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“Why for?”
“Because, well, I must think.”
“Then let me stay home with Jan-an.”
“Dearie, I’m going to send Jan-an back here.”
“Why for?”
“Mary-Clare,” Peter broke in, “that child is perishing for a paddling.”
Noreen ran to Peter and hugged him.
“You old grifferty-giff!” she whispered, falling into her absurd jargon, “just gifferting.”
Then she went back to her mother and said impishly:
“I know! You don’t want me to see my father!” Then, pointing a finger at Mary-Clare, she demanded: “Why didn’t you pick a nice father for me when you were picking?”
The irrelevancy of the question only added to its staggering effect. Mary-Clare looked hopelessly at her child.
“I didn’t have any choice, Noreen,” she said.
“You mean God gave him to you?”
“See here, Noreen”––Polly Heathcote rose to the call––“stop pestering your mother with silly talk. Come along with me, we’ll make a mess of taffy.”
“All right!” Noreen turned joyously to this suggestion, but paused to add: “If God gave my father to us, I s’pose we must make the best of it. God knows what He is doing––Jan-an says He even knew what He was doing when He nearly spoiled her.”
With this, Aunt Polly dragged Noreen away and Mary-Clare left the house haunted by what Noreen had said. Children can weave themselves into the scheme of life in a vivid manner, and this Noreen had done. In her dealings with Larry, Mary-Clare knew she must not overlook Noreen.
Now, if fools rush in where angels fear to tread, surely they often rush to their undoing. Kathryn followed the trail to the cabin in the woods, breathlessly and in momentary danger of breaking her ankles, for she teetered painfully on her French heels and humorously wished that when the Lord was making hills He had made them all down-grade; but at189last she came in sight of the vine-covered shack and stood still to consider.
It was characteristic of Kathryn that she never doubted her intuitions until she was left high and dry by their incapacity to hold her up.
“Ho! ho!” she murmured. “Sothisis where he burrows? Another edition of the East Side tenement room where he hid while writing his abominable book!”
Kathryn went nearer, stepping carefully––Northrup might be inside! No; the strange room was empty! Kathryn recalled the one visit she had made to the tenement while Northrup was writing. There had been a terrible woman with a mop outside the door there who would not let her pass; who had even cast unpleasant suggestions at her––suggestions that had made Kathryn’s cheeks burn.
She had never told Northrup about that visit; she would not tell him about this one, either, unless her hand were forced. In case he came upon her, she saw, vividly, herself in a dramatic act––she would be a beautiful picture of tender girlhood nestling in his environment, led to him by sore need and loving intuition.
Kathryn, thus reinforced by her imagination, went boldly in, sat down by the crude table, smiled at the Bible lying open before her––then she raised her eyes to Father Damien. The face was familiar and Kathryn concluded it must be a reproduction of some famous painting of the Christ!
That, and the Bible, made the girl smile. Temperament was insanity, nothing less!
Kathryn looked about for evidences of Northrup’s craft.
“I suppose he takes his precious stuff away with him. Afraid of fires or wild beasts.”
This latter thought wasn’t pleasant and Kathryn turned nervously to the door. As she did so her arm pushed the Bible aside and there, disclosed to her ferret glance, were the pages of Northrup’s manuscript, duplicate sheets, that Mary-Clare had been rereading.
“Ho! ho!” Kathryn spread them before her and read greedily––not sympathetically––but amusedly.
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There were references to eyes, hair, expressions; even “mud-stained breeches.” With elbows on the table, daintily gloved hands supporting her chin, Kathryn read and thought and woveherplot with Northrup’s words, but half understood, lying under her gaze.
Suddenly Kathryn’s eyes widened––her ears caught a sound. Never while she lived was Kathryn Morris to forget her sensations of that moment, for they were coloured and weighted by events that followed rapidly, dramatically.
In the doorway stood Mary-Clare, a very embodiment of the girl described in the pages on the table. The tall, slim, boyish figure in rough breeches, coat, and cap, was a staggering apparition. The beauty of the surprised face did not appeal to Kathryn, but she was not for one instant deceived as to the sex of the person on the threshold, and her none-too-pure mind made a wild and dangerous leap to a most unstable point of disadvantage.
The girl in the doorway in some stupefying fashion represented the “Fight” and the “Puddle” of Northrup’s adventure. If Kathryn thought at all, it was to the effect that she had known from start to finish the whole miserable business, and she acted upon this unconscious conclusion with never a doubt in her mind. The two women, in silence, stared at each other for one of those moments that can never be measured by rule. During the palpitating silence they were driven together, while yet separated by a great space.
