He looked over at the camp. Figures of men moved about. Gangs were stowing gear on the beach. Cold donkey engines stood dead on their skids,—round-bellied monsters with smokeless stacks pointing skyward. Miles of steel cable, main lines, haul-backs, high-lead gear, skyline rigging lay about. At least he had his tools! Tools—and the men to use them. Men with the bark on: the shock troops of industry, a battalion under his hand, eager, skilful, disciplined, confident in him. What more did he want?
Then his eyes turned slowly northward, regretfully. That was the sum of his striving.
He had paid his debts. He faced the world with a great, empty stone house and twelve hundred acres of worthless land; worse than worthless, for its stony ribs, the melancholy stumps, the nakedness and the waste bred an ache in his heart. It had been so beautiful, and it was now so indescribably sad. Like a woman's lovely face ravaged by smallpox. It was hideous and must remain so until the kindly seasons clothed it anew with saplings which his grandchildren might see as another forest of lusty trees. But he would never look north toward the green palisades of the mainland without a touch of sadness, a pang of regret for that stately forest destroyed to preserve a tradition, to discharge an obligation, to live with honor in his own sight.
Tradition, obligation, honor! Royal words falling into disuse, uttered with an easy smile and facile lip service,—sound without substance. But they had been more than words; they had been vital things to other Norquays as well as to himself. They remained so to Rod. He believed they held their old significance to many men, even in a world that worshipped Mammon above all other gods.
One pair of weak hands could destroy so much. Power in weak hands had torn down the work of four generations. But it could be rebuilt. Like the saplings, he and his could grow slowly to the old stature. Place and prestige could be grasped again, if he wanted them—if they seemed worth reaching for. He was not sure he wished to grasp either in the accepted sense.
He rose and walked out a little way, turned to look at the house. That was built to endure. A pardonable pride, the glow of a fierce possessive affection warmed him. Hawk's Nest would hatch an eagle yet. Norquay children would still romp in those wainscoted hallways. Some day it would come back to its old warmth and cheer, its comfort and security. Its blazing windows would be a mark for vessels running the rapids by night. The voices of friendly people would ring there, and laughter and music, so that sadness would keep aloof with its somber garments.
Rod did not see in detail how he should accomplish this. But he had hope and courage. He knew what to avoid. He had been bitterly schooled in the way of a world which had abandoned the old faiths to pursue things. Nature had not fashioned him softly, even in bestowing upon him the rare gift of perception. The blood in his veins was the blood of men who did not suffer patiently at the hands of their enemies. He had no wish for a beak and claws to rend and tear. But he would sharpen his weapons and use them with a will on the Walls and Deanes and Richstons of the world if they got in his way. And he was confident that in such a battle he would never lack followers who knew the fight was fair.
He wanted no great thing of life save such reward of industry, initiative, ordered effort, as would turn this silent gray house into some measure of its old aspect and atmosphere; so that when his time came he could lie down content, knowing that for all that had been given him in the way of affection, trust, service, he had given some measure of return. His gods were not material gods. He did not wish his children to worship at a material shrine. Comfort they should have. Luxury they might desire and enjoy. But only if they gave something in return. If he had been minded to inscribe a motto for his house Rod would have written: "You cannot get something for nothing—soon or late there is a price to pay."
He would like to leave Roderick Thorn Norquay something to carry on. But what he most desired his son to carry on was chiefly such wealth as he could carry within himself: an ideal of uprightness, a sense of kinship with his native land, the perception that externals are only the husks of life, a soul that would not quail before disaster or swell too proudly if all the world lay at his feet.
Rod smiled over his musings. He was just turned thirty, and he stood there thinking of what he should like to leave as the spiritual heritage of his son. He had years and years and years ahead of him yet, and task upon task.
He swung on his heel. His eye touched lingeringly on the waste land, passed on to the men stowing the logging gear on the beach. Tools were there, and energy—in abundance. It was enough.
"Three generations from shirt sleeves to shirt sleeves," Rod said to himself whimsically. "We beat the average. It took us five."
And after a little reflective pause, he said aloud in a tone of conviction:
"There's one thing to be said for shirt sleeves. They give a man room to swing his arms."
THE END