The Rapids

  VII.--THE BISHOP'S GARDEN PARTY--AND AFTERWARDS

  Some three miles down the river from the blockhouse and on the eastside of St. Marys lived the bishop. Of him it might be said that, likeClark's, his reputation extended far beyond the boundaries of thisnorthern district. But between these two, so alike in their magneticqualities, lay a substantial difference. Clark expressed himself inlarge undertakings and great physical structures, while the bishopworked in the hearts of men.

  It was the custom of this most amiable prelate to give a garden partyonce 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 andaround it was a spacious lawn from which one could saunter through thevegetable garden and into the stable, and on this lawn, his handsclasped behind his back, his head bent forward in thought, the bishopmight often be observed, a modern St. Francis, plunged in profoundthought.

  Now, looking contentedly at the groups around him, he concluded thatnever before had his party been so well attended. Dibbott and Filmerand Bowers were there with their wives, and young Belding with theWordens. The Presbyterian minister and the Catholic priest wereadmiring the strawberries, and Manson's deep voice came from a clusterof men nearby. Most of the ladies wore spotless white dresses thatcrackled as they moved. In the study the bishop's desk was obliteratedby dishes of strawberries and cream, and at the front gate the hiredman took charge of the buggies and tethered the horses to the longfence of the pasture field. Three hundred yards away the riversparkled 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 muchoccupied just now with important things, but I've been wondering, justthe 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 insteadof a cathedral. Every summer the church here seems to get smaller, andI believe I could fill a bigger one."

  Belding laughed. He, like the rest, knew that the largest church inthe country could not hold those who flocked to hear this golden voice.

  "How much money is available?" he hazarded, "and have you any idea whatit 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, itstruck me that there might be laid aside enough to construct what Iwant without causing any hardship."

  Belding hesitated, but so friendly was the look on the bishop's faceand so quizzical the glance of the large brown eyes that he feltimmediately prompted to build a pro-cathedral. He felt a hand on hisshoulder.

  "History has it that not so very long ago a certain young engineerexpressed that which was highest in his nature by building a cathedral.Think it over." And with that the bishop turned to the Indian agentwho was moving mountainously across the lawn.

  "Well, Mr. Dibbott, it seems just the other day when I arrived first inSt. Marys and drove under a green arch at Mr. Filmer's dock and theentire population met me. One couldn't achieve that now. Great thingsare 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 notobserved 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 withinitself to impress him very forcibly."

  "Ah!" grunted Dibbott--"and then?"

  "I came back at him with the fact that the church was naturally dividedby the moods of its followers."

  "It's so, sir, we all know it."

  The bishop cast an interested glance over the groups that now coveredthe lawn. He seemed not in the least depressed at the inward troublesof the church. Presently his eyes began to twinkle. "It's perfectlytrue. 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 hearthe joke, he added, "What do you think of my boat?" and pointed to aslim, black, two-masted steam-yacht that lay anchored just off theshore.

  It was common knowledge that the bishop had spent part of a winterabroad collecting funds, and it was further admitted that it wasimpossible for him to visit the multitude of islands that lay in hischarge without some independent means of transportation, but St. Maryswas not yet aware that the trick had been turned.

  "She means three months' work," went on the bishop thoughtfully, butwithout a shade of self-satisfaction, "and the biggest subscription Igot was a hundred pounds. The smallest was from the owner of a largesteamship line. He gave me one of the Company's official prayerbooks--and I never before felt about the prayer book just as I didabout that one. I was begging mostly in England, and traveled aboutlike a sort of mitered mendicant, addressing missionary meetings. Itwas the elderly ladies who did it, bless 'em. Then I went down toCowes in the Isle of Wight and you see the result. There she is, solidoak and teak, a compound engine, twelve miles an hour, and good, Ithink, for any sea, no matter how tempestuous. I won't care now ifthere 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 mindup stream to the rapids and the activity at the works. "I'm interestedto 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 cannotbut admire his incredible energy. I understand we have to thank ourmayor 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, shookhis head gloomily. His face and manner were, in spite of hissurroundings, 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 whomhe has hypnotized. He's got no balance, and the only thing he caresabout is to spend--spend--spend."

  Filmer smiled meaningly. The bishop glanced at him puzzled, thenturned 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 onlyby what he spends but also by the undeniable fact that he has filled mychurch and your jail. Perhaps they go together," he added with acontagious grin.

  Dibbott looked slightly shocked, but the bishop went on after aneloquent glance at Filmer.

  "I found much that was admirable up there. It's true that we don't seeeye to eye in certain things that appear all important to me, butperhaps 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 partyclothes."