Kathryn’s conclusion drove her on the rocks; Mary-Clare’s startled her into a state of clear vision. She recovered her poise first. She smiled her perturbing smile; she came in and sat down and said quietly:
“I was surprised. I am still.”
Kathryn felt a wave of moral repugnance rise to her assistance. The clothes might disguise the real state of affairs––but the voice betrayed much. This was no crude country girl; here was something rather more difficult to handle; one need not be pitiful and condoning; one must not flinch.
“You expected, I suppose, to find Mr. Northrup?”
When Kathryn was deeply moved she spoke out of the191corner of her mouth. It was an unpleasant trick––her lips became hard and twisted.
“Oh! no, I did not, nor anyone else.” The name seemed to hurt and Mary-Clare leaned back. “May I ask who you are?” she said. Mary-Clare was indignant at she hardly knew what; hurt, too, by what was steadying her. She knew beyond doubt that the woman near her was one of Northrup’s world!
“I am Miss Morris. I am engaged to be married to Mr. Northrup.”
It were better to cut deep while cutting, and Kathryn’s nerve was now set to her task. She unrelentingly eyed her victim. She went on:
“I can see how this must shock you. I sent my car on to the inn. I wanted a walk and––well! I came upon this place. Fate is such a strange thing.”
Kathryn ran her words along rather wildly. The silence of her companion, the calm way in which she was regarding her, were having an unpleasant effect. When Kathryn became aware of her own voice she was apt to talk too much––she grew confidential.
“Mr. Northrup’s mother is ill. She needs him. The way I have known all this right along is simply a miracle.”
How much more Kathryn might have said she was never to know, for Mary-Clare raised a hand as though to stay the inane torrent.
“What can you possibly mean,” she asked, and her eyes darkened, “by knowingthisall along? I do not understand––what have you known?”
Then Kathryn sank in a morass.
“Oh! do be sensible,” she said, and her voice was hard and cold. “You must see I have found you out––why pretend? When a man like Mr. Northrup leaves home and forgets his duties––does not even write, buries himself in such a place as this and stays on––what does it mean? What can it possibly mean?”
Mary-Clare was spared much of what Kathryn was creating because she was so far away––so far, far away from the192true significance of it all. She was seeing Northrup as Kathryn had never seen him; would never see him. She realized his danger. It was all so sudden and revolting. Only recently had she imagined his past, his environment; she had taken him as a wonderful experience in her barren, sterile life, but now she considered him as threatened from an unsuspected source. A natural revulsion from the type that Kathryn Morris represented for a moment oppressed her, but she dared not think of that nor of her own right to resent the hateful slurs cast upon her. She must do what she could for Northrup––do it more or less blindly, crudely, but she must go as she saw light and was given time.
“You are terribly wrong about––everything.” Mary-Clare spoke quietly but her words cut like bits of hail. “If you are going, as you say, to be Mr. Northrup’s wife, you must try and believe what I am saying now for your own sake, but more for his.”
Kathryn tried to say “Insolence!” but could not; she merely sat back in her chair and flashed an angry glance that Mary-Clare did not heed.
“Mr. Northrup is writing a beautiful book. The book is himself. He does not realize how much it is–––”
“Indeed!” Kathryn did utter the one word, then added: “I suppose he’s read it to you?”
“Yes, he has.”
“Here, I suppose? By the fire, alone with you?”
“No, under the trees, out there.”
Mary-Clare turned and glanced at the pure, open woods. “It is a beautiful book,” she repeated.
“Oh! go on, do! Really this is too utterly ridiculous.” Kathryn laughed impatiently. “We’ll take for granted the beauty of the book.”
“No, I cannot go on. You would not understand. It does not matter. What I want you to know is this––he could not do an ugly, low thing. If you wrong him there, you will never be forgiven, for it would hurt the soul of him; the part of him that no one––not even you who will be his wife––has a right to hurt or touch. You must make himbelievein women.193Oh! I wish I could make you see––that was the matter with his beautiful book––I can understand now. He did not know women; but if you believe what I am saying, all will be right; you can make him know the truth. I can imagine how you might think wrong––it never occurred to me before––the woods, the loneliness, all the rest, but, because everything has been right, it makes him all the finer. You do believe me! You must! Tell me that you do!”
Mary-Clare was desperate. It was like trying to save someone from a flood that was carrying him to the rapids. The unreality of the situation alone made anything possible, but Kathryn suddenly reduced the matter to the deadly commonplace.
“No, I do not believe you,” she said bitterly. “I am a woman of the world. I hate to say what I must, but there is so little time now, and there will be no time later on, so you’ll have to take what you have brought upon yourself. This whole thing is pitifully cheap and ordinary––the only gleam of difference in it is that you are rather unusual––more dangerous on that account. I simply cannot account for you, but it doesn’t really interest me. When Mr. Northrup writes his books, he always does what he has done now. It’s rather brutal and cold-blooded but so it is. He has used you––you have been material for him. If there is nothing worse”––Kathryn flushed here––“it is because I have come in time. May I ask you now to leave me here in Mr. Northrup’s”––Kathryn sought the proper word––“study?” she said lamely. “I will rest awhile; try to compose myself. If he comes I will meet him here. If not, I will go to the inn later.”
Kathryn rose. So did Mary-Clare. The two girls faced each other. The table lay between them, but it seemed the width of the whole world.
“I would have helped you and him, if I could.” Mary-Clare’s voice sounded like the “ghost wind” seeking wearily, in a lost way, rest. “But I see that I cannot. This is not Mr. Northrup’s Place––it is mine. I built it myself––no foot but mine––and now yours––has ever entered here. I have always come here to––to think; to read. I wonder if194I ever will be able to again, for you have done something very dreadful to it. You will do it to his life unless God keeps you from it.” Mary-Clare was thinking aloud, taking no heed of her companion.
“How dare you!” Kathryn’s face flamed and then turned pale as death.
Mary-Clare was moving toward the door. When she reached it she stood as a hostess might while a guest departed.
“Please go!” she said simply, but it had the effect of taking Kathryn by the shoulders and forcing her outside. With flaming face, dyeing the white anger, she flung herself along. Once outside she turned, looking cheap and mean for all the trappings of her station in life.
“I want you to understand,” she said, “that you are dealing with a woman of the world, not a sentimental fool.”
Mary-Clare inclined her head. She did not speak. She watched her uninvited guest go down the trail, pass out of sight. Then she went back to her chair to recover from the shock that had dazed her.
The atmosphere of the little cabin could not long be polluted by so brief an experience as had just occurred, and presently Mary-Clare was enfolded by the old comfort and vision.
She could weigh and estimate things now, and this she did bravely, justly. Like Northrup in Larry’s cabin the night before, she became more a sensitive plate upon which pictures flashed, than a personality that was thinking and suffering. Such things as had now happened to her, she knew, happened in books. Always books, books, for Mary-Clare, and the old doctor’s philosophy that gave strength but no assurance. The actual relation existing between Northrup and herself became a solid and immovable fact. She had not fully accepted it before; neither had he. They had played with it as they had the golden hours that they would not count or measure.
Nothing mattered but the truth. Mary-Clare knew that the wonderful thing had had no part in her decision as to Larry––others would not believe that, but she must not195be swayed; she knew she had taken her steps faithfully as she had seen them––she must not stumble now because of any one, anything.
“It’s what you do to love that counts!” Almost fiercely Mary-Clare grasped this. And in that moment Noreen, Northrup’s mother, even Larry and the girl who had just departed, put in their claim. She must consider them; they were all part with Northrup and her.
“There is nothing for me to do but wait.” Mary-Clare seemed to hear herself speaking the words. “I can do nothing now but wait. But I will not fear the Truth.”
The bared Truth stood revealed; before it Mary-Clare did not flinch.
“This is what it has all meant. The happiness, the joy, the strange intensity of common things.”
Then Mary-Clare bowed her head upon her folded arms while the warm sunlight came into the doorway and lay full upon her. She was absorbed in something too big to comprehend. She felt as if she was being born into––a woman! The birth-pains were wrenching; she could not grasp anything beyond them, but she counted every one and gloried in it.
The Big Thing that poor Peneluna had known was claiming Mary-Clare. It could not be denied; it might be starved but it would not die.
Somewhere, on beyond–––
But oh! Mary-Clare was young, young, and her beyond was not the beyond of Peneluna; or if it were, it lay far, far across a desert stretch.
196CHAPTER XVI
Northrup had cast himself upon Twombley’s hospitality with the plea of business. He outlined a programme and demanded silence.
