"And a blast furnace without any ore," concluded Stoughton heavily.

Clark's eyes wandered round the group while through his whole body ran a divine thrill. He had very swiftly interpreted the purpose of this official visit. The directors wanted to get rid of him but funked the job, and now he experienced a certain contempt for their helplessness.

He had a vivid sense of the dramatic and this tramp had been carefully thought out. The opportunity was made and it was for them to use it.

He drew a long breath, conscious that here was the moment which comes but seldom in the lives of men. It was only five years ago that, practically penniless, he had overheard a conversation in a train.

"Ore?" he said coolly without changing a muscle. "Why, you're sitting on five million tons of the best ore I ever saw."

A blue jay lit on a branch over his head and looked impudently down.

No one spoke. Presently Wimperley scratched at the moss with his heel, bared a strip of rock and stared at it as though he had hurt it.

Stoughton rolled over and shot side glances at Clark, whose eyes were fixed on the jagged horizon.

"What?" whispered Riggs.

"The discovery was made some days ago by one of our own prospectors, but I could not speak definitely until the various a.n.a.lyses were completed. It is excellent ore and will smelt well. There is limestone within two miles of the works. The c.o.ke, of course, will have to be brought up.'"

"I'll be d.a.m.ned!" murmured Stoughton in a voice husky with reverence.

The others spoke not at all, but peered blinkingly at Clark as though his rec.u.mbent body were hiding more wonders from them. Presently Wimperley, who knew something of ore, bent stiffly forward, picked up a fragment of rock and, after a long scrutiny, nodded slowly.

"This exposure is about half a mile long," said the quiet voice. "It crops out there and there," he pointed to neighboring ridges, "and there's more beyond that, if you'd care to walk over."

But no one cared. The Philadelphians were too lost in fatigue and astonishment. After a little Riggs commandeered the rest and the four began to roll back great blankets of moss, just as Fisette had done the week before, and everywhere beneath lay iron ore. Clark watched them with a suggestive smile till, after a little, Birch sat down panting, his hands stained with soil.

"Well?" he demanded, "how about it?"

"It was something more than three years ago that the first prospector went in," commenced Clark thoughtfully, "and I reported at the time that it was definitely stated by those who ought to know that there was no iron in the country. Geological maps showed the same thing, but it struck me there was too much guess work about them, so we began to make maps of our own. A month ago we got into iron formation and soon after came the discovery. I felt all along that the stuff was there, but could not say anything officially till the a.n.a.lyses were completed. We can lay this ore down at the workers for two dollars a ton. And now,"

he added in a voice that suddenly changed into sharp and rising tones, "do I get my blast furnace?"

The effect on the group was extraordinary. They had sat motionless, oblivious to fatigue and mosquitoes, while Clark spoke. Their brains were flooded with the knowledge that this meant ultimate permanence to the works. It meant rails and plates and all iron and steel products, and these were made doubly possible by the enormous reserve of power still available in the rapids at St. Marys. They glanced into the woods as though there were still mysterious treasures waiting to be revealed at a wave of the hand of this magician.

Presently Wimperley straightened up. He had been going through a strange searching of soul while his gaze wandered from the glistening rock at his feet to Clark's keen face. He began to perceive clearly for the first time the prodigious potentiality of this man who was equally masterful in Philadelphia and the back woods. He saw to what wide scope this enterprise could expand if only this restless and prophetic spirit might be wisely steered by men of colder brains and more deliberate resolution. But Clark, after all, was the creator.

"Yes," he said half aloud, "you get your blast furnace."

The Philadelphians took to the homeward trail with backward glances and something of regret lest the archaean foundations of that mountain of ore might shift over night. There was no sense of fatigue now. Birch skipped over logs in wayward abandon and laughed like a schoolboy when Clark picked a heavy gold watch chain that dangled from an overhanging bush. Riggs' thin legs were being scratched by the sharp samples with which he had stuffed his trouser pockets, but he felt them not, and Stoughton's choler had given way to a profound contemplation out of which he periodically breathed the conviction that he would be d.a.m.ned.

Wimperley was already organizing a new company--an iron corporation--and hazarding shrewd guesses as to the effect this discovery would have on the outstanding stock. The result, he concluded, would be most inspiring.

