Chapter 6

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 At that the bishop shook his head gravely and the palm was withdrawn, when there followed more talk in lowered tones, after which he vaulted the fence and came slowly back, his lips compressed and a quizzical smile on his big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 and Mrs. 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.

At the garden party there was little opportunity for talk and he had eagerly accepted the judge's suggestion to spend the evening with them. Now Elsie was beside him at the water's edge.

"I was up at the works again, with father, the other day. Aren't they wonderful?" she said, after a long pause.

"Perhaps--I don't often think of them that way, though."

"What a difference in two years!"

"I suppose so." Belding was tired and he didn't want to talk shop.

"I met Mr. Clark again, and he was charming."

"Was he?"

She laughed. "I gathered from you at the garden party that he was a woman hater."

"Did I say that?"

"Not exactly, but that he didn't care for women, he was too busy."

"He never mentioned one to me, except his mother."

"I can understand that," said Elsie very thoughtfully.

Belding felt a little restless. "You seem very interested."

"I am. I never met any one like him. He seems to be two men, or several all rolled into one. You admire him, don't you?"

"Yes, tremendously, but he scares me a bit sometimes."

"Why?"

"I have wretched moments in which it seems that he is riding for a fall. Things are going so fast, too fast sometimes--and besides, I'm tired."

She glanced at him swiftly, but in the glance he caught nothing of what he sought.

"If you're tired," she said slowly, "what about Mr. Clark? He's carrying the whole thing, isn't he, as well as creating it? Is that his piano in the blockhouse?"

The young man nodded.

"What does he play?"

"Nothing that I remember; he improvises. It rests him, I suppose."

"Has he many friends?"

"I don't know that he wants many."

"Then he sits there alone in the evenings and plays to himself,--I wonder if it really is to himself? Don't you believe that somewhere there must be some one he is playing to, and that it's for some one he's doing all that's going on?" Elsie spoke a little breathlessly and her eyes were luminous. "How old is he?"

"Perhaps between thirty-five and forty, I never asked--one doesn't ask him that sort of thing. He never struck me as being of any particular age."

"But you're going to follow him always, aren't you, and help to see him through? He's following something too."

"What's that?" said Belding a little stiffly.

"His star." The girl's voice was very soft. "Perhaps he'll never reach it, but that doesn't matter, if he follows it."

"Mr. Clark would differ with you there."

"Would he, I don't know. Perhaps I understand him better than you do."

Belding got up in swift discomfort. "It looks as if you did."

Her lips curved into a smile. "Don't go yet. Doesn't it seem as though all this were meant to be from the beginning, and isn't Mr. Clark in the grip of something bigger than himself?"

"It's pretty big if he is."

"I know, but isn't he a prophet in the wilderness, the wilderness of Algoma, and he hasn't much honor except what a few of us give him?"

Belding looked at her strangely. This was a new Elsie, who seemed wistful--yet not for him. Her eyes were cloudy with thought and he had a curious sensation that he was at this moment far from her imagination. She turned to him.

"Take me out in your canoe, now."

He felt suddenly and inexpressibly happy. "Come along."

She leaned back against the cushions while Belding dipped a practiced blade in the unruffled stream. The night was clear and the sky studded with innumerable stars.

"Where to?" he said contentedly.

She waved a slim hand towards the rapids. "As near as you can, then round into the big bay."

He put his back into his work and the canoe shot forward, reaching presently those long foam-flecked swells that mark the foot of the turmoil. In ten minutes they were in the heel of the rapids and as far as Belding dared go with so precious a burden. Elsie felt the cold spray on her face and her eyes shone with delight. After a little she pointed northward and the canoe edged into the big bay that stretched below, the works.

The bulk of the pulp mill loomed darkly into the quiet air, and further up they could hear the rattle of machine drills hammering into the great sandstone ledges. Passing the pigmy lock of the old Hudson Bay Company, they floated a hundred yards from shore and immediately opposite the blockhouse. Here Elsie lifted her hand, and Belding, with a queer feeling of resentment, backed water.

