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“Take it, Jan-an,” Larry urged. “I’d like to remember you taking it.”
The girl, thus urged, hid the money in her bosom and shuffled out.
Larry was sober and keen. He was going to carry out Northrup’s commands, but in his own way! He meant to lay a good deal more in waste than perhaps any one would suspect. And yet, Larry, sober and about to cut loose from all familiar things, had sensations that made him tremble as he stumbled over the débris of the Point.
Never before had he been so surely leaving everything as he was now. In the old days of separation, there had always beenhomein the background. During that hideous year when he was shut behind bars, his thoughts had clung to home, to his father! He had meant then to go back and reform! Poor Larry! he had nothing to reform, but he had not realized that. Then Maclin caught him and instead of being reformed, Larry was moulded into a new shape––Maclin’s tool. Well, Maclin was done with, too! Larry strode on in the semi-darkness. The morning was dull and deadly chill.
Traditional prejudice rose in Rivers and made him hard and bitter. He felt himself a victim of others’ misunderstanding.
If he had had a––mother! Never before had this emotion swayed him. He knew little or nothing of his mother. She had been blotted out. But he now tried to think that all this could never have happened to him had he not been deprived of her. In the cold, damp morning Larry reverted to his mother over and over again. Good or bad, she would have stood by him! There was no one now; no one.
“And Mary-Clare!” At this his face set cruelly. “She should have stood by me. What was her sense of duty, anyway?”
She had always eluded him, had never been his. Larry rebelled at this knowledge. She had been cold and demanding, selfish and hard. No woman has a right to keep herself from her husband. All would have been well if she had done211her part. And Noreen was his as well as Mary-Clare’s. But she was keeping everything. His father’s house; the child; the money!
By this time Larry had lashed himself into a virtuous fury. He felt himself wronged and sinned against. He was prepared to hurt somebody in revenge.
Larry went to the yellow house. It was empty. There was a fire on the hearth and a general air of recent occupancy and a hurried departure. A fiendish inspiration came to Rivers. He would go to that cabin of Mary-Clare’s and wait for her. She should get her freedom there, where she had forbidden him to come. He’d enter now and have his say.
Larry took a short cut to the cabin and by so doing reached it before Mary-Clare, who had taken Noreen to Peneluna’s––not daring to take her to the inn.
Larry came to within a dozen yards of the cabin when he stopped short and became rigid. He was completely screened from view, but, for the moment, he did not give this a thought. There was murder in his heart, and only cowardice held him back.
Northrup was coming out of the cabin! Rivers had not realized that he trusted Northrup, but he had, and he was betrayed! All the bitterness of defeat swept over him and hate and revenge alone swayed him. Suddenly he grew calm. Northrup had passed from sight; the white mists of the morning were rolling and breaking. He would wait––if Mary-Clare was in the cabin, and Larry believed she was, he could afford to bide his time. Indeed, it was the only thing to do, for in a primitive fashion Rivers decided to deal only with his woman, and he meant to have a free hand. He would have no fight for what was not worth fighting for––he would solve things in his own way and be off before any one interfered.
And then he turned sharply. Someone was advancing from the opposite direction. It was Mary-Clare. She came up her own trail, emerging from the mists like a shadowy creature of the woods; she walked slowly, wearily, up to the Place and went inside with the eyes of two men full upon her.
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At that moment the sun broke through the mists; it flooded the cabin and touched warmly the girl who sank down beside the table. Instantly her glance fell upon the note by the Bible. She took it up, read it once, twice, and––understood more, far more than Northrup could guess.
Perhaps a soul awakening from the experience of death might know the sensation that throbbed through the consciousness of Mary-Clare at that moment. The woman of her had been born in the cabin the day before, but the birth pains had exhausted her. She had not censured Northrup in her woman-thought; she had believed something of what now she knew, and understood. She raised the note and held it out on her open palms––almost it seemed as if she were showing it to some unseen Presence as proof of all she trusted. With the sheet of paper still held lightly, Mary-Clare walked to the door of her cabin. She had no purpose in mind––she wanted the air; the sunlight. And so she stood in the full glow, her face uplifted, her arms outspread.
Northrup from his hidden place watched her for a moment, bowed his head, and turned to the inn. Larry watched her; in a dumb way he saw revealed the woman he had never touched; never owned. Well, he would have his revenge.
Mary-Clare turned back after her one exalted moment; she took her place by the table and spread again the note before her. She did not notice the footsteps outside until Larry was on the threshold and then she turned, gripping, intuitively, the sheet of paper in her hand. Larry saw the gesture, saw the paper, and half understood.
Mary-Clare looked at her husband distantly but not unkindly. She did not resent his being there––the Place was no longer hers alone.
“A nice lot you are!” Rivers blurted this out and came in. He sat down on the edge of the table near Mary-Clare. “What’s that?” he demanded, his eyes on the note.
“A letter.”
“Full of directions, I suppose?” Larry smiled an ugly, keen smile.
“Directions? What do you mean?”
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“I guess that doesn’t matter, does it?” he asked. “Don’t let us waste time. See here, my girl, the game’s up! Now that letter––I want that. It will be evidence when I need it. He’s broken his bargain. I mean to take the advantage I’ve got.”
Mary-Clare stared at Rivers in helpless amazement––but her fingers closed more firmly upon the note.
“When he––he bought you––he promised me that he’d never see you again. He wanted you free––for yourself. Free!” Larry flung his head back and indulged in a harsh laugh. “I got the Point––he bought the Point and you! Paid high for them, too, but he’ll pay higher yet before I get through with him.”
Mary-Clare sat very quiet; her face seemed frozen into an expression of utter bewilderment. That, and the memory of her as she had stood at the door a few moments ago, maddened Rivers and he ruthlessly proceeded to batter down all the background that had stood, in Mary-Clare’s life, as a plea for her loyalty, faith, and gratitude.
“Do you know why my father kept me from home and put you in my place?” he demanded.
“No, Larry.”
“He was afraid of me––afraid of himself. He left me to others––and others helped me along. Others like Maclin who saw my ability!” Again Larry gave his mirthless, ugly laugh and this time Mary-Clare shuddered.
She made no defence for her beloved doctor––the father of the man before her. She simply braced herself to bear the blows, and she shuddered because she intuitively felt that Larry was in no sense realizing his own position; he was so madly seeking to destroy that of others.
“I’m a counterfeiter––I’ve been in prison––I’ve–––” but here Rivers paused, struck at last by the face opposite him. It was awakening; it flushed, quivered, and the eyes darkened and widened. What was happening was this––Larry was setting Mary-Clare free in ways that he could not realize. Every merciless blow he struck was rending a fetter apart. He was making it possible for the woman, close to him physically,214to regard him at last as––a man; not a husband that mistaken loyalty must shield and suffer for. He was placing her among the safe and decent people, permitting her at last to justify her instincts, to trust her own ideals.
And from that vantage ground of spiritual freedom, released from all false ties of contract and promise, Mary-Clare looked at Larry with divine pity in her eyes. She seemed to see the veiled form of his mother beside him––they were like two outcasts defiantly accusing her, but toward whom she could well afford to feel merciful.
“Don’t, Larry”––Mary-Clare spoke at last and there were tears in her eyes––“please don’t. You’ve said enough.”
She felt as though she were looking at the dying face of a suicide.
“Yes, I think I have said enough about myself except this: I wrote all those letters you––you had. Not one was my father’s––they were counterfeits––there are more ways than one of––of getting what you want.”
Again Mary-Clare shuddered and sank into the dull state of amazement. She had to think this over; go slowly. She looked at Larry, but she was not listening. At last she asked wonderingly:
“You mean––that he did not want me to marry you? And that last night––he did not say––what you said you understood?”
Larry laughed––but it was not the old assured laugh of brutality––he had stripped himself so bare that at last he was aware of his own nakedness.
“Oh!” The one word was like a blighting shaft that killed all that was left to kill.
Larry put forth a pitiful defence.
“You’ve been hard and selfish, Mary-Clare. Another sort might have helped me––I got to caring, at first. You’ve taken everything and given mighty little. And now, when you see a chance of cutting loose, you wipe me off the map and betray me into the hands of a man who has lied to me, made sport of me, and thinks he’s going to get away with it. Now listen. I want that letter. When I have used up215the hush money I have now, I’m coming back for more––more––and you and he are going to pay.”
By this time Larry had worked himself again into a blind fury. He felt this but could not control it. He had lost nearly everything––he must clutch what was left.
“Give that to me!” he commanded, and reached for the clenched hand on the table.
“No, Larry. If you could understand, I would let you have it, but you couldn’t! Nothing matters now between you and me. I am free, free!”
The radiant face, the clenched hand, blinded Larry. Sitting again on the edge of the table, looking down at the woman who had eluded him, was defying him, he struck out! He had no thought at all for the moment––something was in his way; before he could escape he must fling it aside.
Mary-Clare drooped; dropped from her chair and lay quiet upon the floor. Her hand, holding the paper, was spread wide, the note was unprotected.
For a moment Larry gazed at his work with horrified eyes. Never before had he meted physical brutality to man or woman. He was a coward at heart, and he was thoroughly cowed as he stood above the girl at his feet. He saw that she was breathing; there was almost at once a fluttering of the lids. There were two things for a coward to do––seize the note and make his escape.
Larry did both and Mary-Clare took no heed.
A little red squirrel came into the sunny room and darted about; the sunlight grew dim, for there was a storm rising, and the clouds were heavy on its wings.
And while the deathly silence reigned in the cabin, Northrup and Kathryn were riding rapidly from the inn. As the car passed the yellow house, Kathryn pathetically drew down the shades––her eyes were tear-filled.
“Brace, dear,” she whispered, “I’m so afraid. The storm; everything frightens me. Take me in your arms.”
And at that moment Kathryn believed that she loved Northrup, had saved him from a great peril, and she was prepared to act the part, in the future, of a faithful wife.
216CHAPTER XVIII
Noreen and Jan-an late that afternoon returned to the yellow house. They were both rather depressed and forlorn, for they knew that Northrup was gone and had taken away with him much that had stimulated and cheered.
Finding the yellow house empty, the two went up the opposite hill and leisurely made their way to the brook that marked the limit of free choice. Here they sat down, and Noreen suggested that they sing Northrup’s old songs and play some of his diverting games. Jan-an solemnly agreed, shaking her head and sighing as one does who recalls the dead.
So Noreen piped out the well-beloved words of “Green Jacket” and, rather heavily, acted the jovial part. But Jan-an refused to be comforted. She cried distractedly, and always when Jan-an wept she made such abnormal “faces” that she disturbed any onlookers.
“All right!” Noreen said at last. “We’ll both do something.”
This clever psychological ruse brought Jan-an to her normal state.
“Let’s play Eve’s Other Children,” Noreen ran on. “I’ll be Eve and hide my children, the ones I don’t like specially. You be God, Jan-an.”
This was a great concession on Noreen’s part, for she revelled in the leading rôle, as it gave full play to her dramatic sense of justice.
However, the play began with Noreen hiding some twisted and dry sticks under stones and in holes in trees and then proceeding to dress, in gay autumn leaves, more favoured twigs. She crooned over them; expatiated upon their loveliness,217and, at a given signal, poor Jan-an clumsily appeared and in most unflattering terms accused Noreen of depravity and unfaithfulness, demanding finally, in most picturesque and primitive language, the hidden children. At this point Noreen rose to great heights. Fear, remorse, and shame overcame her. She pleaded and denied; she confessed and at last began, with the help of her accuser, to search out the neglected offspring. So wholly did the two enjoy this part of the game that they forgot their animosity, and when the crooked twigs were discovered Jan-an became emphatically allegorical with Noreen and ruthlessly destroyed the “other children” on the score that they weren’t worth keeping.
But the interest flagged at length, and both Jan-an and Noreen became silent and depressed.
“I’ve got feelin’s!” Jan-an remarked, “in the pit of my stomach. Besides, it’s getting cold and a storm’s brewing. Did yer hear thunder?”
Noreen was replacing her favoured children in the crannies of the rocks, but she turned now to Jan-an and said wistfully:
“I want Motherly.”
“She’s biding terrible long up yonder.”
“P’raps, oh! Jan-an, p’raps that lady you were telling about has taken Motherly!”
Noreen became agitated, but Jan-an with blind intuition scoffed.
“No; whatever she took, she wouldn’t take her! But she took Mr. Northrup, all right. Her kind takes just fierce! I sense her.”
Noreen looked blank.
“Tell me about the heathen, Jan-an,” she said. “Whatdidhe eat when Uncle Peter wouldn’t let him have Ginger?”
“I don’t know, but I did miss two rabbits.”
“Live ones, Jan-an?” Noreen’s eyes widened.
“Sure, live ones. Everything’s live till it’s killed. I ain’t saying he et ’em ’live.”
“Maybe the rabbits got away,” Noreen suggested hopefully.
“The Lord knows! Maybe they did.” Then Jan-an218added further information: “I guess your father has gone for good!”
“Took?” Noreen was not now overcome by grief.
“No, just gone. He gave me a dollar.”
“A dollar, Jan-an? A whole dollar?” This was almost unbelievable. Jan-an produced the evidence from her loose and soiled blouse.
“He left his place terribly tidy, too,” she ran on, “and when a man does that Peneluna says it’s awful suspicious.”
“Jan-an, you wait here––I’m going up to the cabin!”
Noreen stood up defiantly. She was possessed by one of her sudden flashes of inspiration.
“Yer ain’t been called,” warned Jan-an.
“I know, but Imustgo. I’ll only peep in. Maybe Motherly took a back way to the inn.”
To this Jan-an had nothing to say and she sat down upon a wet rock to wait, while Noreen darted up the trail like a small, distracted animal of the woods.
It was growing dark and heavy with storm; the thunder was more distinct––there was a hush and a breathless suggestion of wind held in check by a mighty force.
Noreen reached the shack and peeped in at the vine-covered window. What she saw marked a turning-point in the child’s life.
Mary-Clare was still stretched upon the floor. Several things had happened to her since Larry fled; she was never clearly to account for them.
She had been conscious and had drifted into unconsciousness several times. She had tried, she recalled that later, to get to the couch, but her aching head had driven the impulse into oblivion. She had fallen back on the floor. Then, again, she roused and there was blood––near her. Not much, but she had not noticed it before, and she must have fainted. Again, she could remember thinking of Noreen, of the others; and the necessity of keeping forever hidden the thing that had happened.
But again Mary-Clare, from exhaustion or faintness, slipped into silence, and so Noreen found her!
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The child went swiftly into the still cabin and knelt beside her mother. She was quite calm, at first, and unafraid. She took the dear head on her lap and patted the white cheek where the little cut had let out the blood––there was dry blood on it now and that caused Noreen to gasp and cry out.
Back and forth the child swayed, mumbling comforting words; and then she spoke louder, faster––her words became wild, disconnected. She laughed and cried and called for every one of her little world in turn.
Uncle Peter!
Aunt Polly!
Peneluna! And then Jan-an! Jan-an!
As she sobbed and screamed Mary-Clare’s eyes opened and she smiled. At that moment Jan-an came stumbling into the room.
One look and the dull, faithful creature became a machine carrying out the routine that she had often shared with others on the Point.
“She ain’t dead!” she announced after one terrified glance, and then she dragged Mary-Clare to the couch; ran for water; took a towel from a nail and bathed the white, stained face. During this Noreen’s sobs grew less and less, she became quieter and was able, presently, to assist Jan-an.
“She’s had a fall,” Jan-an announced. Mary-Clare opened her eyes––the words found an echo in her heavy brain.
“Yes,” she whispered.
“And on an empty stummick!” Jan-an had a sympathetic twinge.
“Yes,” again Mary-Clare whispered and smiled.
“Noreen, you go on sopping her face––I’m going to get something hot.”
And while Noreen bathed and soothed the face upon the pillow into consciousness and reason, Jan-an made a fire on the hearth, carried water from a spring outside, and brought forth tea and some little cakes from the cupboard. The girl’s face was transfigured; she was thinking,220thinking, and it hurt her to think consecutively––but she thought on.
“Norrie darling, I am all right. Quite all right.” At last Mary-Clare was able to assert herself; she rose unsteadily and Jan-an sprang to her side.
“Lay down,” she commanded in a new and almost alarming tone. “Can’t yer see, yer must hold on ter yerself a spell? Let me take the lead––I know, I know!”
And Mary-Clare realized that she did! Keenly the two gazed at each other, Eve’s two children! Mary-Clare sank back; her face quivered; her eyes filled with weak tears.
Outside the darkness of the coming storm pressed close, the wind was straining at the leash, the lightning darted and the thunder rolled.
“The storm,” murmured Mary-Clare, “the storm! It is the breaking up of summer!”
The stale cakes and the hot tea refreshed the three, and after an hour Mary-Clare seemed quite herself. She went to the door and looked out into the heart of the storm. The red lightning ran zigzag through the blackness. It seemed like the glad summer, mad with fear, seeking a way through the sleet and rain.
Bodily bruised and weary, mentally exhausted and groping, Mary-Clare still felt that strange freedom she had experienced while Larry was devastating all that she had believed in, and for which she had given of her best.
She felt as one must who, escaping from an overwhelming flood, looks upon the destruction and wonders at her own escape. But shehadescaped! That became, presently, the one gripping fact. She had escaped and she would find safety somewhere.
The late sunset after the storm was glorious. The clear gold that a mighty storm often leaves in its wake was like a burnished shield. The breeze was icy in its touch; the bared trees startled one by the sudden change in their appearance––the gale had torn their colour and foliage from them. Starkly they stood forth against the glowing sky.
And then Mary-Clare led the way down the trail––her221leaf-strewn, hidden trail. She held Noreen’s hand in hers but she leaned upon Jan-an. As they descended Mary-Clare planned.
“When we get home, Jan-an, home to the yellow house, I want you to go for Peneluna.”
From all the world, Mary-Clare desired the old understanding woman.
“I guess you mean Aunt Polly,” Jan-an suggested.
“No. To-morrow, Aunt Polly, Jan-an. To-day I want Peneluna.”
“All right.” Jan-an nodded.
“And, Noreen dear.”
“Yes, Motherly.”
“Everything is all right. I had a––queer fall. It was quite dark in the cabin––I hit my face on the edge of the table. And, Noreen.”
“Yes, