CHAPTER VII

Peneluna drew two chairs close to the bed; waved Mary-Clare majestically to one and took the other herself. She was going to lay her secrets before the one she had chosen––after that the shut-out world might have its turn.

“I’ve sent word over to the Post Office,” Peneluna began, “and they’re going to get folks, the doctor and minister and the rest. Before they get here––” Peneluna paused––“before they get here I want that you should act for the old doctor.”

This was the one thing needed to rouse Mary-Clare.

“I’ll do my best, Peneluna,” she whispered, and clutched the prayer-book.

“The ole doctor, he knew ’bout Philander and me. He said”––Peneluna caught her breath––“he said once as how it was women like me that kept men believing. He said I had a right to hold my tongue––he held his’n.”

Mary-Clare nodded. Not even she could ever estimate the secret load of confessions her beloved foster-father bore and covered with his rare smile.

“Mary-Clare, I want yer should read the marriage service over me and him!” Peneluna gravely nodded to her silent dead. “I got this to say: If Philander ain’t too far on his journey, I guess he’ll look back and understand and then he can go on more cheerful-like and easy. Last night he hadn’t more than time to say a few things, but they cleared everything, and if I’m his wife, he can trust me––a wife wouldn’t harm a dead husband when shemightthe man who jilted her.” The words came through a hard, dry sob. Mary-Clare felt her eyes fill with hot tears. She looked out through the one open window and felt the warm autumn breeze against her cheek; a bit of sunlight slanted across the room and lay brightly on the quiet man upon the bed. “Read on, Mary-Clare, and then I can speak out.”

Opening the book with stiff, cold fingers, Mary-Clare read softly, brokenly, the solemn words.

At the close Peneluna stood up.

“Him and me, Mary-Clare,” she said, “’fore God and you is husband and wife.” Then she removed the red rose from79her bonnet, laid it upon the folded wrinkled hands of the dead man and drew the sheet over him.

Just then, outside the window, a bird flew past, peeped in, fluttered away, singing.

“Seems like it might be the soul of Philander,” Peneluna said––she was crying as the old do, hardly realizing that they are crying. Her tears fell unheeded and Mary-Clare was crying with her, but conscious of every hurting tear.

“In honour bound, though it breaks the heart of me, I’m going to speak, Mary-Clare, then his poor soul can rest in peace.

“The Methodist parson, what comes teetering ’round just so often, always thought Philander was hell-bound, Mary-Clare; well, since there ain’t anyone but that parson as knows so much about hell, to send for, I’ve sent for him and there’s no knowing what he won’t feel called upon to say with Philander lying helpless for a text. So now, after I tell you what must be told, I want that you should read the burial service over Philander and then that parson can do his worst––my ears will be deaf to him and Philander can’t hear.”

There was a heavy pause while Mary-Clare waited.

“Hell don’t scare me nohow,” Peneluna went on; “seems like the most interesting folks is headed for it and I’ll take good company every time to what some church folks hands out. And, too, hell can’t be half bad if you have them you love with you. So the parson can do his worst. Philander and me won’t mind now.

“Back of the time we came here”––Peneluna was picking her words as a child does its blocks, carefully in order to form the right word––“me and Philander was promised.”

Drifting about in Mary-Clare’s thought a scrap of old scandal stirred, but it had little to feed on and passed.

“Then a woman got mixed up ’twixt him and me. In her young days she’d been French and you know yer can’t get away from what’s born in the blood, and the Frenchiness was terrible onsettling. Philander was side-twisted. Yer see, Mary-Clare, when a man ain’t had nothing but work and working folks in his life, a creature that laughs and dances80and sings gets like whiskey in the head, and Philander didn’t rightfully know what he was about.”

Peneluna drew the end of her crêpe veil up and wiped her eyes.

“They went off together, him and the furriner. Least, the furriner took him off, and the next thing I heard she’d taken to her heels and Philander drifted here to the mines. I knew he needed me more than ever––he was a dreadful creature about doing for himself, not eating at Christian hours, just waiting till he keeled over from emptiness, so I came logging along after him and––stayed. He was considerable upset when he saw me and he never got to, what you might say, speaking to me, but he was near and he ate the food I left on his steps and he washed the plates and cups and that meant a lot to Philander. If I’d been his proper wife he wouldn’t have washed ’em. Men don’t when they get used to a woman.