“I’m going to buy this Point,” he confided, “and I’m going to go away, Twombley. I’m going to leave things exactly as they are until––well, perhaps always. Just consider yourself my superintendent.”
Twombley blinked.
“Snatching hot cakes?” he asked. “Spoiling Maclin’s meal?”
“Something like that, yes. I don’t know what all this means, Twombley, but I’m going to take no chances. I want to be in a position to hit square if anything needs hitting. If no one knows that I’m in on this deal, I’ll be better pleased––but I want you to keep me informed.”
Twombley nodded.
About noon Northrup departed, but he did not reach the inn until nearly dark.
Heathcote and Polly had been tremendously agitated by the appearance of the Morris car and the Japanese. They were in a sad state of excitement. The vicious circle of unbelievable happenings seemed to be drawing close.
“I guess I’ll put the Chinese”––Peter was not careful as to particulars––“out in the barn to sleep,” he said, but Polly shook her head.
“No, keep him where you can watch ’im,” she cautioned. “There’ll be no sleeping for me while this unchristian business is afoot. Peter, what do you suppose the creature eats?”
“I ain’t studying about that”––Peter shook with nervous laughter––“but I’m going to chain Ginger up. I’ve heard these Chinese-ers lean to animals.”
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“Nonsense, brother! But do you suppose the young woman what’s on her way here is a female Chinese?”
“The Lord knows!” Peter bristled. “I wish Northrup would fetch up and handle these items of his. My God! Polly, we have been real soft toward this young feller. Appearances and our dumb feelings about folks may have let us all in for some terrible results. Maclin’s keener than us, perhaps.”
“Now, brother”––Polly was bustling around––“this is no time to set my nerves on edge. Here we be; here all this mess is. We best hold tight.”
So Peter and Polly “held tight” while inwardly they feared that King’s Forest was in deadly peril and that they had let the unsuspecting people in for who could tell––what?
About five o’clock Kathryn came upon the scene. Her late encounter had left her careless as to her physical appearance; she was a bit bedraggled and her low shoes and silk hose––a great deal of the latter showing––were evidences against her respectability.
“I’m Mr. Northrup’s fiancée,” she explained, and sank into a chair by the hearth.
Aunt Polly did not know what she meant, but in that she belonged to Northrup, she must be recognized, and plainly she was not Chinese!
Peter fixed his little, sparkling eyes on his guest and his hair rose an inch while his face reddened.
“Perhaps you better go to your room,” he suggested as he might to a naughty child. He wanted to get the girl out of his sight and he hated to see Polly waiting upon her. Kathryn detected the tone and it roused her. No man ever made an escape from Kathryn when he used that note! Her eyes filled with tears; her lips quivered.
“Mr. Northrup’s mother is dying,” she faltered; a shade more or less did not count now––“help me to be brave and calm for his sake. Please be my friend as you have been his!”
This was a wild guess but it served its purpose. Peter felt like a brute and Aunt Polly was all a-tremble.
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“Dear me!” she said, hovering over the girl, “somehow we never thought about Brace’s folks and all that. Just you come upstairs and rest and wash. I’ll fetch you some nice hot tea. It’s terrible––his mother dying––and you having to break it to him.” Polly led Kathryn away and Peter sat wretchedly alone.
When Polly returned he was properly contrite and set to work assisting with the evening meal. Polly was silent for the most part, but she was deeply concerned.
“She says she’s going to marry Brace,” she confided.
“Well, I reckon if she says she is, she is!” Peter grunted. “She looks capable of doing it.”
“Peter, you mustn’t be hard.”
“I hope to the Lord I can be hard.” Peter looked grim. “It’s being soft and easy as has laid us open to––what?”
“Peter, you give me the creeps.”
Peter and Polly were in the kitchen when Kathryn came downstairs. She had had a bath and a nap. She had resorted to her toilet aids and she looked pathetically lovely as she crouched by the hearth in the empty room and waited for Northrup’s return. Every gesture she made bespoke the sweet clinging woman bent on mercy’s task.
She again saw herself in a dramatic scene. Northrup would open the door––that one! Kathryn fixed her eyes on the middle door––he would look at her––reel back; call her name, and she would rush to him, fall in his arms; then control herself, lead him to the fire and break the sad news to him gently, sweetly. He would kneel at her feet, bury his face in her lap–––
But while Kathryn was mentally rehearsing this and thrilling at the success of her wonderful intuitions, Northrup was striding along the road toward the inn, his head bent forward, his hands in his pockets. He was feeling rather the worse for wear; the consequences of his deeds and promises were hurtling about him like tangible, bruising things.
He was never to see Mary-Clare again! That had sounded fine and noble when it meant her freedom from Larry Rivers, but what a beastly thing it seemed, viewed from Mary-Clare’s199side. What would she think of him? After those hours of understanding––those hours weighted with happiness and delight that neither of them dared to call by their true names, so beautiful and fragile were they! Those hours had been like bubbles in which all that wasrealwas reflected. They had breathed upon them, watched them, but had not touched them frankly. And now–––
How ugly and ordinary it would all seem if he left without one last word!
The past few weeks might become a memory that would enrich and ennoble all the years on ahead or they might, through wrong interpretation, embitter and corrode.
Northrup was prepared to make any sacrifice for Mary-Clare; he had achieved that much, but he chafed at the injustice to his best motives if he carried out, literally, what he had promised. He was face to face with one of those critical crises where simple right seemed inadequate to deal with complex wrong.
To leave Mary-Clare free to live whatever life held for her, without bitterness or regret, was all he asked. As for himself, Northrup had agreed to go back––he thought, as he plunged along, in Manly’s terms––to his slit in the wall and keep valiantly to it in the future. But he, no matter what occurred, would always have a wider, purer vision; while Mary-Clare, the one who had made this possible, would–––Oh! it was an unbearable thought.
And just then a rustling in the bushes by the road brought him to a standstill.
“Who’s that?” he asked roughly.
Jan-an came from behind a clump of sumach. A black shawl over her head and falling to her feet made her seem part of the darkness. Northrup turned his flashlight upon her and only her vague white face was visible.
“What’s up?” he asked, as Jan-an came nearer. The girl no longer repelled him––he had seen behind her mask, had known her faithfulness and devotion to them he must leave forever. Northrup was still young enough to believe in that word––forever.
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Jan-an came close.
“Say, there’s a queer lot to the inn. They’re after you!”
Northrup started.
“What do you mean?” he asked.
“A toot cart with an image setting up the front––and a dressy piece in the glass cage behind.”
So vivid was the picture that Jan-an portrayed that Northrup did not need to question.
“Lord! but she was togged out,” Jan-an went on, “but seemed like I felt she had black wings hid underneath.” Poor Jan-an’s flights of fancy always left her muddled. “If you want that I should tell her anything while you light out–––”
Northrup laughed.
“There, there, Jan-an,” he comforted. “Why, this is all right. You wanted me to know, in case––oh! but you’re a good sort! But see here, everything is safe and sound and”––Northrup paused, then suddenly––“to-morrow, Jan-an, I want you to go to––to Mary-Clare and tell her I left––good-bye for her and Noreen.”
“Yer––yer going away?” Jan-an writhed under the flashlight.
“Yes, Jan-an.”
“Why–––” The girl burst into tears. Northrup tried to comfort her. “I’ve been so stirred,” the girl sobbed. “I had feelin’s–––”
“So have I, Jan-an. So have I.”
They stood in the dark for a moment and then, because there was nothing more to say––Northrup went to meet Kathryn Morris.
He went in at one of the end doors, not the middle one, and so disturbed Kathryn’s stage setting. He opened and closed the door so quietly, walked over to the fire so rapidly, that to rise and carry out her programme was out of the question, so Kathryn remained on the hearth and Northrup dropped into the chair beside her.
“Well, little girl,” he said––people always lowered their voices when speaking to Kathryn––“what is it?”
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Northrup was braced for bad news. Of course Manly had given his address to Kathryn––it was something beyond the realm of letters and telegrams that had occurred; Kathryn had been sent! That Manly was not prime mover in this matter could not occur to Northrup.
“Is it Mother?” he whispered.
Kathryn nodded and her easy tears fell.
“Dead?” The word cut like a knife and Kathryn shivered. For the first she doubted herself; felt like a bungler.
“Oh! no, Brace; Brace, do not look like that––really––really––listen to me.”
Northrup breathed heavily.
“An accident?” he demanded. A hard note rang in his words. This turn of affairs was rather more than Kathryn had arranged for. It was like finding herself on the professional stage when she had bargained for an amateur performance.
She ran to cover, abandoning all her well-laid plans. She knew the advantage of being the first in a new situation, so she hurried there.
“Brace dear, I––you know I have been bearing it all alone and I darednottake any further responsibility even to––to shield you, dearest, and your work.”