The upper part of the house was softly lighted and the windows were open. Its gabled roof seemed diminutive compared to the structures which were taking shape close by and, as they looked, there drifted out the sound of a piano. Clark himself was invisible, but his finger tips were talking to the glistening keys. Elsie listened breathlessly. This was the man within the man who now sat plunged in profound meditation.

Presently the music ceased and Clark's figure appeared at the window. He was staring at the rapids, and it seemed that as he stared he set up some mysterious communication that linked his own force and determination with their irresistible sweep.

On the way back Elsie was very silent and it came upon Belding with dull insistency that whatever attraction he had hoped to have for the girl had been merged in the fact that, for the present at any rate, he was nothing more than a means of satisfying her sudden and, to him, fantastical interest in the man under whose dominant bidding the color of so many lives was being modified and blended.

VIII.--IRON

A year later a prospector was slowly pushing his way through the wilderness some seventy miles northward of St. Marys. It was springtime and the air was mild, but, while the ridges were already bare, great banks of snow still lay in the deep folds of the hills where the sun but touched them at noon hour. The endless lacework of naked branches now began to be feathered with tender green, and everywhere the bush was alive with the voices of wild things whose blood was stirred to mating by the soft caresses of the southerly wind. Thrusting through a patch of tangled undergrowth, the man reached higher ground and, advancing to a hillock, stood with his hat off and his brown face steaming with sweat.

He was of middle age, with short, sturdy frame, a broad face of pale, copper color, swarthy black brows and a small, stringy mustache. His feet were enclosed in shoepacks, soggy with water, and he was otherwise clad in the nondescript fashion of old bushmen. Around his shoulders were strung a compass, binoculars and map case, and at his belt dangled a small ax and a prospector's hammer pick. He was torn, scratched, and in a general way disheveled, but the clear glance of the black eyes and the easy grace of his pose proclaimed him fit for action.

He stood for some time while his keen glance searched the country ahead--a frozen sea in which congealed billows of rock thrust up their tumbled heads in a gigantic confusion. Here and there were more definite ridges that took a general trend, but for the most part it was a chaos of rock and timber, slope and swamp, the refuse from the construction of a more attractive country which had been assembled elsewhere.

Presently Fisette took out his compass, balanced it in the palm of his sinewy hand and glanced at the needle. As he glanced, this filament of soft iron began to tremble and swing. He stood fascinated. Slowly at first, but gradually with more active and jerky motions, the thing became possessed. It vibrated as though in doubt, then moved off in continued restlessness. Not by any means could Fisette end these vagaries. After a little, a slow light grew in his eyes, his strong face broadened into a smile and, snapping back the compass lid, he strode down hill.

A quarter of an hour later he was chipping the edges of a ridge of blackish-gray rock from which he had stripped great rolls of damp, green moss. The rock lay exposed and glistening, its polished surface scarred with the scratches of hard stones that once lay embedded in the feet of prehistoric glaciers, but Fisette, screwing his bushy brows over a tiny magnifying glass and peering at the sparkling fragments in his palm and balancing their weight, cared nothing for glaciers. He only knew he had found that which he had been seeking for more than a year.

There is no measuring device for joy, and no foot-rule one can lay on emotion, but it is questionable if to the heart of any man comes greater lightness than to that of the one who by stress and endurance in the wilderness, upturns the treasure he has so arduously sought. These moments are few and rapt and precious, and they glowed in the slow brain of the half-breed Fisette as nothing else had ever glowed. It was true that he stood to do well and earn independence out of this discovery, but he was conscious at the instant of a reward greater than ease and comfort and money to spend. He had backed himself, single-handed, against the wilderness, and he had won. Again he unrolled from a strip of caribou skin the fragment of ore Clark had given him--the fragment he was to match--and laid it amongst the fresh chippings at his feet. Only by size and shape could he distinguish it.