“And then”––here Peneluna caught her breath––“then last night he called from his winder and I came. He said, holding my hand like it was the last thing left for him to hold: ‘I didn’t think I had a right to you, Pen’––he used to call me Pen––‘after what I did. And I’ve just paid for my evil-doing up to the end, not taking comfort and forgiveness––just paying!’ I never let on, Mary-Clare, how I’d paid, too. Men folks are blind-spotted, we’ve got to take ’em as they are. Philander thought he had worked out his soul’s salvation while he was starving me, soul and body, but I never let on and he died smiling and saying, ‘The food was terrible staying, Pen, terrible staying.’”

Mary-Clare could see mistily the long, rigid figure on the bed, her eyes ached with unshed tears; her heart throbbed like a heavy pain. Here was something she had never understood; a thing so real and strong that no earthly touch could kill it. What was it?

But Peneluna was talking on, her poor old face twitching.

“And now, Mary-Clare, him and me is man and wife before God and you. You are terrible understanding, child. With all the fol-de-rol the old doctor laid on yer, he laid his own81spirit of knowing things on yer, too. Suffering learns folks the understanding power. I reckon the old doctor had had his share ’fore he came to the Forest––but how you got to knowing things, child, and being tender and patient, ’stead of hot and full of hate, I don’t know! Now read, soft and low, so only us three can hear––the last service.”

Solemnly, with sweet intonations, Mary-Clare read on and on. Again the bird came to the window ledge, looked in, and then flew off singing jubilantly. Peneluna smiled a fleeting wintry smile and closed her eyes; she seemed to be following the bird––or was it old Philander’s soul?

When the service came to an end, Peneluna arose and with grave dignity walked from the room, Mary-Clare following.

“Now the Pointers can have their way ’cording to rule, Mary-Clare,” she whispered, “but you and me understand, child. And listen to this, I ain’t much of a muchness, but come thick or thin, Mary-Clare, I’ll do my first and last for you ’cause of the secret lying ’twixt us.”

Then Mary-Clare asked the question that was hurting her with its weight.

“Peneluna, was it love, the thing that made you glad, through it all, just to wait?”

“I don’t rightly know, Mary-Clare. It was something too big for me to call by name, but I just couldn’t act different and kill it, not even when her as once was French made me feel I oughter. I wouldn’t darst harm that feeling I had, child.”

“And it paid?”

“I don’t know. I only know I was glad, when he called last night, that I was waiting.”

Then Mary-Clare raised her face and kissed the old, troubled, fumbling lips. The thing, too big for the woman, was too big for the girl; but she knew, whatever it was, it must not be hurt.

“What are you going to do now?” she asked.

“God knows, Mary-Clare. The old doctor gave this place to Philander, and he gave me mine, next door. I think, till I get my leadings, I’ll hold to this and see what the Lord82wants me to do with my old shack. I allas find someone waiting to share. Maybe Jan-an will grow to fit in there in time. When she gets old and helpless she’ll need some place to crawl to and call her own. I don’t know, but I’m a powerful waiter and I’ll keep an eye and ear open.”

On the walk home Mary-Clare grew deeply thoughtful. The recent scene took on enormous significance. Detached from the pitiful setting, disassociated from the two forlorn creatures who were the actors in the tragic story, there rose, like a bright and living flame, a something that the girl’s imagination caught and held.

That something was quite apart from laws and codes; it came; could not be commanded. It was something that marriage could not give, nor death kill. Something that could exist on the Point. Something that couldn’t be got out of one’s heart, once it had entered in. What was it? It wasn’t duty or just living on. It was something too big to name. Why was the wonder of it crowding all else out––after the long years?

Mary-Clare left the Point behind her. She entered the sweet autumn-tinted woods beyond which lay her home. She hoped––oh! yearningly she hoped––that Larry would not be there, not just yet. She would go for Noreen; she would stay awhile with Aunt Polly and tell her about what had just occurred––the service, but not the secret thing.

Suddenly she stood still and her face shone in the dim woods. Just ahead and around a curve, she heard Noreen’s voice. But was it Noreen’s?

Often, in her wondering moments, Mary-Clare had pictured her little girl as she longed for her to be––a glad, unthinking creature, such as Mary-Clare herself had once been, a singing, laughing child. And now, just out of sight, Noreen was singing.

There was a rich gurgle in the flute-like voice; it came floating along.

“Oh! tell it again, please! I want to learn it for Motherly. It is awfully funny––and make the funny face that goes with it––the crinkly-up face.”

“All right. Here goes!

“Up the airy mountain,Down the rustly glen––

“Up the airy mountain,

Down the rustly glen––

that’s the way, Noreen, scuffle your feet in the leaves––

“We daren’t go a-huntingFor fear of little men.Wee folk, good folkTrooping all together,Green jacket, red cap,And white owl’s feather––

“We daren’t go a-hunting

For fear of little men.

