Clark seemed interested. "I don't know many parsons but that doesn't describe them to me. A sportsman and a sense of humor, eh? It sounds like a hunting parson. I thought they were all dead."
"This one isn't."
"St. Marys begins to offer more than I expected," smiled his chief."Are you going to bed, or will you sit here and freeze to death?"
Riggs, Stoughton, and Wimperley came up next day. Clark met them at the station, where a bitter wind was droning down from the north, and Belding, by engineering of a high order, made room for them at his quarters. Then they drove out to the canal, and with Clark climbed the icy embankment while the latter expounded the situation.
"There," he said cheerfully, "will be the first power house, and there mill number one."
Riggs, a small thin-blooded man, peered at the glassy landscape. "Splendid," he chattered, while Stoughton pulled his fur collar over his ears and set his back to the wind.
"Up at the north end,—you can see it better if you step a little this way—will be the head gates. That railway trestle—you see that trestle don't you, Wimperley?—"
Wimperley pulled himself together, but his feet had lost all feeling."Yes, any one could see that."
"Well, that will be replaced by a steel bridge at the railway's expense. We propose to widen the canal at that point to one hundred feet at the bottom, and now—" here he seized the unfortunate Stoughton and swung him so that he faced into the chilling blast—"I want to point out the booming ground for logs."
Stoughton muttered something that sounded like strong condemnation of all logs, but Clark did not seem to hear him.
"They'll come round that point, swing into the bay and feed down this way to the mill. You get that, don't you?"
They all got it, at least so they earnestly assured the speaker who stood with his overcoat half unbuttoned, his cap on the back of his head and apparently oblivious of the temperature. This frigid and desolate scene had no terrors for him. Beneath the icy skin he discovered its promise.
"There'll be two booms—one for pulp wood and the other for hard wood for the veneer mills. You make hard wood float by driving plugs of lighter wood into both ends of the log. And now, if you'll step down this way, I'll show you where the dredges will start work."
"Look here," said Riggs in a quavering voice, "what's the matter with my cheek? I can't feel it."
Clark glanced at him and shook with sudden laughter. "Only a bit of frost bite,—perhaps we'd better go back to the office. It's a pity, though,"—here he hesitated a little—"there's quite a lot more to see."
Whereupon Riggs and the other two at once assured him that unless they sought shelter forthwith they would flatly refuse to authorize the expenditure of any more money whatever in a country as blasted as this. After which they repaired to the office, where Belding waited with his blue prints and Clark outlined the possible future. As he put it, these developments were only possible and depended on what that future might bring forth. But as he talked, Belding, for one, knew that the whole magnificent program had been definitely determined in that astonishing brain.
They drove back in the open sleigh and the horses, chilled in the cold, sent the snow flying about their ears. There was but little talk and it was not until they drew abreast of a stone building that Stoughton spoke.
"Nice jail you've got here," he remarked with a grin. "Looks as if they had been expecting our crowd."
Clark laughed. "It's the home of the only pessimist I have found inSt. Marys."
"Then let's drop in and convert him." Stoughton was feeling warmer, and the keen, dry air and brilliant sun affected him like wine.
There was an instantaneous shout of approval, and three school boys in the shape of the three most influential men of Philadelphia rolled happily out of the sleigh. Riggs turned with mischief in his eye and a bright red patch on his cheek.
"Come on, Clark; we need something like this after the dose you have given us."
At the trampling of feet, Manson looked out of the window, then stepped deliberately to the door. The next minute Clark was busy introducing. "Mr. Manson, this is Mr. Wimperley, auditor of the Columbian Railway Company; Mr. Riggs, president of the Philadelphia Bank, and Mr. Stoughton, of the American Iron Works. We're all cold and cast ourselves on your mercy. They've had enough power canal for to-day."
Manson waved them in with just the gesture with which he motioned a prisoner into the dock. It was the only gesture he knew. His brain was working with unwonted rapidity, and he glanced questioningly at Clark, but the face of the latter was impassive. The visitors grouped themselves round the big box stove that was stuffed with blazing hardwood.
"Lived here long, Mr. Manson?" hazarded Riggs, stretching his thin fingers to the heat.
"All my life, gentlemen, and I don't want anything else."
"You haven't been in jail for that time?" put in the irrepressibleStoughton.
The big man relaxed to a smile. "I've been in charge here for the last twenty-five years, and I like it."
The three glanced at him with a sudden and genuine interest. The man was so massive; his hair so black, and, at the age of fifty, still unstreaked with gray. His face was large and strong, with a certain Jovian quality in cheek, ear, and chin. He suggested latent physical powers that, if aroused, would be tremendous.
"Find it pretty quiet?" went on Stoughton.
"Yes, but that's what I like."
"Then you don't entirely approve of our plans up at the rapids? At least, so Mr. Clark tells me."
Manson's glance lifted and went straight into Clark's gray eyes.
"No, I don't believe in them, if," he added, "I can say so without offense."
Riggs stripped off his heavy fur coat, and turned his back to the stove.
"Just why, may I ask?"
"Well, I have a feeling you'll spoil St. Marys. It's just right as it is. We haven't much excitement and I reckon we don't want it. We're comfortable, so why can't you let us alone? I like the life as it is."
"You'll live faster after we get going," chuckled Wimperley.
"Perhaps, but we won't live so long. I've had a lot of men through myhands who tried to live faster, and it didn't agree with them—not thatI'm meaning—" The rest was lost in a riot of laughter, out of whichWimperley's voice became audible.
"If things go as we propose and expect, the people of St. Marys will profit very considerably,—there will be remarkable opportunities."
"Meaning that,—" a new light flickered in Manson's black eyes for a fraction of a second and disappeared.
"Meaning that during the transformation of a village into a city a number of interesting changes take place."
"Maybe, but such things can't affect me very much."
"Well, possibly not, but I've an idea they will. I'm afraid we can't let St. Marys alone, Mr. Manson, and a little later on you'll understand why. This land, for instance, between us and the river, is vacant."
Manson's eye slowly traversed the two hundred yard width of the open field that lay just south of the road. It was perhaps half way between the rapids and the center of the village.
"Yes, I think Worden owns it, but I know that no one wants it."
"Ah!" said Stoughton with a little laugh; "and now we must be getting on. Good-by, and thank you for saving our lives, even if you have had a crack at our project."
There was a sound of laughing voices on the porch and a jangle of sleigh bells that dwindled toward the village, but Manson did not seem to hear them. He stood blocking up the window, his hands thrust deep in his pockets, staring at the vacant lot across the street.
