Settling himself amidship, he gripped the thwart tight between calf and thigh and, resting the paddle across the gunwale, peered anxiously forward. His lips were a little dry, but he felt no fear. Being close to the water, he could not see the rapids themselves but only the first great, green curve, and below it the white tops of a multitude of waves. Then the middle span swept back overhead, he heard the river, split by the sharp piers, hissing along their rough sides and the canoe sailed like a leaf into the first smooth dip. Came the vision of a distant shore sliding by, and the lower reach with a ferry steamer halfway across, and Belding felt the canoe lift and quiver, while a green wave flung its white crest in his face. He came through rather than over it, and just below caught a glimpse of one of those dreaded cellars that hid themselves in this tumult. Here, at all costs, he must keep straight.

The canoe, with no way on, swooped giddily into the great, emerald pit. There was a fleeting sensation of smooth, glittering, watery walls, till he was flung on and up into the backward foaming crest, and with a desperate effort wrenched the slim bow so that it took the rise head on. An instant followed in which the sky was blotted out, while on each side rose pyramids of bubbling foam that seemed to meet over his head, but between which he could see light and distance. The canoe, half full of water, was plucked onward, while Belding drew a long breath and searched the chaos in front of him.

Fifty yards down, opened a lane of green that curved beside and between two cellars, each deeper than the last. He knew instantly that he could not survive these, and, with every ounce of his strength, drove across the broken river to the head of the chute. Making it in the nick of time, he plunged in, with the water sucking at his thighs, and the sinews in his arms burning like fire. There followed a swift descent through cellars of dwindling depth, till he floated into the long, spume-flecked swells at the foot of the decline, where the canoe drifted sluggishly, full nearly to the gunwale. And here Belding leaned forward with his hands on her curved thwart, and pumped great gulps of air into his empty lungs. Presently he stared around. He was below the works of which he had seen nothing, and just opposite Clark's big house, whose roof lifted on the hill side a mile away. He had dared the rapids and come through safely, but Clark, he reflected, was engulfed.

Luncheon that day at the big house had been a silent affair, after which the three men went out on the terrace and examined the panorama that spread to the south. It was suggestive and inspiring. They had been voiceless for some time, when Clark moved restlessly.

"Shall we talk here, or go back to the office?"

"This is good enough for me," said Ardswell; "are you ready for business?"

"Certainly."

"And may I ask two questions first,—one is a trifle personal?"

"Please ask them, if you wish; I have no personal secrets."

"That's very decent of you. What I'd like to know is, first, what you found here when you arrived seven years ago, and, second, what your resources were at the time? You will not, of course, answer the last unless you wish."

Clark laughed almost boyishly. "Why I found only the rapids, and—I had no resources,—that is, except myself."

"I thought so, and"—here the speaker glanced at Weatherby—"we would like to congratulate you, I had an idea that this was the case. Now as to the present business, we have decided to make a proposal to your board."

"I am glad of that," said Clark briefly. He knew that the moment had come.

"We hope it will meet with your support," Ardswell hesitated perceptibly and went on, pitching his voice a little higher, "and you will not misunderstand my putting it rather baldly. The matter depends on two things: the reduction of the Consolidated capital from twenty-seven million to something about ten million and the wiping out of all common stock, and," here he paused again while the blood crept slowly to his temples—"the other is a change in the executive. These being satisfactorily arranged, we will go ahead. That's about it, eh?"

"Yes," put in the other, "but of course we could not go ahead, under any circumstances, without Mr. Clark's temporary assistance. I think in fairness to him we should make the case a little clearer."

"It's fairly clear as it is," said Clark without a trace of emotion.