By some dark magic Northrup felt himself a selfish brute; a deserter of duty.
“Kathryn,” he said, and his eyes fell, “please tell me. I suppose I have been unforgivable, but––well, there’s nothing to say!” Northrup bowed his head to take whatever blow might fall.
“I may be all wrong, dear. You know, when one is alone, is the confidante of another, one as precious as your mother is to you and me, it unnerves one––I did not know what to do. It may not be anything––but how could I know?”
“You went to Manly?” Northrup asked this with a sense of relief while at the same time Kathryn had risen to a plane so high that he felt humbled before her. He was still dazed and in the dark, but all was not lost!
While he had been following his selfish ends, Kathryn had202stood guard over all that was sacred to him. He had never before realized the strength and purpose of the pretty child near him. He reached out and laid his hand on the bowed head.
“No, dear, that was it. Your mother would not let me––she thought only of you; you must not be worried, just now––oh! you know how she is! But, dearest, she has had, for years, a strange and dreadful pain. It does not come often, but when it does, it is very, very bad––it comes mostly at night––so she has been able to hide it from you; the day following she always spoke of it as a headache––you know how we have sympathized with her––but never were alarmed?”
Northrup nodded. He recalled those headaches.
“Well, a week ago she called me to come to her––she really looked quite terrible, Brace. I was so frightened, but of course I had to hide my feelings. She says––oh! Brace, she says there is––way back in the family–––”
“Nonsense!” Northrup got up and paced the floor. “Manly has told me that was sheer nonsense. Go on, Kathryn.”
“Well, dear, she was weak andsopitiful and she––she confided things to me that I am sure she would not have, had she been her brave, dear self.”
“What kind of things?”
It was horrible, but Northrup was conscious of being in a net where the meshes were wide enough to permit of his seeing freedom but utterly cutting him off from it.
What he had subconsciously hoped the night before, what his underlying strength had been founded upon, he would never be able to know, for now he felt every line of escape from, heaven knew what, closing upon him; permitting no choice, wiping out all the security of happiness; leaving––chaff. For a moment, he forgot the question he had just asked, but Kathryn was struggling to answer it.
“About you and me, Brace. Oh! help me. It is so hard; so hard, dear, to tell you, but you must realize that because of the things she said, I estimated the seriousness of her condition and I cannot spare myself! Brace, she knows that203you and I––have been putting off our marriage because of her!”
There was one mad moment when Northrup felt he was going to laugh; but instantly the desire fled and ended in something approaching a groan.
“Go on!” he said quietly, and resumed his seat by the fire.
“I think we have been careless rather than thoughtful, dear. Older people can be hurt by such kindness––if they are wonderful and proud like your mother. She cannot bear to––to be an obstacle.”
“An obstacle? Good Lord!” Northrup jammed a log to its place and so relieved his feelings.
“Well, my dearest, you must see the position I was placed in?”
“Yes, Kathryn, I do. You’re a brick, my dear, but––how did you know where I was, if you did not go to Manly?”
Kathryn looked up, and all the childlike confidence and sweetness she could summon lay in her lovely eyes.
“Dearest, I remembered the address on the letter you sent to your mother. Because I wanted to keep this secret about our fear from her––I came alone and I knew that people here could direct me if you had gone away. I was prepared to follow you––anywhere!”––Kathryn suddenly recalled her small hand-bag upstairs––“Brace, I was frightened, bearing it alone. Ihadto have you. Oh! Brace.”
Northrup found the girl in his arms. His face was against hers––her tears were falling and she was sobbing helplessly. The net, it was a purse net now, drew close.
“Brace, Brace, we must make her happy, together. I will share everything with you––I have been so heedless; so selfish––but my life is now yours and––hers!”
Guilt filled the aroused soul of Northrup. As far as in him lay he––surrendered! With characteristic swiftness and thoroughness he closed his eyes and made his dash!
“Kathryn, you mean you will marry me; you will––do this for me and her?”
“Yes.”
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Just then Aunt Polly came into the room. Her quick, keen eye took in the scene and her gentle heart throbbed in sympathy. She came over to the two and hovered near them, patting Northrup’s shoulder and Kathryn’s head indiscriminately. She crooned over them and finally got them to the dining-room and the evening meal.
An early start for the morrow was planned, and by nine o’clock Kathryn went to her room.