Dinner that night cost Belding much searching of soul. "There'll be three more," Clark had said, and forgotten all about it, but when the Philadelphians sat down Belding's heart sank. On the table was a leg of mutton, placed hastily by an agitated servant lest it freeze between kitchen and dining room. Even while Belding carved it the gravy began to stiffen. Behind Clark was a glowing fireplace, ineffectual against the outside temperature, the windows were white with frost and the whole house seemed to creak.
"Have some mutton," said the young man desperately.
Riggs rubbed his thin hands. "Thanks, I'm very fond of mutton. Do you mind if I put on my overcoat? The floor seems a little cold." He disappeared and returned muffled to the ears.
"You'd better hurry up with your food," said Clark soberly. "The human stomach cannot digest frozen sheep." He glanced at Wimperley and Stoughton. "What's the matter with you fellows?"
The two visitors coughed and apologized and went in search of their overcoats. Clark began to laugh. "And to think that you three are going back to furnaces and steam heat. Do you realize what Belding and I are going through on your behalf?"
They got through the meal somehow, but Belding was utterly abashed. The visitors played with the congealing mutton, poked at forbidding potatoes, absorbed large quantities of scalding tea and then hastened back to the big stove. Belding felt a hand on his shoulder.
"It's my fault. We should have let them go to the hotel. I suppose we're used to it, they're not."
Presently, Wimperley began to yawn. "I'm going to bed."
Riggs glanced apprehensively upstairs, where it was even colder than below. "I'm going to sleep in my clothes. My God! pajamas on a night like this. Clark, what are you made of?"
In ten minutes the big stove was deserted, and Clark went from room to room tucking in his shivering visitors.
It was not till spring came and the earth relaxed her stiff and reappearing bones that Clark really got to work, and then arrived the first battalions of that great influx which was soon to follow. Up at the rapids men and machinery became visible as though by magic. Belding had a curious sensation as he saw the product of his former plans well nigh obliterated in the larger excavation which now began to take shape. His earlier efforts took on their due proportion, and he smiled at the contrast, reveling in his opportunity for the full exercise of his ability. But it is probable that neither Belding nor any others amongst the leading men who, in time, were gathered into the works, realized to what a degree they were animated by the mesmeric influence of Clark.
By this time Bowers, another local appointment, was the legal representative of the Company, and the repository of great intentions which he guarded with scrupulous fidelity. Clark was redeeming his promise not to import that which the town could provide. And then he met the bishop.
He saw the broad-shouldered, black-coated figure contemplating a steam shovel that was gnawing at the rocky soil beside the rapids. The bishop was a big man with a handsome head, well shaped legs adorned with episcopal gaiters, and a broad, deep chest. It was universally admitted that a less ample breast could not have contained so great a heart.
"Good day, sir." Clark involuntarily lifted his hat. The bishop held out a firm white hand. "I've heard of you, Mr. Clark, and am glad to see that Mahomet has come to his mountain. It's a little like a fairy tale to me."
"I hope it may prove as attractive."
"But I believe in fairies, we need them nowadays."
Clark smiled. "I'm afraid that St. Marys doesn't believe in them as yet, but I'll do what I can."
"I suppose you've met every one here in the course of the winter?"
"Most I think. As a matter of fact one hasn't much time."
"That's a new thing in winter in the North. Now show me what's going on, I'm vastly interested."
There was nothing that could have suited Clark better, and the two tramped about for an hour. At the end of it they stood near the head of the rapids and watched a coughing dredge tear into the soft bottom.
"I used to come up here to fish," said the bishop thoughtfully, "and once killed a six pound trout on a six ounce rod, but now you're doing the fishing, and so it goes. Do you expect to begin operations in the woods next winter?"
"Yes."
"Then I'll need some more missionaries. You're making a lot of work for me, but I like it."
His companion glanced up with sudden interest. They both liked work. It had been evident for an hour past in the prelate's keen questions. It occurred to Clark that the influence of his own passion for creation promised to affect a large number of people. But he had never dreamed of missionaries, and now the thought amused him.
"I see young Belding over there," said the bishop as the engineer passed with a transit over his shoulder. "Yes, my chief engineer."
"A good chap and I'm glad he has the opening. I don't know that he's got much imagination, but a valuable man as I see him. I have an idea," he added quizzically, "that you will supply all the imagination that is necessary."
Clark laughed. "I hope to."
"Had I not gone into the church I would have been a writer or an engineer," said the bishop slowly. "They have always seemed kindred pursuits, and I should have liked to be able to point to something physical and concrete and say 'I made it.'"
Clark was a little puzzled. He had it in mind that the bishop's achievements would be, perhaps, more enduring than his own. He tried to put this into words.
The big man shook his head. "I hope I am making my mark, but who can say? You affect the color of men's lives and I try to reach the complexion of their spirits." He paused for a moment, then added, "But between us we ought to do something. Good-by, and I hope you'll come to one of my garden parties. I hear you don't care for society, but you'll like my strawberries, and in the meantime I trust that all will prosper. Even if St. Marys does not realize all this, does it matter?"
"Not in the slightest."
The bishop strode off. A few paces away he halted. "I'm no Moslem butI'm very glad to meet Mahomet," he called back; "good-by."
In June the general manager, for as such Clark was now known, gave a luncheon at the works, which was to remain long in the mind of at least one of the participants. By this time he himself was beginning to withdraw to that seclusion which added much to the fascination of his personality. When his guests arrived they were turned over to Belding for a tour of inspection, and then, filled with interest and surprise, sat down to the meal Clark had had prepared in the small marquee. Now he appeared himself, the genius of the place, and sat at the head of the table.
Looking back at the curious relationship in which this man stood to the people of St. Marys, it seems that he liked them more than he cared to express, for the expression of any sentiment was strange to his lips. He could do much for them, and did it, while, at the same time, he asked nothing for himself. When not in action, Clark was particularly silent, but when really in action he approached his subject with obvious joy and interest, and coupled with this was his natural instinct for impressive and dramatic situations. Something of this had been recognized by Filmer and the others who came to lunch, so that, afterwards, when he threw out a hint, the only one on record, it met with immediate attention. He was talking to Worden when his eye drew Filmer into the conversation.
"I have been wondering whether any of you gentlemen have bought any land?"
The effect was that of a stone thrown into a pool, and one could see the ripples of interest spreading. But it was so unexpected that there followed a little silence, broken presently by a laugh from Filmer.
"What land?"