"We've never seen anything quite like this in any part of the world," volunteered Weatherby, "and it is a remarkable thing for any one man to have imagined and accomplished. Whether or not we take the matter up, it will always seem a catastrophe that your work and the work of your directors should have been interrupted by a speculator. That's one thing that strikes us both about American business—you have your lions, and plenty of them, but you have too many wolves. Now, coming back to St. Marys, I beg that you won't misunderstand me when I say that the originator of great things is very seldom a suitable executive for permanent administration. It is too much to expect. In case we take this up it would be necessary for us to have the administration in our own hands. You understand, of course, that an originator of big things is a much rarer person than a good executive, and it is largely on account of non-imaginative qualities that the latter is the safer man. I would like to assure you," he concluded with evident respect, "that we have never experienced more difficulty in making a suggestion. The case is extraordinary—we realize that."

"What Weatherby has in his head," added Ardswell, "is that you have done what neither of us could ever have done, and he thinks it a waste of valuable material to try and make an executive out—"

"Out of me," interrupted Clark. "You may be quite right." He had expected to feel alone, but the direct simplicity of these men appealed to him. It was not always, he reflected, that he was given an unprejudiced opinion, and he felt the safer since now he got it.

"We believe that we are right," it was Weatherby who spoke, "and are prepared to assume that responsibility. Like you, we have shareholders to think of, and we feel that yours will not get any better offer. We know the financial world fairly well."

Clark listened tensely. He was aware that the interests represented by these two were of enormous influence and wealth. He realized, also, that instead of all this discussion, Wimperley might simply have notified him that he was discharged, and that the new interests would now take over. But Wimperley had done nothing of the kind.

"One week in Philadelphia taught us much, but we have learned a great deal more up here," continued Weatherby, "and it depended really on the past three days whether we would make a proposal or not. From what we have seen and what you have told us, we are satisfied. I might say that your directors have already agreed to the reduction of capital, provided the matter of management is settled. So the future lies entirely with you. Your holdings in common stock are so large that it is essential you give your formal assent."

Clark drew a long breath. He had come to the fork in the road. The labors of seven years rolled suddenly over his brain and engulfed it. Here were two men who drank his wine, then asked him to leave his very soul to others.

"Gentlemen," he said slowly, "thank you for what you have said—but I can't give you an answer at once."

"There's no hurry," replied Ardswell. "It's not a case for a snap decision."

Through Clark's mind ran a quizzical idea that these two understood each other admirably, and he wondered how things would have turned out had he himself been one of a pair that did such team work.

"Then later, to-night."

The two nodded and moved off, talking earnestly, while Clark experienced a strange breathlessness. His soul was in tumult, and he reacted from the strain of the past few days. He perceived that with men like himself and his visitors lay the great economic forces of the world. And yet he was expected to make way.

Passing slowly through the big gates, towards which he had walked automatically, he moved on beyond the pulp mills towards the rapids, as though drawn by their insistent call. It was the call he had heard for years, even in his very dreams. And there, on the great boulder where he had once found her before, sat Elsie.

She had been there for an hour, gazing at the tumbled mass of foam and trying desperately to disentangle her thoughts. But even as she gazed, Clark's face seemed to come in between; keen, strong, undefeated and suggestive. It was not till now that she admitted to her own soul that he had dominated her imagination for months past. His achievements, his peculiar independence, his swift versatility had captured her crescent ambition, the ambition which he himself had unwittingly stimulated. She did not question whether this was love, she only knew that in this season, when his work seemed to be tottering over his head, she was ready to come to him and help rebuild it into something stronger and even greater.

She did not start, but looked at him with a strange satisfaction, as though it were meant from the first that they should meet at this time and place. Her eyes were very grave, and in them was that which made Clark's pulse beat faster. Something whispered that each of them had been saved over for this moment.

"I haven't seen much of you for the past few months," he said presently.

"I know that, but I know why. Are things better now?"

He nodded. "They may be very shortly."

"I'm so glad. You can't imagine how anxious I've been,—the riots and your escape—and—"

"But I was anxious for you."

"You shouldn't have been," she said gently. "Mr. Belding told me that you wanted him to come to the house when things were at their worst, but he didn't like leaving you. Now tell me, are the works starting up again?"

Clark drew a long breath. "I'll know very soon."

"Then you'll settle down just like before, and it will be all a bad dream?"