  His gaitered legs struck off across the lawn and Filmer's glancefollowed the powerful figure as it halted at the fence beside twoIndians who waited irresolutely while their dark eyes explored theanimated scene. The bishop, seemingly forgetful of all else, enteredinto an earnest conversation, during which a copper colored palm washeld out to him, and in the palm the group could see something smalland round that gleamed softly in the late afternoon sun. At that thebishop shook his head gravely and the palm was withdrawn, when therefollowed more talk in lowered tones, after which he vaulted the fenceand came slowly back, his lips compressed and a quizzical smile on hisbig 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 twoIndians have just paddled
up from the settlement to ask me to bless asilver 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 neighborhoodand is possessed by a spirit of a bad man who died there only recently.He apparently has an insatiable appetite for Indian children, though nodamage has been done as yet. It must have been a Unitarian spiritsince he is evidently a one idea wolf," he pursued with a provocativegrimace 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 inhabitedby a spirit." The bishop's hand stole up to his jaw, in a favoritegesture. "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 Christianfaith, yet they get into their bark canoes and paddle twelve milesagainst the wind and up stream with a petition that I do something thatis dead against that faith, I mean the blessing of a bullet to arm itwith supernatural power. Our friend, Mr. Clark, on the other hand,does not, so far as I know, profess any faith at all, though I shouldundoubtedly be asked to bury him should such a thing be unfortunatelynecessary, yet he does many things that I consider admirable withoutasking any blessing or unction or special recognition of any kind. Icannot see him, for instance, as a man who would use his friends forhis own advantage or their money for his personal profit. In fact," hehesitated a little and then continued with that utter candor whichcharacterized his entire life--"what I hope for our church is that itmay so present its message and carry out its mission that it willultimately attract just the type of notable men as the one of which wespeak. And now, since this begins to border on a theologicaldiscussion, let us have some strawberries and cream. They are my ownberries, and the cream, Mr. Filmer, is the product of that excellentyearling 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 islovely, 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'sthe name of a heathen queen and I don't believe the Synod would standfor it. Can you ladies suggest something more suitable? You know whather 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 menthrough lonely years that had passed in St. Marys. But too often themen 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. "Ican 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 ofthis wise man and true, cruising in storm and sunshine through themyriad islands of his diocese, with his good cheer and hisunderstanding 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 Irishone 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 themissing rib," said the bishop who, when he was genuinely touched, oftenrelapsed into his native humor. "But what shall we call the boat? Ican't go on missionary voyages with an Indian pilot and a Scotchengineer in a slim, black, piratical looking vessel that flies the nameof a heathen queen. Even my gaiters wouldn't save me from beingmisunderstood."

  "Would the name 'Evangeline' do?" asked a gentle voice as Mrs. Manson,who had been listening intently, moved a little closer. She breathedthe word very softly and her large expressive eyes shot an uncertainglance 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 downthe plank walk that led from the See House to the main road. Theireyes were on the tapering spars of the yacht that floated so gracefullya 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 upa great deal to come here."

  "The most eloquent preacher in Canada, isn't he, but after all, could asmaller 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 ofhis 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 toldme he hated begging, and we all know he has to raise the money to runthe diocese as well as spend it."

  Mrs. Dibbott shook her head. "A bishop shouldn't have to beg, it'slowering. Don't you think so?"

  "It would be to some," said the little woman thoughtfully, "but itcouldn't lower our bishop. As for being isolated, of course he is, butso are the rest of us, and I shouldn't be surprised if it's the out ofthe 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 figurethat came rapidly toward them. It was but seldom now that Clark wasseen in town, and this invested him with more suggestiveness than ever.He stepped off the sidewalk with a somewhat formal salute as theypassed. Knowing that he would not pause, Mrs. Dibbott turned andlooked 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 forthem 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 wassaying 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 menexperience for each other when neither is animated by the desire forpersonal gain. In truth, the attraction was understandable. Thebishop responded easily to his guest's magnetic presence, and perceivedin him the focal power that energized each one of his successiveundertakings, while to Clark came the strength and benignity of thebishop'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," saidthe bishop presently. "I was very much impressed by what I saw lastweek."

  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 onthe doorstep, so to speak."

  "Then developments should increase?"

  "In ten years St. Marys will be the center of great and widespreadactivities. The district can and will yield a greater variety ofnatural 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 thankyou for having made a remarkable improvement in our physical comfort.Even my friend Fisette down there,"--he pointed to the halfbreed'scabin that lay between the See House and the river--"even my friendFisette has electric light in his house."

  "Ah! Is that w
here Fisette lives?"

  "You know him?"

  "He works for me."

  "Then he's like most of my friends in St. Marys. The pulp mills aredoing well?"

  "Their capacity will shortly be doubled."