Clark waved a casual hand north and east. "Any land over there."
He got no immediate reply. The minds of his guests were traversing the flat fields in which cattle grazed, that lay between the rapids and the town.
"You have seen to-day something of what we propose to do, but only some of it," he went on. "What's the present population of St. Marys?"
"About sixteen hundred," said Filmer thoughtfully.
"Well, gentlemen, assume that what you have seen is but the beginning, only the breaking of the ground. You may take it from me, you are safe in that. The population of St. Marys, five years from to-day, should be,—" here he paused for an impressive moment—"sixteen thousand, and in ten years, twenty-six thousand. Now where are those people going to live? Mr. Manson, here, doesn't take me quite seriously, but you, Judge, can you answer me; or you, Mr. Filmer? A good deal of it will fall on your shoulders."
"I don't doubt you," answered the mayor, "but I can use all my money in my business."
"As for me, I'm a government official and haven't any," added Worden, with a tinge of regret.
"Money has been borrowed before this"—Clark's tones were distinctly impersonal—"the bank is good and so is the future of the town, as I see it."
"Why don't you buy some yourself?"
"I don't want any more money," said Clark very simply, "but, gentlemen, I don't assume that every one feels that way. From this window I can see farm lands that can be bought for forty dollars an acre on easy terms, and how would you feel if, after two or three years, it changed hands at a thousand? I merely mention this because I've seen it take place elsewhere. Now I'm not going to say that it's going to be worth a thousand, and I'm not persuading you. I never persuade any one, at least," he added with a little smile, "not in St. Marys. I only draw your attention to the circumstances and leave the rest of it, of course, to your own judgment."
"Then you suggest that we buy?" came in Dibbott.
"Nothing of the kind. It's a matter of indifference to me whether you gentlemen do the buying or some one else. All I can prophesy is, that it's going to be done, but not by me or my associates. We have enough to occupy our attention for some time to come."
Manson edged a bit nearer. "The idea is that while you're investing millions, we take no risk in investing hundreds, eh?"
"I made no such inference. You will remember that so far as St. Marys is concerned I have depended on the town for nothing since my first proposal was accepted."
Dibbott nodded. "That's right. I reckon we're going to be a residential suburb to the works."
Clark smiled a little. "I lean on just four things, and St. Marys supplied none of them."
"What are they?"
"Natural laws, physical geography, ample financial backing, and the need of the world for certain manufactured products. And," he concluded quizzically, "you'd better forget that I said anything about land."
There was something suggestively final about this, and presently the group moved off, loitering across the flat, untenanted fields. Manson was in the rear, decapitating daisies with his heavy oak stick. A few minutes later Clark looked up and saw the chief constable's bulk filling the doorway. He waited placidly.
"Did you mean just what you said about that land?" Manson's voice sounded a little sheepish, "because I've got a bit saved up, and—"
"Mr. Manson," struck in Clark, "you may approve of me personally, but I know that you don't believe in my project. You've been at no pains to conceal that and I respect you for it, but that being the case why should you, of all men, be interested in land? No, no, don't protest. I don't mind what you think and you've a perfect right to your own opinion. What did I say about land? Did I advise you to buy?"
"No, but you evidently wondered why we didn't."
Clark laughed outright. "I wonder at many things, that's my privilege, and anything I said just now is in contradiction to your judgment. You strike me as being a man of strong views, so by all means hold on to them."
But Manson's eyes were turned fixedly on the main chance and he could not look away. "Of course, I may be wrong," he began awkwardly, "but—"
"And, of course, I may be too, and now you'll excuse me, I've a good deal to attend to."
Very slowly the chief constable took his way to town. Like many who came in contact with Clark he had conceived the impression of a strong and piercing intelligence that, while it gave out much, withheld more; and it was what he imagined was withheld that now piqued and stimulated the austerely masked project he had had in view ever since Clark's directors had so breezily invaded his office months before. Manson was, in truth, an example of those who, externally impassive and unemotional, harbor at times a secret and consuming thought at variance with all outward semblance, and, keeping this remotely hidden, feed it with all the concentrated fire of an otherwise inactive imagination. That afternoon he quietly secured an option on a portion of the fields across which he walked so stolidly, and, with this as a beginning, turned his thoughts to the acquisition of more and more land. Simultaneously his expressed views on the outcome of Clark's activities became more pessimistic than ever.
Early that summer the streets of St. Marys were torn with trenches and the glass fronts of the wooden stores trembled with the vibration of blasting. The pipe lines followed exactly the route laid out by the blue prints Belding had long since deposited with the town council, and so well known was this route that the slightest variation would have been pounced upon instantly. Clark, it appeared, did not take much interest in the work, but turned it over entirely to the engineer, his own imagination having moved to other things.
New faces in the town ceased to create comment, and, what was more to the point, mention of St. Marys began to appear in metropolitan papers. These were read with the peculiar thoroughness of those who, for the first time, found themselves of definite interest to the outside world. Simultaneously the air became full of prophecy, rambling and inchoate. The citizens had not yet come to regard developments as being in any particular their own. They had—for the best reasons—put no money in, but now began to profit by changed conditions. The works were still a thing apart, a new and somewhat romantic area from which anything, however startling, might any day materialize. Sometimes a few Indians paddled up to trade and, leaving Filmer's store, would slip silently up stream, and edging into the backwater at the foot of the rapids, lay their paddles across the thwarts and stare silently at the great structures that began to arise. And this, in a way, was the attitude of most of the folk of St. Marys. They were in it but not of it, and the long somnolence of the past was too tranquil to be easily dispelled. But in spite of their indifference the masterful hand of Clark had set the town definitely on the industrial map. A little later, the water was turned on and rows and rows of electric lights glittered down the streets. It was just about this time that Clark summoned Belding and told him that he desired a house.
This command was, in a way, so intimate that Belding looked foolish."What kind of a house?" he said awkwardly.
Clark leaned back in his chair. "You know how, years ago, the Hudson Bay Company built block houses for their factors? Well, I want one such as the company used to build, and I expect to be ready to occupy it within six weeks."
Belding had learned not to ask too many questions, so, for a moment thought hard. "Where?" he ventured.
"You remember where the old Hudson Bay lock is,—just a hundred feet beyond that. By the way, do you know how to build a block house?"
Belding got a little red. He had designed power houses and pulp mills and canals and head gates, but a block house baffled him.
