Up in the big bay that lies next the head of the rapids, Belding was
drifting aimlessly. He was still obsessed with a sense of the hideous
uselessness of effort, and wanted to be alone. At one time Elsie used
to be here in the bow of the canoe, but now it seemed that Elsie had
little thought for him. And yet he could have sworn that, two years
ago, she loved him.
He began to paddle, with a sharp and growing resentment, and found a
deep satisfaction in the thrust of his broad blade. Soon he was nearly
half way across the river, and a mile down stream lifted the fabric of
the great bridge. Slacking speed, he caught the pull of the current,
and with it came a reckless impulse. No man had shot the middle of the
rapids and escaped with his life. It was true that the Indians
maneuvered their long canoes down close to the opposite shore with
venturous tourists, but it was only a film of water that wound,
bubbling, near the land. With the deep-throated rumble only half a
mile away, Belding felt his pulse falter for a second, then pound
viciously on. And in that second, with the bravado of early manhood,
he threw discretion overboard, and set the slim bow of his Peterboro'
for the middle span. Twenty seconds, later he knew that he was about
to run the rapids--whether he would or not.
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?"