Wee folk, good folk

Trooping all together,

Green jacket, red cap,

And white owl’s feather––

Here, you, Noreen, play fair; scuffle and keep step, you little beggar!”

“But I may step on the wee men, the good men,” again the rich chuckle.

“No, you won’t if you scuffle and then step high; they’ll slip between your feet.”

Then came the tramp, tramp of the oncoming pair. Big feet, little feet. Long strides and short hops.

So they came in view around the turn of the rough road––Northrup with Noreen holding his hand and trying to keep step to the swinging words of the old song.

And Northrup saw Mary-Clare, saw her with a slanting sunbeam on her radiant face. The romance of Hunter’s Point was in her soul, and the wonder of her child’s happiness. She stood and smiled that strange, unforgettable smile of hers; the smile that had its birth in unshed tears.

Northrup hurried toward her, taking in, as he came, her loveliness that could not be detracted from by her mud-stained and rough clothing. The feeling of knowing her was in his mind; she seemed vividly familiar.

“Your little daughter got homesick, or mother-sick, Mrs. Rivers”––Northrup took off his hat––“Aunt Polly gave me the privilege of bringing her to you. We became friends from the moment we met. We’ve been making great strides all day.”

“Thank you, Mr.–––”

“Northrup.”

“Thank you, Mr. Northrup. You have made Noreen very happy––and she does not make friends easily.”

“But, Motherly,” Noreen was flushed and eager. “Heisn’t a friend. Jan-an told me all about him. He’s something the wild-wind brought. You are, aren’t you, Mr. Sir?”

Northrup laughed.

“Well, something like that,” he admitted. “May I walk along with you, Mrs. Rivers? Unless I go around the lake, I must turn back.”

And so they walked on, Noreen darting here and there quite unlike her staid little self, and they talked of many things––neither could have told after just what they talked about. The conversation was like a stream carrying them along to a definite point ordained for them to reach, somewhere, some time, on beyond.

“How on earth could she manage to be what she is?” pondered Northrup. “She’s read and thought to some purpose.”

“What does he mean by being here?” pondered Mary-Clare. “This isn’t just a happening.”

But they chatted pleasantly while they pondered.

When they came near to the yellow house, Noreen, who was ahead, came running back. All the joyousness had fled from her face. She looked heavy-eyed and dull.

“She’s tired,” murmured Mary-Clare, but she knew that that was not what ailed Noreen.

And then she looked toward her house. Larry stood in the doorway, smoking and smiling.

“Will you come and meet my husband?” she asked of Northrup.

“I’ll put off the pleasure, if you’ll excuse me, Mrs. Rivers. I have learned that one cannot tamper with Aunt Polly’s raised biscuits. It’s late, but may I call to-morrow?” Northrup stood bareheaded while he spoke.

Mary-Clare nodded. She was mutely thankful when he strode on ahead and toward the lake.

It was while they were eating their evening meal that Larry remarked casually:

“So that’s the Northrup fellow, is it?” Mary-Clare flushed and had a sensation of being lassoed by an invisible hand.

“Yes. He is staying at the inn––I sent Noreen there this morning while I went over to the Point; he was bringing her home.”

“He seemed to know that you weren’t home.”

“Children come in handy,” Larry smiled pleasantly. “More potato, Mary-Clare?”

“No.” Then, almost defiantly: “Larry, Mr. Northrup asked his way to the inn the day he was travelling through. I have never spoken to him since, until to-day. When he found the house empty this afternoon, he naturally–––”

“Why the explanation?” Larry looked blank and again Mary-Clare flushed.

“I felt one was needed.”

“I can’t see why. By the way, Mary-Clare, those squatters at the Point are going to get a rough deal. Either they’re going to pay regular, or be kicked out. I tell you when Tim Maclin sets his jaw, there is going to be something doing.”

This was unfortunate, but Larry was ill at ease.

“Maclin doesn’t own the Point, Larry.”

“You better listen to Maclin and not Peter Heathcote.” Larry retraced his steps. His doubt of Northrup had led him astray.

Mary-Clare gave him a startled look.

“Maclin’s a brute,” she said quietly. “I prefer to listen to my friends.”

“Maclin’s our friend. Yours and mine. You’ll learn that some day.”

“I doubt it, Larry, but he’s your employer and I do not forget that.”

“I wouldn’t. And you’re going to change your mind some fine day, my girl, about a lot of things.”

“Perhaps.”