"In those days," began Clark ruminatively, "they were places of defense. Two stories, the bottom one of stone so that the Indians couldn't set fire to it. That part is eight feet high and had loopholes. On top is the other story built of logs, and, by the way, I want my logs peeled and varnished, and with a pitched roof. That part overhangs the other by about five feet all round, and that was to make it possible to drop things on the Indians if they did get up to the loopholes. Got the idea? And, by the way, I want the Hudson Bay lock cleaned out and rebuilt just as it was before. No cement—but random masonry and gates of hewn timber—they hewed everything a hundred years ago—grass around it and a sign saying what it was and when. Fix it up and make a job of it—that's all, and make that block house basement of field stone—you can see why."
Whereupon Clark turned to a pile of letters and telegrams and promptly forgot all about Belding.
In six weeks, to a day, he moved in, and it is a question whether any of his subsequent achievements occasioned such interest in St. Marys. Old inhabitants were there who had memories of the Hudson Bay Company and the thirty foot bark canoes that once voyaged from Lake Superior, and, treading the upper reaches of a branch of the rapids, slid into the old lock and were let gingerly down while the crew held their paddles against the rough stone walls of the tiny but ancient chamber.
Now the thing in its entirety had been recreated. The block house sat squat beside the lock, with its mushroom top projecting just as in years before. Clark, it seemed, was, after all traditional, and not one who lived entirely in the future, and with this touch of romance he took new attributes. His Japanese cook inhabited the lower story through which one entered to mount to the main floor. Inside the place revealed the taste of the man of the world. It looked pigmy beside the enormous structures which began to rise hard by, but was all the more diminutively impressive. One passed it on the way to the works, and often by night drifted out the sound of Clark's piano mingling with the dull boom of the rapids. For it would seem that these were the two voices to which the brain of this extraordinary man took most heed.
A year passed and the folk of St. Marys had not yet accustomed themselves to drawing water from a tap and turning on the light with a switch ere Clark began a frontal attack on the resources of the country to the north. It was typical of his methods that he invariably used new agencies by which to approach affairs which, in the main, differed from those already existing. Thus he called on many and widely separated individuals, who, answering his imperious summons, fell straightway under the spell of his remarkable personality, and found themselves shortly in positions of increasing responsibility. They became the heads of various activities, but, in a way, the secondary heads, for Clark retained all kingship for himself. So it came that as months passed he was surrounded by a constantly increasing band of active and loyal retainers.
Such was John Baudette, for whom Clark had sent to talk pulp wood, but, it is recorded, that Baudette's manner and bearing changed not at all when Clark stared at him across the big flat topped desk and remarked evenly that he wanted pulp wood and was assured that there was an ample supply within fifty miles.
Baudette's hard blue eyes met the stare placidly. "Yes, there is pulp wood north of here."
"I know it, because I've had some," said Clark, "but I want fifty thousand cords next May and seventy-five thousand the year after."
Baudette felt in a way more at home, but he had never contemplated seventy-five thousand cords of wood. "Am I to go and take it?"
Clark laughed, then settled back with the shadow of a smile on his lips, and bent on the woodsman that swift inspection which discomforted so many. It embarrassed Baudette not at all. He was rather small and of slight build, but he was constructed in the manner of a bundle of steel wire that enfolds a heart of inflexible determination. On casual inspection he did not appear to be a strong man, but his body was a mass of tireless sinew. His eyes were of that cold, hard blue which is the color of fortitude, his face clean shaven and rather thin; his jaw slightly underhung, his lips narrow and tightly compressed. In demeanor he was quiet and almost shy, but it was the quietness of one who has spent his days in the open, and the shyness of a life which has dealt with simple things in a simple but efficient way. The longer Clark looked at him the more he liked this new discovery. Presently he began to talk.
"I want a man to take charge of my forest department, and one who has got his experience at the expense of some one else. We need pulp wood in larger quantities than have been required in this country before. Next year we begin to grind wood that you will cut this winter."
The little man neither moved nor took his eyes from Clark's face, and the latter, with the faintest twitch of his lip, went on.
"I'm satisfied that this wood exists in ample quantities and the rest is up to you. You can have any reasonable salary you ask for."
"Where are the timber limits?" Baudette said quietly. He was, apparently, uninterested in the matter of salary.
Clark flattened out a big map of the district that obliterated the piles of letters and telegrams. Baudette's eyes brightened. He loved maps, but never before had he seen one so minute and comprehensive.
"That's compiled from all available surveys and records. It took three months to make it. I was getting ready for you."
Baudette nodded. He was interested in how the thing was compiled, and his eyes traced the birth and flow of rivers and the great sweep of well remembered lakes. Presently Clark's voice came in again.
"Where's the best pulp wood? We've been getting it from everywhere."
A lean brown forefinger slid slowly over the edge of the map. Clark noted its delicacy and strength. It halted a moment at St. Marys, then, as though Baudette counted the miles, traversed the shore of Superior and turned into a great bay to the westward. At the belly of the bay the finger struck inland following a wide river, and halted in a triangle of land where the river forked. Baudette looked up and nodded.
"Ah!" said Clark thoughtfully. "How much good wood is there?"
The forefinger commenced an irregular course during which it struck into salients that followed up lesser and tributary streams. It had enclosed perhaps five hundred square miles of Canadian territory when it reached its starting point.
"Four years' wood." Baudette's voice was still impressive.
The other man smiled as though in subdued mirth, and with a red pencil outlined the area. Following this his eyes rested contemplatively on the lumberman who sat still focussed on the map.
"Come back in two weeks," he said suddenly. "Good morning."
Baudette glanced at him, and went out so quietly that there was not the sound of a footstep. Clark's manner of speech and person had set him thinking as never before. Ten thousand cords of wood a year was the usual order of things, but of fifty thousand cords he had never dreamed.
He had a new set of sensations which filled him with a novel confidence in his own powers. He was reacting, like all the others, to the intimate touch of a communicative confidence. He passed thoughtfully through the general office, noting as he closed the door that on a bench near Clark's door sat Fisette, a French halfbreed whom he knew. He remarked also that Fisette's pockets were bulging, it seemed, with rocks.
A moment later Fisette was summoned. He went in, treading lightly on the balls of his feet, and leaning forward as though under a load on a portage. Clark's office always frightened him a little. The rumble of the adjoining power house, the great bulk of the buildings just outside, the masses of documents,—all of this spoke of an external power that puzzled and, in a way, worried him. He halted suddenly in front of the desk.
"Well?" said Clark, without offering him a seat, for Fisette was more at ease when he stood.
