"Exactly where we did the day a man named Clark came to St. Marys," he
said dully, "with not a cent more."
There followed a little silence, and the tears began to roll down her
cheeks. He put his arm round her, and perceived, with astonishment, that
they were tears of happiness.
"Peter dear," she said very softly, "you don't know how glad I am that
it's all over."
"You mean the hundred thousand!" He stared at her blankly.
"Yes, just that. I know you won't understand, but things have never been
the same for me since you began to try and make it. You were
different--everything was different."
"But if I had made it you would have been glad."
"Perhaps--I don't know. I'm rather afraid of a hundred thousand
dollars," she began to smile a little through her tears, "but now I feel
ten years younger. Is that what 'stop loss' means--you don't actually
lose anything?"
"Nothing more than I have sent him in this case."
"And you didn't send him my money--not that it's much."
"Good God, Mary, no!"
"Peter," she began gently, "you weren't happy all the time--I could tell
that. You were trying to do something you weren't made for--I could see
that too. You are very strong--but it isn't that kind of strength.
People like us can't do that kind of thing--we feel too much. We haven't
got much, but it represents a lot and our lives are in it, and this
hundred thousand dollars wouldn't have been that kind of money, would it?"
"No, I suppose not." Manson felt the tumult in his breast subsiding.
"I know you did it for me and the children, but we don't want you to
speculate for us. We just want you--as we used to have you. We have
enough of everything else, and we'll all be very happy again. Oh, my
dear, big, faithful husband." She slipped into his arms and put her head
on his great shoulder.
And Manson, holding her to him, felt new springs of emotion unseal
themselves within him. The past few years had not been happy ones. As
his profits grew, he was conscious of the spectre of anxiety at his
elbow. It had been a simple thing to make a thousand and then ten and
then twenty, till, as he marched ever faster toward the siren call, he
perceived that he was no longer in his own country, but one in which the
landmarks were all changed. Now, with the throb of his wife's heart
against his own, he acknowledged defeat, but perhaps it was defeat of
that which was not himself.
Presently the little woman stirred, brushed the tears from her cheeks,
and, smiling, kissed him tenderly.
"I'm happier than I've been for years. Did you ever guess that people
here thought you were a rich man?"
"No."
"Well, they did, at least some of them, Mrs. Dibbott for one."
"Then you can put Mrs. Dibbott right."
"Will what has happened at the works make much difference here?"
"Probably a good deal. I'm looking for trouble."
"Up at Ironville?" she said anxiously.
"But I'm good for it." He stretched his great arms, feeling strangely
free and fit for his duty.
"What about Mr. Clark?"
At this Manson grew suddenly thoughtful. Caught up in his own anxiety,
he had never considered Clark. The figure of the latter began to take on
strange proportions. What, he wondered, had Clark lost? Within twenty
hours of the time he maintained his unaltered belief, the bottom had
dropped out. Or, he queried, had Clark merely said this to prevent him
from throwing his stock on the market? He pondered over this, and
decided that five thousand shares were negligible amongst millions. Then
he felt his wife's inquiring glance.
"I'm sorry for Clark, but I guess he's wise enough to take care of
himself."
"I hope so. I've only spoken to him once, but I like him."
She disappeared presently, leaving him busy with special instructions to
the police--in case of disturbance. She did not worry about that, being
chiefly conscious that a load was gone from her spirit. Singing softly
to herself, she went out with gladness in her eyes, and halfway to
Filmer's store encountered Mrs. Bowers. The latter looked pale and
tired. Bowers, for the past twenty-four hours, had been a much tried
man--and his wife reflected it.
"Good evening," said the latter, "you look very fresh. How do you manage
it?"
Mrs. Manson, suddenly recalled to earth, smiled gently. "I'm rather
happy to-day. I hope Mr. Bowers is not very anxious."
"It's no use saying he isn't, but he doesn't talk about it. How's your
husband?"
"Splendid."
"Well, you're the only untroubled pair I've heard of to-day. My
husband's in a frightful temper because he didn't sell our land six
months ago. He says we'll never sell it now, but I'm just as glad. Is
the whole thing going to break up?" Mrs. Bowers swung her parasol toward
the rapids.
