CHAPTER XIV. SUCH THINGS MAY NOT BE
A few hours later Fleda slowly made her way homeward through the woodson the Manitou side of the Sagalac. Leaving Ingolby's house, she hadseen men from the ranches and farms and mines beyond Lebanon drivingor riding into the town, as though to a fair or fete-day. Word ofanticipated troubles had sped through the countryside, and the innatecuriosity of a race who greatly love a row brought in sensation-lovers.Some were skimming along in one-horse gigs, a small bag of oats danglingbeneath like the pendulum of a great clock. Others were in double ortriple-seated light wagons--"democrats" they were called. Women hada bit of colour in their hats or at their throats, and the men had onclean white collars and suits of "store-clothes"--a sign of being onpleasure bent. Young men and girls on rough but serviceable mountscantered past, laughing and joking, and their loud talking grated on theear of the girl who had seen a Napoleon in the streets of his Moscow.
Presently there crossed her path a gruesomely ugly hearse, with glasssides and cheap imitation ostrich plumes drawn by gorged ravens ofhorses with egregiously long tails, and driven by an undertaker'sassistant, who, with a natural gaiety of soul, displayed an idioticsolemnity by dragging down the corners of the mouth. She turned away inloathing.
Her mind fled to a scene far away in the land of the Volga when she wasa child, where she had seen buried two men, who had fought for theirinsulted honour till both had died of their wounds. She remembered thewhite and red sashes and the gay scarfs worn by the women at theburial, the jackets with great silver buttons worn by the men, and thesilver-mounted pistols and bright steel knives in the garish belts. Shesaw again the bodies of the two gladiators, covered with crimson robes,carried shoulder-high on a soft bed of interlaced branches to thegraves beneath the trees. There, covered with flowers and sprigs andevergreens, ribbons and favours, the kindly earth hid them, cloaked fortheir long sleep, while women wept, and men praised the dead, and wentback to the open road again cheerily, as the dead would have them do.
If he had died--the man she had just left behind in that torpid sleepwhich opiates bring--his body would have been carried to his last homein just such a hideous equipage as this hearse. A shiver of revolt wentthrough her frame, and her mind went to him as she had seen him lyingbetween the white sheets of his bed, his hands, as they had lainupon the coverlet, compact of power and grace, knit and muscular andvital--not the hand for a violin but the hand for a sword.
As she had laid her hand upon his hot forehead and over his eyes, he hadunconsciously spoken her name. That had told her more of what really wasbetween them than she had ever known. In the presence of the catastrophethat must endanger, if not destroy the work he had done, the career hehad made, he thought of her, spoke her name.
What could she do to prevent his ruin? She must do something, else shehad no right to think of him. As though her thoughts had summoned him,she came suddenly upon Felix Marchand at a point where her path resolveditself into two, one leading to Manitou, the other to her own home.
There was a malicious glint in the greenish eyes of the dissolutedemagogue as he saw her. His hat made a half-circle before it found hishead again.
"You pay early visits, mademoiselle," he said, his teeth showingrat-like.
"And you late ones?" she asked meaningly.
"Not so late that I can't get up early to see what's going on," herejoined in a sour voice.
"Is it that those who beat you have to get up early?" she askedironically.
"No one has got up earlier than me lately," he sneered.
"All the days are not begun," she remarked calmly.
"You have picked up quite an education since you left the road and thetan," he said with the look of one who delivers a smashing blow.
"I am not yet educated enough to know how you get other people to commityour crimes for you," she retorted.
"Who commits my crimes for me?" His voice was sharp and even anxious.
"The man who told you I was once a Gipsy--Jethro Fawe."
Her instinct had told her this was so. But had Jethro told all? Shethought not. It would need some catastrophe which threw him off hisbalance to make him speak to a Gorgio of the inner things of Romanylife; and child--marriage was one of them.
He scoffed. "Once a Gipsy always a Gipsy. Race is race, and you can'tput it off and on like--your stocking."
He was going to say chemise, but race was race, and vestiges of nativeFrench chivalry stayed the gross simile on the lips of the degenerate.Fleda's eyes, however, took on a dark and brooding look which, morethan anything else, showed the Romany in her. With a murky flood ofresentment rising in her veins, she strove to fight back the half-savageinstincts of a bygone life. She felt as though she could willinglysentence this man to death as her father had done Jethro Fawe that verymorning. Another thought, however, was working and fighting in her--thatMarchand was better as a friend than an enemy; and that while Ingolby'sfate was in the balance, while yet the Orange funeral had not takenplace and the strikes had not yet come, it might be that he could be wonover to Ingolby. Her mind was thus involuntarily reproducing Ingolby'spolicy, as he had declared it to Jowett and Rockwell. It was to findFelix Marchand's price, and to buy off his enmity--not by money, forMarchand did not need that, but by those other coins of value which areindividual to each man's desires, passions and needs.
"Once a Frenchman isn't always a Frenchman," she replied coolly,disregarding the coarse insolence of his last utterance. "You yourselfdo not now swear faith to the tricolour or the fleur-de-lis."
He flushed. She had touched a tender nerve.
"I am a Frenchman always," he rejoined angrily. "I hate the English. Ispit on the English flag."
"Yes, I've heard you are an anarchist," she rejoined. "A man with nocountry and with a flag that belongs to no country--quelle affaire etquelle drolerie!"
She laughed. Taken aback in spite of his anger, he stared at her. Howgood her French accent was! If she would only speak altogether inthat beloved language, he could smother much malice. She was beautifuland--well, who could tell? Ingolby was wounded and blind, maybe forever, and women are always with the top dog--that was his theory.Perhaps her apparent dislike of him was only a mood. Many women thathe had conquered had been just like that. They had begun by dislikinghim--from Lil Sarnia down--and had ended by being his. This girlwould never be his in the way that the others had been, but--who couldtell?--perhaps he would think enough of her to marry her? Anyway, it wasworth while making such a beauty care for him. The other kind of womenwere easy enough to get, and it would be a piquant thing to have oneirreproachable affaire. He had never had one; he was not sure that anygirl or woman he had ever known had ever loved him, and he was certainthat he had never loved any girl or woman. To be in love would be a newand piquant experience for him. He did not know love, but he knew whatpassion was. He had ever been the hunter. This trail might be dangerous,too, but he would take his chances. He had seen her dislike of himwhenever they had met in the past, and he had never tried to soften herattitude towards him. He had certainly whistled, but she had not come.Well, he would whistle again--a different tune.
"You speak French much?" he asked almost eagerly, the insolence gonefrom his tone. "Why didn't I know that?"
"I speak French in Manitou," she replied, "but nearly all the Frenchspeak English there, and so I speak more English than French."
"Yes, that's it," he rejoined almost angrily again. "The English willnot learn French, will not speak French. They make us learn English,and--"
"If you don't like the flag and the country, why don't you leave it?"she interrupted, hardening, though she had meant to try and win him overto Ingolby's side.
His eyes blazed. There was something almost real in the man after all.
"The English can kill us, they can grind us to the dust," he rejoined inFrench, "but we will not leave the land which has always been ours. Wesettled it; our fathers gave their lives for it in a thousand places.The Indians killed them, the rivers
and the storms, the plague and thefire, the sickness and the cold wiped them out. They were burned aliveat the stake, they were flayed; their bones were broken to pieces bystones--but they blazed trails with their blood in the wilderness fromNew Orleans to Hudson's Bay. They paid for the land with their lives.Then the English came and took it, and since that time--one hundred andfifty years--we have been slaves."
"You do not look like a slave," she answered, "and you have not actedlike a slave. If you were to do the things in France that you've donehere, you wouldn't be free as you are to-day."
"What have I done?" he asked darkly.
"You were the cause of what happened at Barbazon's last night,"--hesmiled evilly--"you are egging on the roughs to break up the Orangefuneral to-day; and there is all the rest you know so well."
"What is the rest I know so well?" He looked closely at her, his long,mongrel eyes half-closing with covert scrutiny.
"Whatever it is, it is all bad and it is all yours."
"Not all," he retorted coolly. "You forget your Gipsy friend. He did hispart last night, and he's still free."
They had entered the last little stretch of wood in which her home lay,and she slackened her footsteps slightly. She felt that she had beenunwise in challenging him; that she ought to try persistently to winhim over. It was repugnant to her, still it must be done even yet. Shemastered herself for Ingolby's sake and changed her tactics.
"As you glory in what you have done, you won't mind being responsiblefor all that's happened," she replied in a more friendly tone.
She made an impulsive gesture towards him.
"You have shown what power you have--isn't that enough?" she asked. "Youhave made the crowd shout, 'Vive Marchand!' You can make everythingas peaceful as it is now upset. If you don't do so, there will be muchmisery. If peace must be got by force, then the force of government willget it in the end. You have the gift of getting hold of the worst menhere, and you have done it; but won't you now master them again inthe other way? You have money and brains; why not use them to become aleader of those who will win at last, no matter what the game may be?"
He came close to her. She shrank inwardly, but she did not move. Hisgreenish eyes were wide open in the fulness of eloquence and desire.