The half breed felt in his pockets. The other unrolled a duplicate of the map he had shown Baudette and held out his hand, in which Fisette placed some pieces of rock.
At the weight and chill of them, Clark experienced a peculiar thrill, then, under a magnifying glass he examined each with extreme care, turning them so that the light fell fair on edge and fracture. One after another he scrutinized, while the breed stood motionless.
"Where do they come from?" he said shortly.
The breed made a little noise in his throat, and his dark eyes rested luminously on the keen face. After a little he gathered the samples and disposed them on the map, laying each in that corner of the wilderness from which it had been broken. He did this with the deliberation of one who knew beyond all question. He had brought months of hardship and exposure in his pocket. By swamp and hill, valley and lake and rapid he had journeyed alone in search of the gray, heavy, shiny rock of which Clark had, months before, given him a fragment, with curt orders to seek the like. The small, angular pieces were all arranged, and his chief stared at them with profound geological interest. Fisette did not move. He had looked forward to this moment.
"They're no good," came the level voice, after a pause, "but you're in the right country. Go back for another two months. You'll get it yet. It should be near this," he picked up a sample. "Take what men you want, or no, don't take any. I want you to do this yourself, and don't talk. Good morning."
Fisette nodded dumbly. The moment had come and gone and he felt a little paralyzed.
"Here, have a cigar."
He took one, such a cigar as he had never seen, large, dark and fat with a golden band around its plump middle. He glanced at Clark, who apparently had forgotten him, and went silently out. On the doorstep he paused, slid off the golden band and put it in his pocketbook, cupped a lighted match between his polished palms, took one long luxurious breath and started thoughtfully to town with worship and determination in his breast.
Clark, from the office window, was looking down at his broad back in a moment of abstraction. At Fisette's departure he had suddenly plunged into one of those moods so peculiar to his temperament. Beside the halfbreed he seemed to perceive Stoughton, and with Baudette he discerned the figure of Riggs, and so on till there were marshalled before him the whole battalion of those who were caught up in the onward march. He realized, without any hesitation, that should Baudette fail in his work, the magnificent bulk of the great pulp mill would be but a futile shell. And should the prospecting pick of the half-breed not uncover that which he sought, the entire enterprise would lack its basic security. But it was characteristic of the man that this vision brought with it no depression, but seemed rather to point to ultimate success in the very blending of diverse elements that strove together towards the same end.
Two weeks later, Baudette returned and looked questioningly at his chief. In very few words he explained that the fortnight had been spent in the woods and that what he had said was correct.
Clark listened silently. Here was a man to his liking. When the lumberman finished he again unrolled the big map, but this time instead of the wavering red pencil line, there was the bold demarcation of a much greater area, which Belding's draughtsman had plotted in professional style. In the middle of it was the territory Baudette had previously indicated.
"I thought we'd better be safe, and got this—from the Government. Go to the chief accountant in the outside office. Give him an estimate of what money you need for the next six months—and get to work—Good morning."
Baudette merely nodded and disappeared. There was too much in his mind to admit of expressing it, but, even had he felt conversational, there was a finality about his dismissal that left no opening. He went away charged with a grim determination. Here was the chance he had been waiting for all his life.
And Clark had, by this time, labelled Baudette as a valuable and dependable man. He forthwith forgot all about him, and went back to the memory of Baudette's forefinger as it pushed its way up to the Magwa River. It flashed upon him that, in the course of a vehemently active life, he had built practically all things save one. At that he fell into a reverie which ended with the pressing of a button that flashed a small red light on Belding's desk. A moment later he glanced keenly at his chief engineer.
"Belding, you have done railway work. What does a standard gauge road cost in this country?"
"Where is the road to be built?" Belding displayed no surprise. The time for that had long passed, and, he silently concluded, the presidency of a railroad would suit Clark admirably.
"Up the Magwa River."
"And the maximum grades?"
"Suitable for freight haulage to this point. We run with the water," added Clark with one of his rare smiles, "you ought to know that."
"About thirty thousand a mile," answered Belding steadily, the trouble being that when his chief's imagination took strong hold of him he was apt to diverge from the point.
"Then you will send out survey parties and get detailed estimates when the surveys are in."
"How far is the road to run? The head waters of the Magwa are one hundred and fifty miles from its mouth."
Clark's lips tightened a little. "As far as the pulp wood is good. I don't care how far that is—and, Belding—"
"Yes, sir."
"I have decided to double the size of the mill. Let me have plans and estimates for that too."
Belding went on, his head swimming, and walked slowly toward the head gates through which Lake Superior flowed obediently to do Clark's will. It seemed now that his chief had reached the point where the god in the machine must make some grievous error. He was insatiable. Presently two figures approached. One was Judge Worden, the other a girl. The former waved his stick.
"We're going to see Mr. Clark. Elsie, this is Mr. Belding."
The girl smiled and put out a slim hand. "I've heard all about you—did you make all this?" Her brown eyes roved, taking in the great sweep of rising structures.
"In a way, yes," he laughed, "that is I did what I was told."
"Mr. Belding is chief engineer," put in the judge assuringly.
She nodded. "You told me. I—I think it's rather wonderful. If anything had to happen to the rapids, this is just right."
Belding made no immediate answer. He was studying the girl's face, her supple figure, and the intelligence that marked every expression. It struck him that she was meant to be some man's comrade.
"I'm glad you like it," he said a little awkwardly, "there's lots more to come."
The judge touched Elsie's arm. "That's what I want to hear about at the block house, and I hope you'll have supper with us next Sunday, Mr. Belding. I hear you are too busy for a weekday diversion."
Elsie smiled approval and they turned down the long embankment.
Belding looked after them with a shade of resentment. She was, he had decided, just like her photograph. In the distance he had seen Clark walking quickly towards his visitors. They met a hundred yards away and Clark's eyes began to twinkle.
"How do you do. I seem to know you quite well already."
Elsie flushed. She had pictured Clark in her romantic brain, but this trim figure resembled none of her expectations.
"I'm very sorry," he went on quickly, "that urgent business will keep me in the office all afternoon. I've just a few minutes."
"Then we'll be off at once," announced the judge.
"Not at all, if there's anything here to interest you, the place is yours."
Elsie glanced at him curiously. She was conscious both of disappointment and of a certain invitational thrill. His assurance was not just what she had looked for, but yet it stimulated her thought. He was very different from every one else. Decision marked him and a flash that was breathless seemed to reach her. Imagination lay in his quick change of expression and in the depths of the gray eyes. This was the man who dreamed great dreams.