"I--I don't really know anything about it," said the little woman with a
touch of nervousness from which she recovered instantly, then, smiling,
"perhaps I'll come over to-morrow."
"Do, there's a heap to talk about, and smile like that just as long as
you can--the town needs it."
She walked on, her mind very busy. Without question something excellent
had happened to the Mansons--and in a time like this! Manson was said to
be in the way of making a fortune, and now, she concluded, he had made
it. There was no other explanation for an expression like his wife's
when such grim rumors were abroad. A little later she told Mrs. Worden,
and both the judge and Bowers heard of it, and next day the story reached
a dozen houses in St. Marys. The constable, it was said, for all his
pessimism, had been sharper than Clark himself.
But Manson was only a leaf picked up by the edge of the storm in which
Clark sat, its unapproachable center. The telegram compiled by Birch and
signed by Wimperley, as president, was on his desk, just as the secretary
had laid it before he went silently out, unable to meet the mystifying
glance of those gray eyes. Clark had never moved nor looked up, nor did
he till half an hour later, when he dictated a notice to be posted
throughout the works. "_All operations will temporarily cease this night
at six o'clock. Employees will be notified when to apply for their
wages, which will shortly be paid in full. The accounting staff will
remain at duty._" His voice was level and absolutely expressionless.
Then he went out, and, taking the broad trail to the rapids, seated
himself a few minutes later in a well remembered place.
The moments lengthened into hours and still he did not move. The sun
showed its red disc through the lattice girders of the great bridge, and
touched the flashing waters into gold. It was seven years since he had
sat here first, and he looked expectantly about for the crested
kingfisher. The voice of the river seemed unusually loud, and there was
no drone from the works. He began to go over it all, but, desisting from
sheer inability, pitched his attention on the rapids. Here, at least,
was that which had no shadow of turning. Distinguishing the multitude of
notes that lifted their booming uproar, he yielded to the sensation that
he was in the midst of them, being carried to the sea.
To-night they seemed relentless, but that again was the reflection of his
mood. If he was going down, Wimperley and the rest were going with him.
Finally he was able, at some command from this tumult, to disassociate
himself from the present and go back to the beginning. Retracing each
step, he decided that, were a parallel occasion to arise, he would do the
same again. He had listened to the voice of the hills and woods and
water, rather than to the voice of Philadelphia, and this, he ultimately
concluded, was right. There was no time to brood or forecast the future.
What his soul craved was to be persuaded that it was justified up to this
hour. Only thus could he find strength for that which was yet to come.
Carrying his solitary reverie still further, he was assured that it would
be for him and him alone to find the way out. Wimperley and the others
were able men as far as they went, but just as they had always loitered
behind his imagination, so now would they be slow in deciphering the
riddle in store. He had brought them in, and it would be left for him to
bring others in also. Very easily he visualized what had taken place in
Philadelphia, and the group in Wimperley's office stood out quite
clearly. He felt no particular sympathy for them, nor did it appear that
the responsibility was primarily his own because it was his brain that
conceived the whole gigantic machine. They had acted according to their
final judgment, so had he. With small and genuine investors the case was
different, but Clark was well aware that Consolidated stock had been a
favorite Pennsylvania gamble for years. As to his own employees, he knew
that the works must ultimately go on and could not go on without them.
This left only himself to be considered, and at the thought this
extraordinary man smiled confidently. He was stranger to that fear which
is based on uncertainty of one's own resources.
An hour after sundown he went home and, sending for Bowers, the two sat
talking earnestly. For Bowers it had been a day of vicissitude which he
was only partially competent to face. Rooted out of a small practice in
a small village, and caught up in the sweep of irresistible progress, he
had never had to fight for his point. The weight and momentum Clark put
before him were too great for that. But now every angle of the
Consolidated Company seemed to offer itself for frontal attack. He put
this to his chief in justification of his own anxiety.
"It's been a matter of writs and injunctions all day. There are enough
in my office now to paper the rail mill."
"Well, why should you worry?"