The Rapids Part 37

Birch looked inquiringly at the other two, who nodded without speaking, then began to write. The rest did not even glance at each other, but found absorption in walls and windows and the big map of poignant memory, while the long, waxen fingers moved inexorably on.

"What about this?"

"'Under existing conditions and the impossibility of making immediate financial arrangements for current needs directors decide best to close down all work of every kind at once, giving notice that this will be only temporary. You will report here as soon as in your judgment you can wisely come down.' Is that all right?"

Stoughton bit at his thumbnail and nodded. "I suppose so--and there'll be h.e.l.l to pay in St. Marys, eh, Wimperley? Our friend the chief constable will be working over time. Remember the beggar? The d.a.m.n fool was right too."

"Yes, it's all right," said Wimperley, "and now I suppose there'll be writs and injunctions enough to fill the tailrace. We'd better get out and arrange some support for the market. Birch, you compound a comforting statement for the papers. We adjourn till tomorrow at nine-thirty."

They did adjourn, but lingered for an hour digging into the past seven years. It was a talk such as one might expect under the circ.u.mstances.

Charged with an apprehension but thinly veiled by manner and speech, events took on for them no perspective. They were too close at hand.

All this was so intimately their own and Clark's responsibility that every other consideration became instantly submerged, and it was a matter of living for the day, if not for the hour. Had any one at this time told Wimperley or Stoughton that for a pace or two they had merely fallen out of step in the march of progress, and that however depressing might be the present aspect of affairs it did not really affect the preordained outcome, they would have flouted the thought. It is not given to many men to place themselves correctly in the general scheme of the world, and to fairly estimate their own contribution. Thus it was that Wimperley and his a.s.sociates read on the screen of the present only the word "failure," and were conscious chiefly of a certain self contempt for the arduous part they had played. At the last moment success had been s.n.a.t.c.hed from their grasp.

Stoughton walked slowly home. He was thinking of Manson, the pessimist, who had been right. And such is the interlinking chain of life. Manson, at this moment, was sitting in his office, while his mind harked aimlessly back to the first time he had met the men from Philadelphia.

He stared at a telegram that trembled between his thick fingers. His broad face was gray and ghastly. He had been here motionless for some time, when a gentle knock sounded at the door and his wife came timidly in. One glance at his face, and her arms were round his neck.

"What is it, Peter?" she quavered.

He did not look up but held the message so that she might read it.

Sold you out to-day on stop loss order at thirty-two margin being exhausted. Farthing.

She read it wonderingly. "What does it mean; who is Farthing?"

"My Toronto broker--or at least he was," said Manson heavily.

"But I don't understand, dear."

"Ho, I didn't suppose you would; it means I lose my hundred thousand, that's all."

"Had you a hundred thousand?" she whispered.

"Very, very nearly, and now I haven't anything,--that is, I didn't make a cent."

She drew a long breath. "Peter, tell me just how we stand."

"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 G.o.d, 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."