it all so poor and
gaunt and hopeless? Isn’t there anything in it for the man who gives and
does his best?”
Suddenly there came upon him the conviction that life is only futile
to the futile, that it is only a failure to those who prove themselves
incompetent, selfish and sordid; but to those who live life as it ought
to be lived, there is no such thing as failure, or defeat, or penalty,
or remorse or punishment. Because the straight man has only good ends to
serve, he has no failures; though he may have disappointments, he has
no defeats; for the true secret of life is to be content with what is
decreed, to earn bread and make store only as conscience directs, and
not to set one’s heart on material things.
He got out of bed soon after daylight, dressed, and went to the stable
and hitched his horse to the buggy. The world was washed clean, that was
sure. It was muddy under foot, but it was a country where the roads soon
dried, and he would suffer little inconvenience from the storm. He bade
his host good-bye and drove away intent to reach the city in time for
breakfast. He found the roads heavy, and the injury of the storm was
everywhere to be seen. Yet it all did not distract him, for he
was thinking hard of the things that lay ahead of him to do--the
heart-breaking things that his defeat meant to him.
At last he approached a bridge across a stream which had been badly
swept by the storm. It was one of the covered bridges not uncommon in
Canada. It was not long, as the river was narrow, and he did not see
that the middle pier of the bridge had been badly injured. Yet as he
entered the bridge, his horse still trotting, he was conscious of a
hollow, semi-thunderous noise which seemed not to belong to the horse’s
hoofs and the iron wheels of the carriage. He raised his eyes to see
that the other end of the bridge was clear, and at that moment he was
conscious of an unsteady motion of the bridge, of a wavering of the
roof, and then, before he had time to do aught, he saw the roof and the
sides and the floor of the bridge collapse and sink slowly down.
With a cry, he sprang from the carriage to retrace his way; but he only
climbed up a ladder that grew every instant steeper; and all at once he
was plunged downwards after his horse and carriage into the stream. He
could swim, and as he swept down this thought came to him--that he might
be able to get the shore, as he heard the cries of people on the bank.
It was a hope that died at the moment of its birth, however, for he was
struck by a falling timber on the head.
When, an hour later, he was found in an eddy of the river by the shore,
he was dead, and his finders could only compose his limbs decently. But
in the afternoon, the papers of Montreal had the following head-lines;
DEFEAT AND DEATH OF BARODE BAROUCHE THE END OF A LONG AND GREAT CAREER
As soon as Carnac Grier heard the news, he sent a note to his mother
telling her all he knew. When she read the letter, she sank to the
floor, overcome. Her son had triumphed indeed.