“I’m sleeping outside, Mary-Clare.” Larry rose lazily. “I just dropped in to––to call.” He laughed unpleasantly.

“I’m sorry, Larry, that you feel as you do.”

“Like hell you are!” The words were barely audible. “I’m going to give you a free hand, Mary-Clare, but I’m going to let folks see your game. That’s square enough.”

“All right, Larry.” Mary-Clare’s eyes flickered. Then: “Why did you take those letters?”

Larry looked blankly at her.

“I haven’t taken any letters. What you hoaxing up?” He waited a moment but when Mary-Clare made no reply he stalked from the house angrily and into the night.

87CHAPTER VII

Maclin rarely discussed Larry’s private affairs with him, but he controlled them, nevertheless, indirectly. His hold on Larry was subtle and far-reaching. It had its beginning in the old college days when the older man discovered that the younger could be manipulated, by flattery and cheap tricks, into abject servitude. Larry was not as keen-witted as Maclin, but he had a superficial cleverness; a lack of moral fibre and a certain talent that, properly controlled, offered no end of possibility.

So Maclin affixed himself to young Rivers in the days before the doctor’s death; he and Larry had often drifted apart but came together again like steel responding to the same magnet. While apparently intimate with Rivers, Maclin never permitted him to pass a given line, and this restriction often chafed Larry’s pride and egotism; still, he dared not rebel, for there were things in his past that had best be forgotten, or at least not referred to.

When Maclin had discovered the old, deserted mines and bought them, apparently Larry was included in the sale. Maclin sought to be friendly with Mary-Clare when he first came to King’s Forest; but failing in that direction, he shrugged his shoulders and made light of the matter. He never pushed his advantage nor forgave a slight.

“Never force a woman,” he confided to Larry at that juncture, “that is, if she is independent.”

“What you mean, independent?” Larry knew what he meant very well; knew the full significance of it. He fretted at it every time his desires clashed with Mary-Clare’s. If he, not she, owned the yellow house; if she were obliged to take what he chose to give her, how different their lives might have been!

Larry was thinking of all this as he made his way to the mines after denying that he had taken the letters. Those letters lay snugly hid under his shirt––he had a use for them. He could feel them as he walked along; they seemed to be feeding a fire that was slowly igniting.

Larry was going now to Maclin with all barriers removed. His suspicious mind had accepted the coarsest interpretation of Mary-Clare’s declaration of independence. Maclin’s hints were, to him, established facts. There could be but one possible explanation for her act after long, dull years of acceptance.

“Well,” Larry puffed and panted, “there is always a way to get the upper hand of a woman and, I reckon, Maclin, when he’s free to speak out, can catch a fool woman and a sneaking man, who is on no fair business, unless I missmyguess.” Larry grunted the words out and stumbled along. “First and last,” he went on, “there’s just two ways to deal with women. Break ’em or let them break themselves.”

Larry’s idea now was to let Mary-Clare break herself with the Forest as audience. He wasn’t going to do anything. No, not he! Living outside his home would set tongues wagging. All right, let Mary-Clare stop their wagging.

There was always, with Larry, this feeling of hot impotence when he retreated from Mary-Clare. For so vital and high-strung a woman, Mary-Clare could at critical moments be absolutely negative, to all appearances. Where another might show weakness or violence, she seemed to close all the windows and doors of her being, leaving her attacker in the outer darkness with nothing to strike at; no ear to assail. It was maddening to one of Larry’s type.

So had Mary-Clare just now done. After asking him about the letters, she had withdrawn, but in the isolation where Larry was left he could almost hear the terrific truths he guiltily knew he deserved, hurled at him, but which his wife did not utter. Well, two could play at her game.

And in this mood he reached Maclin; accepted a cigar and stretched his feet toward the fire in his owner’s office.

Maclin was in a humanly soothing mood. He fairly89crooned over Larry and could tell to a nicety the workings of his mind.

He puffed and puffed at his enormous cigar; he was almost hidden from sight in the smoke but his words oozed forth as if they were cutting through a soft, thick substance.

“Now, Larry,” he said; “don’t make a mistake. Some women don’t have weak spots, they have knots––weak ends tied together, so to speak. The cold, calculating breed––and your wife, no offence intended, is mighty chilly––can’t be broken, as you intimate, but they can be untied and”––Maclin was pleased with his picturesque figures of speech––“left dangling.”

This was amusing. Both men guffawed.

“Do you know, Rivers”––Maclin suddenly relapsed into seriousness––“it was a darned funny thing that a girl like your wife should fall into your open mouth, marry you off-hand, as one might say. Mighty funny, when you come to think of it, that your old man should let her––knowing all he knew and seeming to set such a store by the girl.”