"The next time you are up this way I hope you and your friends will come to the block house." He was looking at her with evident interest. "You may not like it, but, I think you will,—it makes a background for this"; he pointed to the works, "and I find it restful. I live quite alone except for a Japanese cook, and," he added with a laugh, "he's part of the background."
Elsie accepted and, for an instant, caught Clark's full glance. In a fraction of time there passed between them a swift and subconscious exchange of understanding that subsided almost ere it was born. Then he took off his hat and hastened towards his office.
For a little while she did not speak, for she was filled with the perception that between herself and this stranger lay something they held in common. Could it be imagination?
"What do you think of Mr. Belding?" asked the judge reflectively as he stepped round a shattered boulder.
Elsie started. "Why do you ask?"
The judge's brows went up. "Why shouldn't I?"
The girl pulled herself together with an effort. "I was thinking of something else when you spoke,—he seems very nice indeed."
"He has a good salary, a good position and a good future," hazarded the judge. "I'm glad you like him."
Later that evening, Belding turned homeward, his work finished, and, walking close to the shore, looked across the black river to the blaze of light at the works. On one side and low down he made out the glow from the block-house windows. He could imagine Clark at the piano.
But his chief had deserted the piano and given himself up to a rare hour of retrospect. He was under no misapprehension with regard to St. Marys. The town was growing in jerky spurts, as the old inhabitants took on new courage, or new blood came in from outside. Filmer, who with the exception of Bowers and Belding, was closer to Clark than any of the rest, enlarged his store, and new shops began to appear nearer the rapids. Manson's premises were populated with an assortment from the small army of laborers at the works, and a new hotel was under construction. But, in the main, it was only by stress of business demands that any expansion was made. The strangers, who constantly appeared on the streets, ceased to be a cause of curiosity, and the folk of St. Marys left it to them to start new enterprises.
As to Clark, himself, he began to be almost invisible to the townspeople. There was nothing, after all, to bring him to town. Others came to him. And ever the call of the rapids grew louder and more dominant in his active brain. Others slept when he was awake, and his imagination, caught up in a tremendous belief in the future of the country, explored the horizon for new avenues and enterprises, while the conclusions of his prophetic mind filled him with unfailing confidence. He had now achieved the ability to arrive intuitively at results reached by others after long and arduous labor. This faculty was one of his outstanding gifts, no less than his mesmeric and communicative influence.
Some three miles down the river from the blockhouse and on the east side of St. Marys lived the bishop. Of him it might be said that, like Clark's, his reputation extended far beyond the boundaries of this northern district. But between these two, so alike in their magnetic qualities, lay a substantial difference. Clark expressed himself in large undertakings and great physical structures, while the bishop worked in the hearts of men.
It was the custom of this most amiable prelate to give a garden party once a year, to which came most of the adult population of St. Marys. The house, a square gray stone block, lay at the edge of the bush and around it was a spacious lawn from which one could saunter through the vegetable garden and into the stable, and on this lawn, his hands clasped behind his back, his head bent forward in thought, the bishop might often be observed, a modern St. Francis, plunged in profound thought.
Now, looking contentedly at the groups around him, he concluded that never before had his party been so well attended. Dibbott and Filmer and Bowers were there with their wives, and young Belding with the Wordens. The Presbyterian minister and the Catholic priest were admiring the strawberries, and Manson's deep voice came from a cluster of men nearby. Most of the ladies wore spotless white dresses that crackled as they moved. In the study the bishop's desk was obliterated by dishes of strawberries and cream, and at the front gate the hired man took charge of the buggies and tethered the horses to the long fence of the pasture field. Three hundred yards away the river sparkled in a clear, light blue. It was all very bright and animated. Presently the bishop caught the young engineer's eyes and beckoned.
"Mr. Belding," he said, smiling, "I'm aware that you're very much occupied just now with important things, but I've been wondering, just the same, if you'd help me with something."
"What is it, Bishop?"
"I want a pro-cathedral, which is, as you know, that which does instead of a cathedral. Every summer the church here seems to get smaller, and I believe I could fill a bigger one."
Belding laughed. He, like the rest, knew that the largest church in the country could not hold those who flocked to hear this golden voice.
"How much money is available?" he hazarded, "and have you any idea what it is intended to spend. What about plans?"
"That's just it, we have no money and, of course, no plans, but, considering the amount of building material you use every day, it struck me that there might be laid aside enough to construct what I want without causing any hardship."
Belding hesitated, but so friendly was the look on the bishop's face and so quizzical the glance of the large brown eyes that he felt immediately prompted to build a pro-cathedral. He felt a hand on his shoulder.
"History has it that not so very long ago a certain young engineer expressed that which was highest in his nature by building a cathedral. Think it over." And with that the bishop turned to the Indian agent who was moving mountainously across the lawn.
"Well, Mr. Dibbott, it seems just the other day when I arrived first in St. Marys and drove under a green arch at Mr. Filmer's dock and the entire population met me. One couldn't achieve that now. Great things are happening."
"You mean up at the works, sir?"
"Yes. I went over them again last week and had a short talk with Mr. Clark—a very remarkable man—though, I confess that so far I have not observed him at church. I touched on that as a matter of fact."
Dibbott's pale blue eyes opened a little wider. "And what did he say?"
"He said that from his point of view the church was too divided within itself to impress him very forcibly."
"Ah!" grunted Dibbott—"and then?"
"I came back at him with the fact that the church was naturally divided by the moods of its followers."
"It's so, sir, we all know it."
The bishop cast an interested glance over the groups that now covered the lawn. He seemed not in the least depressed at the inward troubles of the church. Presently his eyes began to twinkle. "It's perfectly true. There are three schools of thought, that I've observed myself."
"What are they?" said Worden, who had silently come up.
"Platitudinarian; latitudinarian; attitudinarian," came the answer, with a chuckle, then, turning to Filmer, who had stepped over to hear the joke, he added, "What do you think of my boat?" and pointed to a slim, black, two-masted steam-yacht that lay anchored just off the shore.
It was common knowledge that the bishop had spent part of a winter abroad collecting funds, and it was further admitted that it was impossible for him to visit the multitude of islands that lay in his charge without some independent means of transportation, but St. Marys was not yet aware that the trick had been turned.