Northrup was restless and nervous. There was much to be done before he left. He must see Rivers and finish that business––it might have to be hurried, but he felt confident that by raising Larry’s price he could secure his ends. And then, because of the finality in the turn of events, Northrup desperately decided upon a compromise with his conscience. Strange as it now seemed he had, before his talk with Kathryn, believed that he was done forever with his experience, but he realized, as he reconsidered the matter, that hope, a strange, blind hope, had fluttered earlier but that now it was dead; dead!
Since that was the case, he would do for a dead man––Northrup gruesomely termed himself that––what the dead man could not do for himself. Surely no one, not even Rivers, would deny him that poor comfort, if all were known. He would write a note to Mary-Clare, go early in the morning to that cabin on the hill and leave it––where her eye would fall upon it when she entered.
That the cabin was sacred to Mary-Clare he very well knew; that she shared it with no one, he also knew; but she would forgive his trespassing, since it was his only way in honour out––out of her life.
Very well, then! At nine-thirty he decided to go over to the Point again and, if he found Larry, finish that business. If Larry were not there, he would lie in wait for him and gain his ends. So he prepared for another night away from the inn, if necessary.
Aunt Polly, hovering on the outskirts of all that was going on, materialized, as he was about leaving the house like a thief of the night.
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“Now, son, must you go out?” she pleaded, her spectacles awry on the top of her head, her eyes unnaturally bright.
“Yes, Aunt Polly.” Northrup paused, the knob of the door in hand, and looked down at the little creature.
“Is it fair, son?” Aunt Polly was savagely thinking of the gossip of the Forest––she wildly believed that Northrup might be going to the yellow house. The hurry of departure might blind him to folly.
“Fair––fair to whom, Aunt Polly?” Northrup’s brows drew together.
“To yourself, son. Bad news and the sudden going away–––” the old voice choked. It was hard to use an enemy’s weapon against one’s own, even to save him.
“Aunt Polly, look at me.” This was spoken sternly.
“Iamlooking, son, I am looking.” And so she was.
“I’m going out, because I must, if I am to do my duty by others. You must trust me. And I want you to know that all my future life will be the stronger, the safer, because of my weeks here with you all! I came to you with no purpose––just a tired, half-sick man, but things were taken out of my hands. I’ve been used, and I don’t know myself just yet for what. I’m going to have faith and you must have it––I’m with you, not against you. Will you kiss me, Aunt Polly?”
From his height Northrup bent to Polly’s littleness, but she reached up to him with her frail tender arms and seemed to gather him into her denied motherhood. Without a word she kissed him and––let him go!
Northrup found Rivers in his shack. He looked as if he had been sitting where Northrup left him the night before. He was unkempt and haggard and there were broken bits of food on the untidy table, and stains of coffee.
“I’m going away, Rivers,” Northrup explained, sitting opposite Larry. “I couldn’t wait to get word from you––my mother is ill. I must put this business through in a sloppy way. It may need a lot of legal patching after, but I’ll take my chances. Heathcote has straightened out your wife’s part––the Point is yours. I’ve made sure of that.206Now I’m going to write out something that I think will hold––anyway, I want your signature to it and to a receipt for money I will give you. What we both know will after all be the real deed, for if you don’t keep your bargain, I’ll come back.”
Larry stared dully, insolently at Northrup but did not speak. He watched Northrup writing at the table where the food lay scattered. Then, when the clumsy document was finished, Northrup pushed it toward Rivers.
“Sign there!” he said.
“I’ll sign where I damn please.” Larry showed his teeth. “How much you going to give me for my woman?”
For a moment the sordid room seemed to be swirling in a flood of red and yellow. Northrup got on his feet.
“I don’t want to kill you,” he muttered, “but you deserve it.”
“Ah, have it your own way,” Larry cringed. The memory of the night before steadied him. He’d been drinking heavily and was stronger––and weaker, in consequence.
“How much is––is the price for the Point?” he mumbled.
Northrup mastered his rage and sat down. Feeling sure that Rivers would dicker he said quietly:
“A thousand dollars.”
“Double that!” Rivers’s eyes gleamed. A thousand dollars would take him out of Maclin’s reach, but all that he could get beyond would keep him there longer.
“Rivers, I expected this, so I’ll name my final price. Fifteen hundred! Hurry up and sign that paper.”
Larry signed it unsteadily but clearly.
“Have you seen your wife, Rivers?” Northrup passed a cheque across the table.
“I’m going to see her to-morrow––I have up to Friday, you know.”
“Yes, that’s true. I must go to-morrow morning, but I’ll make sure you keep to your bargain.”
“And––you?” Rivers’s lips curled.
“I have kept my bargain.”
“And you’ll get away without talking to my wife?”
207
Northrup’s eyes grew dark.
“Yes. But, Rivers, if I find that you play loose in any way, by God, I’ll settle with you if I have to scour the earth for you. Remember, she is to know everything––everything, and after that––you’re to get out––quick.”
“I’ll get out all right.”
“I hope, just because of your wife and child, Rivers, that you’ll straighten up; that something will get a grip on you that will pull you up––not down further. No man has a right to put the burden of his right living or his going to hell on a woman’s conscience, but women like your wife often have to carry that load. You’ve got that in you which, put to good purpose, might–––”
“Oh! cut it out.” Rivers could bear no more. “I’m going to get out of your way––what more in hell do you want?”
“Nothing.” Northrup rose, white-lipped and stern. “Nothing. We are both of us, Rivers, paying a big price for a woman’s freedom. It’s only just––we ought not to want anything more.”
With that Northrup left the shack and retraced his lonely way to the inn.
208CHAPTER XVII
Northrup arose the next morning before daylight and tried to write a note to Mary-Clare. It was the most difficult thing he had ever undertaken. If he could speak, it would be different, but the written word is so rigid.
This last meeting had been so distraught, they had beaten about so in the dark, that his uncertainty as to what really was arrived at confused him.
Could he hope for her understanding if without another word he left her to draw her own conclusions from his future life?
She would be alone. She could confide in no one. She might, in the years ahead, ascribe his actions to the lowest motives, and he had, God knew, meant her no harm.
Then, as it was always to be in the time on ahead, Mary-Clare herself seemed to speak to him.
“It is what one does to love that matters.” That was it––“What one does.”
With this fixed in his mind Northrup wrote:
I want you to know that I love you. I believe you love me. We couldn’t help this––but you have taught me how not to kill it.There are big, compelling things in your life and mine that cannot be ignored––you showed me that, too. I do not know how I am to go on with my old life––but I am going to try to live it––as you will live yours.There was a mad moment on the hill that last day we met––you saved it.There is a greater thing than love––it is truth, and that is why I must bid you good-bye––in this way.
I want you to know that I love you. I believe you love me. We couldn’t help this––but you have taught me how not to kill it.
There are big, compelling things in your life and mine that cannot be ignored––you showed me that, too. I do not know how I am to go on with my old life––but I am going to try to live it––as you will live yours.
There was a mad moment on the hill that last day we met––you saved it.
There is a greater thing than love––it is truth, and that is why I must bid you good-bye––in this way.
Crude and jagged as the thought was, Northrup, in rereading his words, did not now shrink from Mary-Clare’s interpretation. Shewouldunderstand.
After an early breakfast, at which Kathryn did not209appear––Aunt Polly had carried Kathryn’s to her room––Northrup went out to see that everything was ready for the journey home. To his grim delight––it seemed almost a postponed sentence––he discovered the chauffeur under the car and in a state ofcalmexcitement. In broken but carefully selected English the man informed Northrup that he could repair what needed repair but must have two hours or more in which to do it.
With his anxiety about his mother lessened, Northrup received this news with a sense of relief. Once the car was in commission they could make good the loss of time. So Northrup started upon his errand, taking the roundabout trail he had broken for himself, and which led to that point back of the cabin from which he had often held his lonely but happy vigils.
Over this trail, leaf-strewn and wet, Northrup now went. He did not pause at the mossy rock that had hitherto marked his limit. He sternly strode ahead over unbroken underbrush and reached the cabin.
The door was open; without hesitation he went in, laid his note on the table, put the Bible over it, and retraced his steps. But once at the clump of laurel a weak, human longing overcame him. Why not wait there and see what happened? There was an hour or more to while away before the car would be in readiness. Again Northrup had that sense of being, after all, an atom in a plan over which he had small control.
So far he could go, no further! After that? Well, after that he would never weaken. He sat down on the rock, held the branches aside so that the cabin was in full view and, unseen himself, waited.
Now it happened that others besides Northrup were astir that morning. Larry, shaved and washed, having had a good breakfast, provided by Peneluna and served by Jan-an, straightened himself and felt more a man than he had felt for many a day. He gave Jan-an money for Peneluna and a dollar for herself. The girl stared at the bill indicated as hers and pushed it back.