Larry winced and felt the lash on his back. So long had that lash hung unused that the stroke now made him cringe.

“No use harking back to that, Maclin,” he said: “some things ain’t common property, you know, even between you and me. We agreed to that.”

“Yes?” the word came softly. Was it apologetic or threatening?

There was a pause. Then Maclin unbent.

“Larry,” he began, tossing his cigar aside, “you haven’t ever given me full credit, my boy, for what I’ve tried to do for you. See here, old man, I have got you out of more than one fix, haven’t I?”

Larry looked back––the way was not a pleasant one.

“Yes,” he admitted, “yes, you have, Maclin.”

“I know you often get fussed, Rivers, about what you term myusingyou in business, but I swear to you that in the end you’ll think different about that. I’ve got to work under cover myself to a certain extent. I’m not my own master. But this I can say––I’m willing to be a part of a big thing.90When the publicistaken into our confidence, we’ll all feel repaid. Can you––do you catch on, Larry?”

“It’s like catching on to something in the dark,” Larry muttered.

“Well, that’s something,” Maclin said cheerfully. “Something to hold to in the dark isn’t to be sneered at.”

“Depends upon what it is!” Apparently Larry was in a difficult mood. Maclin tried a new course.

“It’s one thing having a friend in the dark, old man, and another having an enemy. I suppose that’s what you mean. Well, have I been much of an enemy to you?”

“I just told you what I think about that.” Larry misinterpreted Maclin’s manner and took advantage.

“Larry, I’m going to give you something to chew on because Iamyour friend and because I want you to trust me, even in the dark. The fellow Northrup–––”

Larry started as if an electric spark had touched him. Maclin appeared not to notice.

“––is on our tracks, but he mustn’t suspect that we have sensed it.” The words were ill-chosen. Having any one on his tracks was a significant phrase that left an ugly fear in Larry’s mind.

“What tracks?” he asked suspiciously.

“Our inventions.” Maclin showed no nervous dread. “These inventions, big as they are, old man, are devilish simple. That’s why we have to lie low. Any really keen chap with the right slant could steal them from under our noses. That’s why I like to get foreigners in here––these Dutchies don’t smell around. Give them work to do, and they do it and ask no questions; the others snoop. Now this Northrup is here for a purpose.”

“You know that for a fact, Maclin?”

“Sure, I know it.” Maclin was a man who believed in holding all the cards and discarding at his leisure; he always played a slow game. “I know his kind, but I’m going to let him hang himself. Now see here, Rivers, you better take me into your confidence––I may be able to fix you up. What’s wrong between you and your wife?”

This plunge sent Larry to the wall. When a slow man does make a drive, he does deadly work.

“Well, then”––Larry looked sullen––“I’ve left the house and mean to stay out until Mary-Clare comes to her senses!”

“All right, old man. I rather smelled this out. I only wanted to make sure. It’s this Northrup, eh? Now, Rivers, I could send you off on a trip but it would be the same old story. I hate to kick you when you’re down, but I will say this, your wife doesn’t look like one mourning without hope when you’re away, and with this Northrup chap on the spot, needing entertainment while he works his game, I’m thinking you better stay right where you are! You can, maybe, untie the knot, old chap. Give her and this Northrup all the chance they want, and if you leave ’em alone, I guess the Forest will smoke ’em out.”

Maclin came nearer to being jubilant than Rivers had ever seen him. The sight was heartening, but still something in Larry tempered his enthusiasm. He had been able, in the past, to exclude Mary-Clare from the inner sanctuary of Maclin’s private ideals, and he hated now to betray her into his clutches. Maclin was devilishly keen under that slow, sluggish manner of his and he hastened, now, to say:

“Don’t get a wrong slant on me, old man. I’m only aiming for the good of us all, not the undoing. I want to show this fellow Northrup up to your wife as well as to others. Then she’ll know her friends from her foes. Naturally a woman feels flattered by attentions from a man like this stranger, but if she sees how he’s taken the Heathcotes in and how he’s used her while he was boring underground, she’ll flare up and know the meaning of real friends. Some women have to beshown!”

By this time Larry suspected that much had gone on during his absence that Maclin had not confided to him. He was thoroughly aroused.

“Now see here, Rivers!” Maclin drew his chair closer and laid his hand on Larry’s arm––he gloated over the trouble in the eyes holding his with dumb questioning. “It’s coming92out all right. We’re in early and we’ve got the best seats––only keep them guessing; guessing! Larry, your wife goes––down to the Point a lot––goes missionarying, you know. Well, this Northrup is tramping around in the woods skirting the Point.”