"She means three months' work," went on the bishop thoughtfully, but without a shade of self-satisfaction, "and the biggest subscription I got was a hundred pounds. The smallest was from the owner of a large steamship line. He gave me one of the Company's official prayer books—and I never before felt about the prayer book just as I did about that one. I was begging mostly in England, and traveled about like a sort of mitered mendicant, addressing missionary meetings. It was the elderly ladies who did it, bless 'em. Then I went down to Cowes in the Isle of Wight and you see the result. There she is, solid oak and teak, a compound engine, twelve miles an hour, and good, I think, for any sea, no matter how tempestuous. I won't care now if there is no railway connection in half my diocese."
The others smiled and Filmer stroked his bushy, black whiskers."You're going to be a regular sybarite," he ventured.
"No," chuckled the bishop, "an anchorite." And with that sent his mind up stream to the rapids and the activity at the works. "I'm interested to see how much has been done here in what is really so short a time, only two years. It all seems to me so magnificent in its scope, and, as for Mr. Clark, who is evidently the center of the thing, one cannot but admire his incredible energy. I understand we have to thank our mayor for a good deal of it. Don't you agree with me, Mr. Manson?"
The chief constable, whose bulk had drawn up beside the others, shook his head gloomily. His face and manner were, in spite of his surroundings, still austere.
"No, sir, I don't admire Mr. Clark."
"But why?"
"Because, as I see it, he is only squandering the money of people whom he has hypnotized. He's got no balance, and the only thing he cares about is to spend—spend—spend."
Filmer smiled meaningly. The bishop glanced at him puzzled, then turned to Manson.
"Then you're not in any way impressed?"
"Not in the least."
"Well," came the deep, rich voice, "I must confess that I am, not only by what he spends but also by the undeniable fact that he has filled my church and your jail. Perhaps they go together," he added with a contagious grin.
Dibbott looked slightly shocked, but the bishop went on after an eloquent glance at Filmer.
"I found much that was admirable up there. It's true that we don't see eye to eye in certain things that appear all important to me, but perhaps also that was to be expected. Now will you excuse me a moment? I see two friends out by the roadside who haven't on their party clothes."
His gaitered legs struck off across the lawn and Filmer's glance followed the powerful figure as it halted at the fence beside two Indians who waited irresolutely while their dark eyes explored the animated scene. The bishop, seemingly forgetful of all else, entered into an earnest conversation, during which a copper colored palm was held out to him, and in the palm the group could see something small and round that gleamed softly in the late afternoon sun. At that the bishop shook his head gravely and the palm was withdrawn, when there followed more talk in lowered tones, after which he vaulted the fence and came slowly back, his lips compressed and a quizzical smile on his big handsome face. He shot a look at the group but said nothing.
"What is it, sir?" asked Dibbott.
"Something that touches our conversation, curiously enough. Those two Indians have just paddled up from the settlement to ask me to bless a silver bullet, and they are parishioners of mine too."
"Why?" put in Manson abruptly.
"They say the bullet is to kill a wolf who is haunting the neighborhood and is possessed by a spirit of a bad man who died there only recently. He apparently has an insatiable appetite for Indian children, though no damage has been done as yet. It must have been a Unitarian spirit since he is evidently a one idea wolf," he pursued with a provocative grimace at the stolid Manson who was of that persuasion.
The others roared, but Manson, without a smile, held his ground.
"Why a bullet that has been blessed?"
"They assure me it is the only kind that can kill an animal inhabited by a spirit." The bishop's hand stole up to his jaw, in a favorite gesture. "Our conversation suggested the matter of Mr. Clark."
Filmer and the rest racked their brains in vain, then pleaded for light.
"Well," went on the deep voice, "these Indians profess the Christian faith, yet they get into their bark canoes and paddle twelve miles against the wind and up stream with a petition that I do something that is dead against that faith, I mean the blessing of a bullet to arm it with supernatural power. Our friend, Mr. Clark, on the other hand, does not, so far as I know, profess any faith at all, though I should undoubtedly be asked to bury him should such a thing be unfortunately necessary, yet he does many things that I consider admirable without asking any blessing or unction or special recognition of any kind. I cannot see him, for instance, as a man who would use his friends for his own advantage or their money for his personal profit. In fact," he hesitated a little and then continued with that utter candor which characterized his entire life—"what I hope for our church is that it may so present its message and carry out its mission that it will ultimately attract just the type of notable men as the one of which we speak. And now, since this begins to border on a theological discussion, let us have some strawberries and cream. They are my own berries, and the cream, Mr. Filmer, is the product of that excellent yearling you were kind enough to send me last summer."
They moved into the study and were presently joined by Mrs. Dibbott andMrs. Worden.
"We have seen the yacht," said the latter enthusiastically, "and she is lovely, but how do you pronounce her name?"
The Bishop's eyes twinkled—"Just now it's Z-e-n-o-b-i-a, but that's the name of a heathen queen and I don't believe the Synod would stand for it. Can you ladies suggest something more suitable? You know what her work will be."
Mrs. Dibbott thought hard, and Mrs. Worden's gray eyes grew soft. Admirable women were these, staunch and loyal, the helpmates of men through lonely years that had passed in St. Marys. But too often the men did not realize this till the shadows lengthened.
"She'll be a messenger, won't she?" said Mrs. Worden.
"Of hope and comfort, if I can make her so," he answered gently. "I can regularly reach places now that it was very hard to get at before."
There fell a little silence, while, to the rest came the picture of this wise man and true, cruising in storm and sunshine through the myriad islands of his diocese, with his good cheer and his understanding heart and his great tenderness for all living beings.
"May I make you a flag?" said Mrs. Dibbott presently.
"Splendid, I haven't one. You might put on my crest. It's an Irish one with a complete menagerie of animals."
"And some of the rest of us will provide the linen," added Mrs. Worden, who was a famous housekeeper.
"My dear ladies, your sex is really the backbone of ours and not the missing rib," said the bishop who, when he was genuinely touched, often relapsed into his native humor. "But what shall we call the boat? I can't go on missionary voyages with an Indian pilot and a Scotch engineer in a slim, black, piratical looking vessel that flies the name of a heathen queen. Even my gaiters wouldn't save me from being misunderstood."
"Would the name 'Evangeline' do?" asked a gentle voice as Mrs. Manson, who had been listening intently, moved a little closer. She breathed the word very softly and her large expressive eyes shot an uncertain glance at the broad back of her husband who stood just out of hearing.
"Evangeline!" The bishop had a sudden thrill in his tones."Evangeline she shall be, and may I prove worthy of my vessel."
A little later the three ladies went together and rather silently down the plank walk that led from the See House to the main road. Their eyes were on the tapering spars of the yacht that floated so gracefully a few hundred yards away.
"I wonder," said Mrs. Dibbott pensively, "if we really appreciate him."
"Meaning the Bishop?" demanded Mrs. Worden.
"Yes. He's a much bigger man than we realize, and he certainly gave up a great deal to come here."
"The most eloquent preacher in Canada, isn't he, but after all, could a smaller man do his work?"
"Perhaps, in a sort of way, but, of course, not half as well. I think, too, that we have to remember he left the places where he met those of his own kind, and he must miss that."
"But he loves his work."
"Only some of it," put in Mrs. Manson. "I heard him say so. He told me he hated begging, and we all know he has to raise the money to run the diocese as well as spend it."
Mrs. Dibbott shook her head. "A bishop shouldn't have to beg, it's lowering. Don't you think so?"
"It would be to some," said the little woman thoughtfully, "but it couldn't lower our bishop. As for being isolated, of course he is, but so are the rest of us, and I shouldn't be surprised if it's the out of the way places that need the best men, and—goodness! here's Mr. Clark."
Three pairs of very keen eyes fixed on a neat, rather thickset figure that came rapidly toward them. It was but seldom now that Clark was seen in town, and this invested him with more suggestiveness than ever. He stepped off the sidewalk with a somewhat formal salute as they passed. Knowing that he would not pause, Mrs. Dibbott turned and looked after him with a long satisfying stare.
"Not a bit interested in us," she remarked acidly.
"Nor in any woman, I hear," added Mrs. Worden. "There's no room for them in his life. I mean in an emotional way."
"How perfectly fascinating. I'd love to know him."
The brisk steps behind them halted at the gate where the bishop was saying good-by to his last guest.
"I'm late, I'll not stay," said Clark apologetically.
"That's all the better for a chat. You're looking well."
"I have to be well, Bishop, for my work, and you?"
"Perhaps it's the same in a rather less dramatic field."
For a while the two walked with the mutual liking which able men experience for each other when neither is animated by the desire for personal gain. In truth, the attraction was understandable. The bishop responded easily to his guest's magnetic presence, and perceived in him the focal power that energized each one of his successive undertakings, while to Clark came the strength and benignity of the bishop's high and blameless spirit. They were doing each other good, and each silently acknowledged it.
"You are accomplishing great things up at the rapids, Mr. Clark," said the bishop presently. "I was very much impressed by what I saw last week."
Clark nodded contentedly. "We're really only at the beginning of it, and the country about here has been only scratched so far. We're on the doorstep, so to speak."
"Then developments should increase?"
"In ten years St. Marys will be the center of great and widespread activities. The district can and will yield a greater variety of natural products than has been imagined."
"You feel this?"
"I know it."
The conviction in his voice was so impressive that the bishop paused. "Well, Mr. Clark," he said after a moment, "like others I must thank you for having made a remarkable improvement in our physical comfort. Even my friend Fisette down there,"—he pointed to the halfbreed's cabin that lay between the See House and the river—"even my friend Fisette has electric light in his house."
"Ah! Is that where Fisette lives?"
"You know him?"
"He works for me."
"Then he's like most of my friends in St. Marys. The pulp mills are doing well?"
"Their capacity will shortly be doubled."
The bishop nodded and scanned the keen face with renewed interest. "I have heard it stated that the measure of a country's industrial progress depends largely on the degree to which it produces steel and iron. Now I'm no student of economics, but the assertion seems reasonable. Your countrymen across Lake Superior have, I know, enormous deposits, and of course there's not a question as to their industrial progress, but so far as I have ascertained there are none in this region. I assume that you have considered the matter and I would be interested to know your opinion."
"I have reason to believe," answered Clark, staring fixedly at Fisette's vine-grown cabin, "that large deposits do exist within a reasonable distance of St. Marys. You will understand, of course, that this is not an official statement, and I would be obliged if you would not repeat it. I offer it," he added with a glance of calm sincerity, "to reinforce my undertakings in your eyes. Your economic contention is perfectly sound."
"I'm very glad to hear it, and you need no justification and need have no qualms. In fact," here the bishop spoke slowly while his brown eyes looked straight into the keen, gray orbs of his visitor, "you came up here and did what you have done because you had to. Isn't that it?"
"Yes," said Clark simply, "I had to."
"Believe me, I quite understand. Now I wonder if you will understand when I say how happy I would be to see you sometimes at church. It would help me, and you too, and, I think, others as well."
"I understand perfectly," Clark replied gravely and in the most friendly tones possible, "but my entire mind and intelligence are intensely preoccupied. You will appreciate too that my imagination plays no small part in my work. Every intellectual process and every moment are demanded of me."
"What I refer to is neither mental nor imaginative, it is spiritual," said the bishop gently.
"I am afraid that I am principally conscious of the works, for the present at any rate."
The bishop sighed inaudibly, then the visitor felt a hand on his arm. "The wisest of all men once said that 'by their works ye shall know them.' What better can I say to you?"
They parted a moment later, and Clark moved slowly down the plank walk. He was apparently deep in thought. Opposite Fisette's cabin he halted as though to go in, but turned homeward. That night he stood long at the blockhouse window, listening to the boom of the rapids and staring at the mass of buildings of his own creation. They were alive with light and throbbing with energy. Below the power house the white water raced away from the turbines and down the tail race, like a living thing, to lose itself in the placid bosom of the river. Still further on rose the uneven outlines of still greater structures as yet unfinished, and the earth seemed, in the cool air, to be baring her ancient bones to his drills and dynamite. Still staring, he remembered the bishop's words and a strange thrill crept through him. These were his works, and how should he be known?
That night, too, there stood at another window another man who could just see the gleam of the rapids in the moonlight. Their softened voice came to him in stillness, and far across the water glinted the trembling reflection of electric light at the works. Slowly into his brain the dull vibration wove itself like the low murmur of invisible multitudes. Whatever might be his own effort or labor, this still reached him so often as he listened, as though it were a confused and unending appeal for help that would not be silenced. It was always there, compelling and well nigh immortal, and the persistent echo had long since entered into his heart where it stirred pitifully day and night. The bishop dropped on his knees and prayed that he might be made worthy for his work.
There were two others to whom the voice of the rapids came clearly that night as they sat on the edge of the judge's lawn. Belding was very much in love. Months ago he perceived that Elsie was designed to be some man's comrade, and for months he had been constantly aware of an oval face and dark brown eyes. He saw them whenever he peered through an instrument. But the only sign Elsie had given him was the spontaneous kinship of youth with youth.