They lunched on the tug, an admirable meal, while the vessel vibrated gently and through the open portholes came the swish of bubbling water and a flood of sunlight. Then Riggs made a little speech and they all drank Clark's health, promising him continued support and such money as he needed to make steel rails. The threatening specter of Marsham had vanished utterly.

The answer was characteristic. There was no mention of anything the speaker had contributed, but just the voicing of his unalterable faith in a country which so far had never failed to produce whatever the industry required. It was a pleasure for him to work for directors and shareholders who had so practically demonstrated their confidence. He said this with a smile which was absolutely undecipherable, then drank their health in water which was his only drink---declined one of Wimperley's cigars, for he did not smoke--and inquired quietly if he was to get his railway as well. Whereupon he was immediately a.s.sured that he would get anything he asked for.

That evening the Philadelphians left in the private car. They were rather quiet, being caught up in contemplation of a new vision. As the train pulled out Clark waved a hand to the group on the rear platform and returned thoughtfully to the blockhouse where he began to write.

The letter was to his mother. He told her that he had been too busy for correspondence of late, and had just concluded a very satisfactory and official visit from his directors. In consequence, he would now be busier than ever. He stared at his own signature for a moment, then opened a window and stood peering out toward the river. The moon was up, and he caught the snowy gleam of foam at the foot of the rapids.

Their voice seemed very clear and very triumphant that night. They sang of providence--or was it destiny?

His mind turned reflectively to Elsie Worden, experiencing as yet no thrill but just a growing and satisfying attraction. All things seemed possible tonight. He had never given much thought to women, being impatient with what seemed to him their artifice and slight power of insight. So often the women who were esteemed most praiseworthy, were also the least intelligent, and lacked that spark which to him signified vision. In past years he had had a rooted belief that the standard wife was a burden who not only robbed one of mobility, but also demanded her portion of all moments, however individual, absorbed or tense they might be. In such circ.u.mstances there was nothing around which he could build a mental fence and call it his own.

It is possible that in such periods as these, when Clark gave himself up to taking soundings, as it were, in the sea of his destiny, he distinguished in his own nature that curious duality of s.e.x which makes it possible for certain rare individuals to self satisfy their emotional appet.i.tes, and that it was this which had kept him single and unfettered. If he had a craving he could forthwith produce that which appeased it. He luxuriated in the revelations of his own perception.

To him the inarticulate thing became vocal with possibilities. He was conscious of no unsatisfied need. And yet, for all of this, the vision of the girl, Elsie, began to blend with his thoughts.

XII.--LOVE AND DOUBT

Some three months later Belding was walking slowly down the main street of St. Marys. He felt f.a.gged and the sun was hot. Just as he reached the Dibbotts' white gate he heard a clear voice from behind the clump of azaleas that screened the cottage from the road.

"Come in, Mr. Belding."

He lifted the latch and saw Mrs. Dibbott in a white dress on the porch.

She seemed cool and restful.

"Sit down here. My, but you look tired!"

"I am," he admitted, mopping his face.

"Then sit where you are and have some elderberry wine and cookies.

They're right from the oven."

He sighed with relief and began to munch contentedly. He had not known how tired he was, and Mrs. Dibbott's cookies were famous.

"You look played out," she went on sympathetically. "How's Elsie Worden?"

"Well. But I don't see very much of her nowadays."

"Why?"

"Work." His brain was fermenting with half completed plans and calculations. He might as well lay it to that.

"Well, why don't you two get married? You will be old before your time."

Belding shook his head. "It takes two to make a bargain."

"But it doesn't take long." Mrs. Dibbott put down her crochet work.

"Don't you think your friend Mr. Clark depends just a little too much on individuals--I include himself in that?"

"Perhaps, but it didn't occur to me. At any rate we have a one man concern."

"And if anything happened to him, what then?" Mrs. Dibbott's eyes were bright with inquiry. "And suppose you break down, what about Elsie?"

"Elsie wouldn't be affected," he said slowly.

"Then you two are not engaged?"

"I thought we would be by this time but I guessed wrong."

Mrs. Dibbott was full of sympathy. "I suppose it serves me right for poking my nose into other people's business. My, but I'm sorry!

What's the matter with Elsie?"