Just here Larry started and looked as if something definite had come to him. Had he not seen Northrup that very day in the woods?

“Now there’s an empty shack on the Point, Rivers––some old squatter has died. I want you to get that shack somehow or another. It ought to be easy, since they say your wife owns the place; it’s your business togetit and then watch out and keep your mouth shut. You’ve got to live somewhere while you can’t live decent at home. ’Tisn’t likely your wife, having slammed the door of her home on you, will oust you from that hovel on the Point––your being there will work both ways––she won’t dare to take a step.”

Larry drew a sigh, a heavy one, and began to understand. He saw more than Maclin could see.

“She hasn’t turned me out,” he muttered. “I came out.”

“Let her explain that, Rivers. See? She can’t do it while she’s gallivanting with this here Northrup.”

Larry saw the possibilities from Maclin’s standpoint, but he saw Mary-Clare’s smile and that uplifted head. He was overwhelmed again by the sense of impotence.

“Give a woman a free rein, Rivers, she’ll shy, sooner or later.” Maclin was gaining assurance as he saw Larry’s discomfort. “That’s what keeps women from getting on––they shy! When all’s said, a tight rein is a woman’s best good, but some women have to learn that.”

Something in Larry burned hot and resentful, but whether it was because of Maclin or Mary-Clare he could not tell, so he kept still.

“Let’s turn in, anyway, for to-night, old boy.” Maclin’s voice sounded paternal. “To-morrow is to-morrow and you’ll feel able to tackle the job after a night’s sleep.”

So they turned in and it was the afternoon of the next day when Larry took his walk to the Point.

Just as he started forth Maclin gave him two or three suggestions.

“I’d offer to hire the shanty,” he said. “That will put you in a safe position, no matter how they look at it. An old woman by the name of Peneluna thinks she owns it. There’s an old codger down there, too, Twombley they call him––he’s smart as the devil, but you can’t tell which way he may leap. Try him out. Get him to take sides with you if you can.”

“I remember Twombley,” Larry said. “Dad used to get a lot of fun out of him in the old days. I haven’t been on the Point since I was a boy.”

“It’s a good thing you never troubled the Point, Rivers. They’ll be more stirred by you now.”

“Maybe they’ll kick me out.”

“Never fear!” Maclin reassured him. “Not if you show good money and play up to your old dad. He had everyone eating out of his hand, all right.”

So Larry, none too sure of himself, but more cheerful than he had been, set forth.

Now there is one thing about the poor, wherever you find them––they live out of doors when the weather permits. Given sunshine and soft air, they promptly turn their backs on the sordid dens they call home and take to the open. The day that Larry went to the Point was warm and lovely, and all the Pointers, or nearly all of them, were in evidence.

Jan-an was sweeping the steps of Peneluna’s doorway, sweeping them viciously, sending the dust flying. She was working off her state of mind produced by the recent funeral of old Philander. She was spiritually inarticulate, but her gropings were expressed in service to them she loved and in violence to them she hated. As she swept she was cleaning for Peneluna, and at the same time, sweeping to the winds of heaven the memory of the dreadful minister who had said such fearsome things about the dead who couldn’t talk back. The man had made Mary-Clare cry as she sat holding Peneluna’s hard, cold hand. Jan-an knew how hard and cold it was, for she had held the other in decent sympathy.

Among the tin cans and ash heaps the children of the94Point were playing. One inspired girl had decked a mound of wreckage and garbage with some glittering goldenrod and was calling her mates to come and see the “heaven” she had made.

Larry laughed at this and muttered: “Made it in hell, eh, kid?”

The child scowled at him.

Twombley was sitting in his doorway watching what was going on. He was a gaunt, sharp-eyed, sharp-nosed, and sharp-tongued man. He was the laziest man on the Point, but with all the earmarks of the cleverest.

“Well, Twombley, how are you?”

Twombley spat and took Larry out of the pigeonhole of his memory––labelled and priced; Twombley had not thought of him in years, as a definite individual. He was Mary-Clare’s husband; a drifter; a tool of Maclin. As such he was negligible.

“Feeling same as I look,” he said at last. He was ready to appraise the man before him.

“Bad nut,” was what he thought, but diluted his sentiments because of the relationship to the old doctor and Mary-Clare. Twombley, like everyone else, had a shrine in his memory––rather a musty, shabby one, to be sure, but it held its own sacredly. Doctor Rivers and all that belonged to him were safely niched there––even this son, the husband of Mary-Clare about whom the Forest held its tongue because he was the son of the old doctor.

“Old Sniff’s popped, I hear.” Larry, now that he chose to be friendly, endeavoured to fit his language to his hearer’s level. “Have a cigar, Twombley?”

“I’ll keep to my pipe.” The old man’s face was expressionless. “If you don’t get a taste for what you can’t afford you don’t ruin it for what you can. Yes, looks as if Sniff was dead. They’ve buried him, at any rate.”

“Who’s got his place?”

“Peneluna Sniff.”

“Was he married?” Floating in Rivers’s mind was an old story, but it floated too fast for him to catch it.

“She went through the marriage service. That fixes it, don’t it?” Twombley puffed loudly.

“I suppose it does, but I kind of recall that there was a quarrel between them.”

“Ain’t that a proof that they was married?” Twombley’s eyes twinkled through the slits of lids––he always squinted his eyes close when he wanted to go slow. Larry laughed.

“Didn’t Peneluna Sniff, or whatever her name is, live in a house by herself?” he asked. He was puzzled.

“She sure did. Your old man was a powerful understander of human nater. A few feet ’twixt married folks, he uster say, often saves the day.”

“Well, who’s got her house?”

“She’s got it.”

“Empty?”

“I guess the same truck’s in it that always was. I ain’t seen any moving out.”

“Is Mrs. Sniff at home?”

“How do you suppose I know, young man? These ain’t calling hours on the Point.”

“Well, they’re business hours, all right, Twombley. See here, my friend, I’m going to hire that house of Mrs. Sniff if I can.”

Twombley’s slits came close together.

“Yes?” was all he vouchsafed.

“Yes. And I wish you’d pass the word along, my friend.”

“I don’t pass nothing!” Twombley interrupted. “I take all I kin git. I make use of what I can. The rest, I chuck.”

“Well, have it your own way, but I’m your friend, Twombley, and the friend of your neighbours. I cannot say more now––but you’ll all believe it some day.”

“Maclin standing back of yer, young feller?”

“Yes. And that’s where you’ve made another bad guess, Twombley. Maclin’s your friend, only he isn’t free to speak out just now.”

“Gosh! we ain’t eager for him to speak. The stiller he is the better we like it.”

“He knows that. He’s given up––he is going to see what96I can make you feel––I’m one of you, you know that, Twombley.”

“Never would have guessed it, son!” Twombley leered.

“Well, my wife’s always been your friend––what’s the difference? I’ve been on my job; she’s been on hers––it’s all the same, only now I’m going to prove it!”

“Gosh! you’ll be a shock to Maclin all right.”

“No, I won’t, Twombley. You’re wrong about him. He’s meant right, but not being one of us he’s bungled, he knows it now. He’s listened to me at last.”

Larry could be a most important-appearing person when there was no one to prick his little bubble. Twombley eyed his visitor calmly.

“Funny thing, life is,” he ruminated, seeming to forget Larry’s presence. “Yer get to thinking you’re running down hill on a greased plank, and sudden––a nail catches yer breeches and yer stop in time to see where yer was going!”

“What then, Twombley?”

“Oh! nothing. Only as long as yer breeches hold and the nail don’t come out, yer keep on looking!”

Again Twombley spat. Then, seeing his guest rising, he asked with great dignity:

“Going, young sir?”

“Yes, over to Mrs. Sniff’s. And if we are neighbours, Twombley, let us be friends. My father had a liking for you, I remember.”

“I’m not forgetting that, young sir.”

When Larry reached Mrs. Sniff’s, Jan-an was still riotously sweeping the memories of the funeral away. She turned and looked at Larry. Then, leaning on her broom, she continued to stare.

“Well, what in all possessed got yer down here?” asked the girl, her face stiffening.

“Where’s Mrs. Sniff?” Larry asked. He always resented Jan-an, on general principles. She got in his way too often. When she was out of sight he never thought of her, but her vacant stare and monotonous drawl were offensive to him.

He had once suggested that she be confined somewhere.97“You never can tell about her kind,” he had said; he had a superstitious fear of her.

“What, shut the poor child from her freedom?” Aunt Polly had asked him, “just because we cannot tell? Lordy! Larry Rivers, there wouldn’t be many people running around loose if we applied that rule to them.”

There were some turns that conversation took that sent Larry into sudden silences––this had been one. He had never referred to Jan-an’s treatment after that, but he always resented her.

Jan-an continued to stare at him.

“There ain’t no Mrs. Sniff” she said finally. “What’s ailin’ folks around here?”

“Well, where’s Miss Peneluna?” Larry ventured, thinking back to the old title of his boyhood days.

“Setting!” Jan-an returned to her sweeping and Larry stepped aside.

“I want to see her,” he said angrily. “Get out of the way.”

“She ain’t no great sight, and I’m cleaning up!” Jan-an scowled and her energy suggested that Larry might soon be included among the things she was getting rid of.

“See here”––Larry’s eyes darkened––“if you don’t stand aside–––”

But at this juncture Peneluna loomed in the doorway. She regarded Larry with a tightening of the mouth muscles. Inwardly she thought of him as a bad son of a good father, but intuitions were not proofs and because Doctor Rivers had been good, and Mary-Clare was always to be considered, the old woman kept her feelings to herself.

She was still in her rusty black, the rakish bonnet set awry on her head.

“Come in!” she said quietly. “And you, Jan-an, you trundle over to my old place and clean up.”

Larry went inside and sat down in the chair nearest the door. The neatness and order of the room struck even his indifferent eyes, so unexpected was it on the Point.

“Well?” Peneluna looked at her visitor coolly. Larry did98not speak at once––he was going to get the house next door; he must have it and he did not want to make any mistakes with the grim, silent woman near him. He was not considering the truth, but he was selecting the best lies that occurred to him; the ones most likely to appeal to his future landlady.

“Miss Peneluna,” he began finally, but the stiff lips interrupted him:

“Mrs. Sniff.”

“Good Lord! Mrs. Sniff, then. You see, I didn’t know you were married.”

“Didn’t you? You might not know everything that goes on. You don’t trouble us much. Your goings and comings leave us strangers.”

Larry did not reply. He was manufacturing tears, and presently, to Peneluna’s amazement, they glistened on his cheeks.

“I wonder”––Larry’s voice trembled––“I wonder if I can speak openly to you, Mrs.––Mrs. Sniff? You were in my father’s house; he trusted you. I do not seem to have any one but you at this crisis.”

Peneluna sneezed. She had a terrible habit of sneezing at will––it was positively shocking.

“I guess there ain’t any reason for you not speaking out your ideas to me,” she said cautiously. “I ain’t much of a fount of wisdom, but I ain’t a babbling brook, neither.”

She was thinking that it would be safer to handle Rivers than to let others use him, and she knew something of the trouble at the yellow house. Jan-an had regaled her with some rare tidbits.

“Peneluna, Mary-Clare and I have had some words; I’ve left home.”

There was no answer to this. Larry moistened his lips and went on:

“Perhaps Mary-Clare has told you?”

“No, she ain’t blabbed none.”

This was disconcerting.

“She wouldn’t, and I am not going to, either. It’s just a misunderstanding, Mrs. Sniff. I could go away and let it99rest there, but I fear I’ve been away too much and things have got snarled. Mary-Clare doesn’t rightly see things.”

“Yes she does, Larry Rivers! She’s terrible seeing.” Peneluna’s eyes flashed.

“All right then, Mrs. Sniff.I want her to see!I want her to see me here, looking after her interests. I cannot explain; you’ll all know soon enough. Danger’s threatening and I’m going to be on the spot! You’ve all got a wrong line on Maclin, so he’s side-stepped and listened to me at last; I’m going to show up this man Northrup who is hanging round. I want to hire your house, Mrs. Sniff, and live on here until–––”

Peneluna sneezed lustily; it made Larry wince.

“Until Mary-Clare turns you out?” she asked harshly. “And gets talked about for doing it––or lets you stay on reflecting upon her what can’t tell her side? Larry Rivers, you always was a thorn in your good father’s side and I reckon you’ve been one in Mary-Clare’s.”

Larry winced again and recalled sharply the old vacations and this woman’s silent attitude toward him. It all came back clearly. He could always cajole Aunt Polly Heathcote, but Peneluna had explained her attitude toward him in the past by briefly stating that she “internally and eternally hated boys.”

“You’re hard on me, Mrs. Sniff. You’ll be sorry some day.”

“Then I’ll be sorry!” Peneluna sneezed.

Presently her mood, however, changed. She regarded Larry with new interest.

“How much will you give me for my place?” Peneluna leaned forward suddenly and quite took Larry off his guard. He had succeeded so unexpectedly that it had the effect of shock.

“Five dollars a month, Mrs. Sniff.”

“I’m wanting ten.”

This was a staggering demand.

“How bad does he want it?” Peneluna was thinking.

“How far had I best give in?” Larry estimated.

“Make it seven,” he ventured.

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