"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 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.