"Perhaps I will." His voice lifted a little.

"You're not going away?"

That was what he had come here to decide, and there flashed into his mind a curious conception that was both fanciful and reassuring.

"Forget about the works for a moment; I want to ask you something."

"But do I know?" She smiled doubtfully.

"Yes, you'll know without any question whatever. It's the case of a man who worked very hard, and he didn't work for money or glory, or anything of that kind, but just because he loved it and couldn't help it."

"That sounds very like yourself."

"There are many men like that, more than most people imagine," he said quietly; "and after this one had, so to speak, built the foundations and walls, he had not money enough to put on the roof, and another man came along and offered to do it. Of course, he would get the credit for the whole building. It was a very important one, and it affected the lives and comfort of a great many people who would suffer if it were not completed."

The girl glanced at him strangely. "Is that all?"

"Yes, except that the people who lived there would naturally forget all about the man who laid the foundations and built the walls, and would even blame him and think only of the one who made the place habitable for them."

"But does that matter?" she asked quickly, looking at him.

Clark took a long look at the animated face. "That he should be forgotten or blamed?"

"Yes. You said he worked for the love of it. He didn't ask for thanks or appreciation, and from what you tell me he wasn't that kind." She turned swiftly: "It is yourself."

"And if it were, that would not alter your judgment, would it?"

"Is it fair to ask?" Her eyes were full of a touching appeal.

"A frank opinion is the fairest thing to me," he said quietly. "I know how you would look at it. There's only one answer you could give. If it were otherwise it wouldn't be you: the first man has no alternative, has he?"

"No," she whispered. Her face was pitiful, as though she had been secretly and cruelly hurt.

"Then it is the works I'm considering," he continued slowly. "You're the only one I can tell just now, but if they go on, it must be without me."

"But they're your works. You dreamed them and then built them."

"I've had many dreams, Elsie."

Her heart beat rapturously. It was the first time he had called her Elsie, and her spontaneous spirit went out to this man who stood facing so great and sacrificial a decision. She longed to spend herself upon him. Involuntarily she glanced up with profound pity and, turning, caught a glimpse of a canoe that whipped down stream under the middle span of the great bridge.

"Oh, look! he's going to be drowned." She clutched Clark's arm in sudden terror.

The latter stared, while something rose in his throat. The canoe was familiar. He had seen it a few hours before on the upper bay, and now his keen sight made out the figure of Belding. Instantly he grasped the cause of this foolhardy deed. A glance at Elsie told him she was unaware who it was that thus played with death.

"Look, look!" she cried again.

The canoe pitched into the first cellar, and in the mound of silver foam they could discern only the slim and tossing bow. Presently it emerged and reeled on into the fury below. Elsie covered her eyes, and Clark stood as though fascinated. What part had he played in this perilous drama?

Vividly his mind flashed back to those first days, the beginning of the engineer's unswerving loyalty. Year after year he had never faltered, and at the end of it all, even though apparently robbed by his chief of his heart's desire, had thrust himself between Clark and the hoarse hatred of the mob. Came now an overwhelming sense of unworthiness, and Clark asked of himself who was he to demand such sacrifice. Then, as though a cloud had revealed the sun, the way became quite clear.

"Elsie," he said, "the canoe is all right, look!"

Down in the long, smooth swell at the foot of the rapids, it lay sluggishly. The man dipped his paddle and began to move almost imperceptibly towards shore. The girl drew a long breath.

"He's safe."

"Yes," said Clark earnestly, "he's very safe. Now I want to talk to you."

She brightened at once. "Do."

"I've wanted to talk to you for months. Do you remember what we spoke of last?"

"Destiny," she said softly.

He nodded. "I see it plainly to-day, more plainly than ever before. Sometimes when a man is in deep water his sight gets keener. What I have been through in the last seven years is only a phase, it's not an epoch. I was meant to do it, and I did it with all my heart. Now I'm going to do something else, in order that the works may prosper. You have helped me to make that decision."

