Carnac's Folly, Complete. Gilbert Parker
gazed warmly at the sunset on the roofs of the city; then turned to his father’s face, but it was not the same look in his eyes.
CHAPTER V. CARNAC AS MANAGER
Carnac was installed in the office, and John Grier went to the Madawaska. Before he left, however, he was with Carnac for near a week, showing the procedure and the main questions that might arise to be solved.
“It’s like this,” said Grier in their last talk, “you’ve got to keep a stiff hand over the foremen and overseers, and have strict watch of Belloc & Co. Perhaps there will be trouble when I’ve gone, but, if it does, keep a stiff upper lip, and don’t let the gang do you. You’ve got a quick mind and you know how to act sudden. Act at once, and damn the consequences! Remember, John Grier’s firm has a reputation, and deal justly, but firmly, with opposition. The way it’s organized, the business almost runs itself. But that’s only when the man at the head keeps his finger on the piston-rod. You savvy, don’t you?”
“I savvy all right. If the Belloc firm cuts up rusty, I’ll think of what you’d do and try to do it in the same way.”
The old man smiled. He liked the spirit in Carnac. It was the right kind for his business. “I predict this: if you have one fight with the Belloc lot, you’ll hate them too. Keep the flag flying. Don’t get rattled. It’s a big job, and it’s worth doing in a big way.
“Yes, it’s a big job,” said Carnac. “I hope I’ll pull it off.”
“You’ll pull it off, if you bend your mind to it. But there won’t be any time for your little pictures and statues. You’ll have to deal with the real men, and they’ll lose their glamour. That’s the thing about business—it’s death to sentimentality.”
Carnac flushed with indignation. “So you think Titian and Velasquez and Goyot and El Greco and Watteau and Van Dyck and Rembrandt and all the rest were sentimentalists, do you? The biggest men in the world worship them. You aren’t just to the greatest intellects. I suppose Shakespeare was a sentimentalist!”
The old man laughed and tapped his son on the shoulder.
“Don’t get excited, Carnac. I’d rather you ran my business well, than be Titian or Rembrandt, whoever they were. If you do this job well, I’ll think there’s a good chance of our working together.”
Carnac nodded, but the thought that he could not paint or sculp when he was on this work vexed him, and he only set his teeth to see it through. “All right, we’ll see,” he said, and his father went away.
Then Carnac’s time of work and trial began. He was familiar with the routine of the business, he had adaptability, he was a quick worker, and for a fortnight things went swimmingly. There was elation in doing work not his regular job, and he knew the eyes of the commercial and river world were on him. He did his best and it was an effective best. Junia had been in the City of Quebec, but she came back at the end of a fortnight, and went to his office to get a subscription for a local charity. She had a gift in this kind of work.
It was a sunny day in the month of June, and as she entered the office a new spirit seemed to enter with her.
The place became distinguished. She stood in the doorway for a moment, radiant, smiling, half embarrassed, then she said: “Please may I for a moment, Carnac?”
Carnac was delighted. “For many moments, Junia.”
“I’m not as busy as usual. I’m glad as glad to see you.”
She said with restraint: “Not for many moments. I’m here on business. It’s important. I wanted to get a subscription from John Grier for the Sailors’ Hospital which is in a bad way. Will you give something for him?”
Carnac looked at the subscription list. “I see you’ve been to Belloc first and they’ve given a hundred dollars. Was that wise-going to them first? You know how my father feels about Belloc. And we’re the older firm.”
The girl laughed. “Oh, that’s silly! Belloc’s money is as good as John Grier’s, and it only happened he was asked first because Fabian was present when I took the list, and it’s Fabian’s writing on the paper there.”
Carnac nodded. “That’s all right with me, for I’m no foe to Belloc, but my father wouldn’t have liked it. He wouldn’t have given anything in the circumstances.”
“Oh, yes, he would! He’s got sense with all his prejudices. I’ll tell you what he’d have done: he’d have given a bigger subscription than Belloc.”
Carnac laughed. “Well, perhaps you’re right; it was clever planning it so.”
“I didn’t plan it. It was accident, but I had to consider everything and I saw how to turn it to account. So, if you are going to give a subscription for John Grier you must do as he would do.”
Carnac smiled, put the paper on his desk, and took the pen.
“Make it measure the hate John Grier has to the Belloc firm,” she said ironically.
Carnac chuckled and wrote. “Will that do?” He handed her the paper.
“One hundred and fifty dollars—oh, quite, quite good!” she said. “But it’s only a half hatred after all. I’d have made it a whole one.”
“You’d have expected John Grier to give two hundred, eh? But that would have been too plain. It looks all right now, and it must go at that.”
She smiled. “Well, it’ll go at that. You’re a good business man. I see you’ve given up your painting and sculping to do this! It will please your father, but are you satisfied?”
“Satisfied—of course, I’m not; and you know it. I’m not a money-grabber. I’m an artist if I’m anything, and I’m not doing this permanently. I’m only helping my father while he’s in a hole.”
The girl suddenly grew serious. “You mean you’re not going to stick to the business, and take Fabian’s place in it? He’s been for a week with Belloc and he’s never coming back here. You have the brains for it; and you could make your father happy and inherit his fortune—all of it.”
Carnac flushed indignantly. “I suppose I could, but it isn’t big enough for me. I’d rather do one picture that the Luxembourg or the London National Gallery would buy than own this whole business. That’s the turn of my mind.”
“Yes, but if you didn’t sell a picture to the Luxembourg or the National Gallery. What then?”
“I’d have a good try for it, that’s all. Do you want me to give up Art and take to commerce? Is that your view?”
“I suggested to John Grier the day that Fabian sold his share that you might take his place; and I still think it a good thing, though, of course, I like your painting. But I felt sorry for your father with none of his own family to help him; and I thought you might stay with him for your family’s sake.”
“You thought I’d be a martyr for love of John Grier—and cold cash, did you? That isn’t the way the blood runs in my veins. I think John Grier might get out of the business now, if he’s tired, and sell it and let some one else run it. John Grier is not in want. If he were, I’d give up everything to help him, and I’d not think I was a martyr. But I’ve a right to make my own career. It’s making the career one likes which gets one in the marrow. I’d take my chances of success as he did. He has enough to live on, he’s had success; let him get down and out, if he’s tired.”
The girl held herself firmly. “Remember John Grier has made a great name for himself—as great in his way as Andrew Carnegie or Pierpont Morgan—and he’s got pride in his name. He wants