"You have a tongue like none I ever heard," he said impulsively. "You'vegot a mind that thinks, you've got dash and can take risks. You tookrisks that day on the Carillon Rapids. It was only the day before thatI'd met you by the old ford of the Sagalac, and made up to you. Youchoked me off as though I was a wolf or a devil on the loose. The nextday when I saw Ingolby hand you out to the crowd from his arms, I gotnasty--I have fits like that sometimes, when I've had a little too muchliquor. I felt it more because you're the only kind of woman that couldever get a real hold on me. It was you made me get the boys rampagingand set the toughs moving. As you say, I can get hold of a crowd. It'snot hard--with money and drink. You can buy human nature cheap. Everyman has his price they say--and every woman too--bien sur! The thingis to find out what is the price, and then how to buy. You can't buyeveryone in the same way, even if you use a different price. You've gotto find out how they want the price--whether it's to be handed over thecounter, so to speak, or to be kept on the window-sill, or left in apocket, or dropped in a path, or dug up like a potato, with a funnymake-believe that fools nobody, but just plays to the hypocrite ineveryone everywhere. I'm saying this to you because you've seen more ofthe world, I bet, than one in a million, even though you're so young. Idon't see why we can't come together. I'm to be bought. I don't saythat my price isn't high. You've got your price, too. You wouldn'tfuss yourself about things here in Manitou and Lebanon, if there wasn'tsomething you wanted to get. Tout ca! Well, isn't it worth while makingthe bargain? You've got such gift of speech that I'm just as if I'dbeen drugged, and all round, face, figure, eyes, hair, foot, and girdle,you're worth giving up a lot for. I've seen plenty of your sex, and I'veheard crowds of them talk, but they never had anything for me beyond theminute. You've got the real thing. You're my fancy. You've been thinkingand dreaming of Ingolby. He's done. He's a back number. There's nothinghe's done that isn't on the tumble since last night. The financial gangthat he downed are out already against him. They'll have his economicblood. He made a splash while he was at it, but the alligator's got him.It's 'Exit Ingolby,' now."
She made a passionate gesture, and seemed about to speak, but he wenton: "No, don't say anything. I know how you feel. You've had your faceturned his way, and you can't look elsewhere all at once. But Time curesquick, if you're a good healthy human being. Ingolby was the kind likelyto draw a girl. He's a six-footer and over; he spangled a lot, and hesmiled pretty--comme le printemps, and was sharp enough to keep clear ofwomen that could hurt him. That was his strongest point after all, fora little, sly sprat of a woman that's made eyes at you and led you on,till you sent her a note in a hurry some time with some loose hot wordsin it, and she got what she'd wanted, will make you pay a hundred timesfor the goods you get. Ingolby was sharp enough to walk shy, until youcame his way, and then he lost his underpinning. But last night got himin the vitals--hit him between the eyes; and his stock's not worth tencents in the dollar to-day. But though the pumas are out, and he's done,and'll never see his way out of the hole he's in"--he laughed at hisgrisly joke"--it's natural to let him down easy. You've looked his way;he did you a good turn at the Carillon Rapids, and you'd do one for himif you could. I'm the only one can stop the worst from happening. Youwant to pay your debt to him. Good. I can help you do it. I can stopthe strikes on the railways and in the mills. I can stop the row atthe Orange funeral. I can stop the run on his bank and the drop in hisstock. I can fight the gang that's against him--I know how. I'm the manthat can bring things to pass."
He paused with a sly, mean smile of self-approval and conceit, and histongue licked the corners of his mouth in a way that drunkards have inthe early morning when the effect of last night's drinking has worn off.He spread out his hands with the air of a man who had unpacked hissoul, but the chief characteristic of his manner was egregious belief inhimself.
At first, in her desire to find a way to meet the needs of Ingolby,Fleda had listened to him with fortitude and even without revolt. Butas he began to speak of women, and to refer to herself with a look ofgloating which men of his breed cannot hide, her angry pulses beat hard.She did not quite know where he was leading, but she was sure he meantto say something which would vex her beyond bearing. At one moment shemeant to cut short his narrative, but he prevented her, and when at lasthe ended, she was almost choking with agitation. It had been borne inupon her as his monologue proceeded, that she would rather die thanaccept anything from this man--anything of any kind. To fight him wasthe only thing. Nothing else could prevail in the end. His was theservice of the unpenitent thief.
"And what is it you want to buy from me?" she asked evenly.
He did not notice, and he could not realize that ominous thing in hervoice and face. "I want to be friends with you. I want to see you herein the woods, to meet you as you met Ingolby. I want to talk with you,to hear you talk; to learn things from you I never learned before; to--"
She interrupted him with a swift gesture. "And then--after that? What doyou want at the end of it all? One cannot spend one's time talking andwandering in the woods and teaching and learning. After that, what?"
"I have a house in Montreal," he said evasively. "I don't want to livethere alone." He laughed. "It's big enough for two, and at the end itmight be us two, if--"
With sharp anger, yet with coolness and dignity, she broke in on hiswords. "Might be us two!" she exclaimed. "I have never thought of makingmy home in a sewer. Do you think--but, no, it isn't any use talking! Youdon't know how to deal with man or woman. You are perverted."
"I did not mean what you mean; I meant that I should want to marry you,"he protested. "You think the worst of me. Someone has poisoned your mindagainst me."
"Everyone has poisoned my mind against you," she returned
, "and yourselfmost of all. I know you will try to injure Mr. Ingolby; and I know thatyou will try to injure me; but you will not succeed."
She turned and moved away from him quickly, taking the path towards herown front door. He called something after her, but she did not or wouldnot hear.
As she entered the open space in front of the house, she heard footstepsbehind her and turned quickly, not without apprehension. A woman camehurrying towards her. She was pale, agitated, haggard with fatigue.
"May I speak with you?" she asked in French. "Surely," replied Fleda.
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