  The bishop nodded and scanned the keen face with renewed interest. "Ihave heard it stated that the measure of a country's industrialprogress depends largely on the degree to which it produces steel andiron. Now I'm no student of economics, but the assertion seemsreasonable. Your countrymen across Lake Superior have, I know,enormous deposits, and of course there's not a question as to theirindustrial progress, but so far as I have ascertained there are none inthis region. I assume that you have considered the matter and I wouldbe interested to know your opinion."

  "I have reason to believe," answered Clark, staring fixedly atFisette's vine-grown cabin, "that large deposits do exist within areasonable distance of St. Marys. You will understand, of course, thatthis is not an official statement, and I would be obliged if you wouldnot repeat it. I offer it," he added with a glance of calm sincerity,"to reinforce my undertakings in your eyes. Your economic contentionis perfectly sound."

  "I'm very glad to hear it, and you need no justification and need haveno qualms. In fact," here the bishop spoke slowly while his brown eyeslooked straight into the keen, gray orbs of his visitor, "you came uphere 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 understandwhen I say how happy I would be to see you sometimes at church. Itwould help me, and you too, and, I think, others as well."

  "I understand perfectly," Clark replied gravely and in the mostfriendly tones possible, "but my entire mind and intelligence areintensely preoccupied. You will appreciate too that my imaginationplays no small part in my work. Every intellectual process and everymoment 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 thepresent 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 knowthem.' 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 haltedas though to go in, but turned homeward. That night he stood long atthe blockhouse window, listening to the boom of the rapids and staringat the mass of buildings of his own creation. They were alive withlight and throbbing with energy. Below the power house the white waterraced away from the turbines and down the tail race, like a livingthing, to lose itself in the placid bosom of the river. Still furtheron rose the uneven outlines of still greater structures as yetunfinished, and the earth seemed, in the cool air, to be baring herancient bones to his drills and dynamite. Still staring, he rememberedthe bishop's words and a strange thrill crept through him. These werehis works, and how should he be known?

  That night, too, there stood at another window another man who couldjust see the gleam of the rapids in the moonlight. Their softenedvoice came to him in stillness, and far across the water glinted thetrembling reflection of electric light at the works. Slowly into hisbrain the dull vibration wove itself like the low murmur of invisiblemultitudes. Whatever might be his own effort or labor, this stillreached him so often as he listened, as though it were a confused andunending appeal for help that would not be silenced. It was alwaysthere, compelling and well nigh immortal, and the persistent echo hadlong since entered into his heart where it stirred pitifully day andnight. The bishop dropped on his knees and prayed that he might bemade worthy for his work.

  There were two others to whom the voice of the rapids came clearly thatnight as they sat on the edge of the judge's lawn. Belding was verymuch in love. Months ago he perceived that Elsie was designed to besome man's comrade, and for months he had been constantly aware of anoval face and dark brown eyes. He saw them whenever he peered throughan instrument. But the only sign Elsie had given him was thespontaneous kinship of youth with youth.

  At the garden party there was little opportunity for talk and he hadeagerly 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 theywonderful?" 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 awoman 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, orseveral 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 afall. Things are going so fast, too fast sometimes--and besides, I'mtired."

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

  "If you're tired," she said slowly, "what about Mr. Clark? He'scarrying the whole thing, isn't he, as well as creating it? Is thathis 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,--Iwonder if it really is to himself? Don't you believe that somewherethere must be some one he is playing to, and that it's for some onehe's doing all that's going on?" Elsie spoke a little breathlessly andher eyes were luminous. "How old is he?"

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

  "But you're going to follow him always, aren't you, and help to see himthrough? 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 neverreach 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 asthough 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 ofAlgoma, 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 seemedwistful--yet not for him. Her eyes were cloudy with thought and he hada curious sensation that he was at this moment far from herimagination. 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 practicedblade in the unruffled stream. The night was clear and the sky studdedwith innumerable stars.

  "Where to?" he said contentedly.

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

  He put his back
into his work and the canoe shot forward, reachingpresently those long foam-flecked swells that mark the foot of theturmoil. In ten minutes they were in the heel of the rapids and as faras Belding dared go with so precious a burden. Elsie felt the coldspray on her face and her eyes shone with delight. After a little shepointed northward and the canoe edged into the big bay that stretchedbelow, the works.

  The bulk of the pulp mill loomed darkly into the quiet air, and furtherup they could hear the rattle of machine drills hammering into thegreat sandstone ledges. Passing the pigmy lock of the old Hudson BayCompany, they floated a hundred yards from shore and immediatelyopposite the blockhouse. Here Elsie lifted her hand, and Belding, witha queer feeling of resentment, backed water.

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

  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 upsome mysterious communication that linked his own force anddetermination with their irresistible sweep.

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