"I?" she whispered faintly.

He put a hand on her arm—it was his only caress.

"Yes, Elsie, you. It is as though I had caught sight of a road which was very beautiful and tender, and I was tempted to take it. But it is not my road. What the future has left for me I don't know, but it is not here and I must meet it alone."

He paused for a moment, and the girl's brown eyes filled with tears. Presently the steady voice continued.

"Destiny is calling, and one cannot take a girl into a battlefield, for that is what it is going to be. I'm a poor man again, Elsie, just as I was seven years ago. That does not matter, for I will be rich in memories."

"Don't," she said brokenly, "don't!"

"Youth will go to youth, Elsie."

"You mean—"

"I mean that the man you really love, is the man you saw run the rapids."

"Jim!" Her eyes were round with terror.

"Yes, Jim, the best friend but one I found in St. Marys. Jim, full of loyalty and courage and energy; Jim who wanted to give his life for mine, though he thought he'd lost you. He had never really lost you, Elsie. The road that led to you seemed so attractive that I hesitated, till now I see that it was Jim's road. It always was."

In the silence that followed she lifted her exquisite face. Her lips were parted, and in her gaze was a light that came as through dissolving mist. And then into their very souls crept the voice of the rapids. Clark caught it, and perceived that the call was not for him alone but for thousands yet unborn, and there began to creep over him the ineffable unction of labor. He realized how large was the world, and how much work yet remained to be done. His spirit was not solitary, but linked forever with eternal realities, and through the cloud that obscured the present he could see his star of destiny shining undimmed.

And Elsie! Elsie sat, her whole being shaken with overwhelming emotion. Never had she so longed to be everything to this man as now when, with prophetic power, his vibrant voice told her that he must journey on alone. In his accents she recognized the note of fate, and the ground shifted under her feet. She saw her dream dissolving. She perceived that against his lofty spirit she herself must oppose nothing small and selfish, however poignant the moment. Summoning all her fortitude, she stretched out her hand.

He stood for a moment, and she felt the pressure of his grasp. It was warm and confident. When she looked up she was alone.

It was hours afterwards that Ardswell and Weatherby lounged at their windows, overhanging the terrace. They were in dressing gowns and smoking contemplative pipes. Down below was seated a motionless gray clad figure, clearly outlined in the moonlight. Ardswell saw him.

"Poor devil!" he said under his breath.



XXV.—THE UNCONQUERABLE SPIRIT

Two years later, Belding and Elsie were returning from Chicago, where the former had been purchasing machinery for the new company, of which he was chief engineer. Time had done well for them and for St. Marys. The six months' physical inactivity of the works were spent wisely, if ruthlessly, in weeding out unfertile growths and concentrating resources on those which were sound and promising. There was a sharp distinction between this deliberate policy and the restless activity that preceded it.

St. Marys, too, had caught its breath and taken on permanency. There were no more surprises. The works became a factory, instead of a Pandora's box, full of the unexpected. Property was stable, if lower than the high water mark, while Filmer and the rest settled down to steady business, somewhat forgetful of the man to whom were due the first tendrils of the tree of progress.

But Belding, growing constantly in mental stature, could never forget. His own position—his development—his authority, had come of the abiding faith bestowed on him nine years ago by one whom he had then seen but for ten minutes. And as often as he saw the works the realization came over him. How many others, he wondered, felt as he did?

They were approaching St. Marys, and, coming out of the dining car with Elsie, he steadied her to their seat. Night was drawing on, but the car remained unlighted, and simultaneously they noticed a man sitting across the aisle, staring intently out of the window. Something familiar in the figure caught their attention.

"It's Mr. Clark," he whispered to his wife.

She glanced across, and her fingers tightened on his arm.

"Don't speak to him, Jim."

"Why?"

"Look at him, can't you see?"

Belding looked, Clark was absolutely motionless, and had not changed a fraction in two years. The train moved on, till it halted for a few moments on the great bridge. The air was cool and full of the deep roar of the rapids, and the car vibrated delicately with the huge steel girders on which it rested. Two hundred feet away came the first, smooth dip that Belding would always remember. Immediately beneath, he had slid into the chaos further on.

The two young people did not stir, but watched the silent observer. Against the window they caught the dominant nose, the clean cut, powerful chin, the aggressive contour of head and shoulders. Clark was leaning forward, his gaze exploring the well remembered scene.

"Don't disturb him," whispered Elsie again.

Her husband pressed her hand, and they waited, wondering what thoughts were passing through that marvelous brain. He was staring at the works. It was all his—this dream come true; this vision portrayed in steel and stone. Out of nothing but water and wood and his own superb faith he had created it, only to see this exemplification of himself slip from his own hands into those of others, who had sponsored neither its birth nor its magnificent development. What portion of his leader, pondered the engineer, had been incorporated in those vast foundations—and what had life left in store to replace them for him?

The train was moving on, when Clark, turning suddenly, smiled and held out his hand.

"Glad to see you both, if only for a minute. I'm on my way back to Russia, where I'm carrying out large improvements for the government—been there for the last year. By the way, Belding, did you notice that old, crooked birch beside the rapids? A big, fat kingfisher used to live there—we knew each other well."



CONCLUSION

The sumac leaves, which through the summer months tapped delicately at my study window, have turned a vivid scarlet, and one by one have fluttered to the ground. Here, by the mysterious process of nature, they will be incorporated with the rich soil, to nourish some other life that will later climb sunward. But in that life no one shall recognize a sumac leaf.

So it seems are the efforts of men. A few years of growth and aspiration—then the fiery bourgeoning to a climax, and, after that, incorporation in the soil of a forgetfulness that seems indifferent alike to their exertions and their ambitions. But the end is not here. Somewhere, and most certainly in some other form, the effort achieves immortality and reasserts itself, indestructible and eternal. For such are the myriad filaments of existence, and so indissolubly are men linked with each other by invisible chains, that it is but seldom that impulse can be traced back to its birth, or courage to its starting point.

Who then shall determine what is success and what is failure? Does the grandeur of the reward establish the value of the service, or is it not true that, in the mysterious cycle of time, the richest field is not seldom sown by hands that have been without honor or recognition in their season? Does wealth or authority spell success, or is it the meed of those who have given rather than taken, who have toiled on the mountain side rather than sought the peaks of publicity? Clark came to St. Marys a poor man, and he left it no whit the richer. What he made, he spent. And when the day of his departure dawned, he went as one who had attempted and failed, carrying with him the resentment of those who lost, and few thanks from those who profited.

But did Clark actually fail?

To-day the mines of Algoma are supplying steel rails for Asiatic railways; the forests about St. Marys are yielding pulp for Australia, and the great power house is sending carbide to the mines of India. This and much more is the fruit of vision. What matter that Philadelphia stormed, and that the reins of government were snatched from those masterful hands? The dream has come true.

Consider for a moment this man, who is stranger to most. He desired neither wealth nor ease, being filled with a vast hunger for creation, and to forest, mountain and river he turned with confidence and abiding courage. It was as though nature herself had whispered misty secrets in his ear. Being a prophet, he suffered like a prophet, but the years, rolling on, have enabled him to look back on the later flower of his earlier days, for it was written that he should plow and others reap. And of necessity it was so. Like the prospector who finds gold in the wilderness and straightway shoulders his pack to seek for further treasure, his unwearying soul drove him on in steadfast pursuit of that which lay just over the hill. It was not the thing that lay at his feet which fascinated, but the promise of the morrow, whose dawn already gilded the horizon of his spirit.

Clark, with his impetuous energy, is typical of a country in which few achievements are impossible. He provided his own motive power and used his hypnotic influence only in one direction—that of progress. Ever faithful to his destiny, he was too busy to have time to suffer, too occupied to waste himself in regrets. Like the rapids themselves, his work moves on, and in its deep rumble may be distinguished the confused note of humanity, striving and ever striving.



THE END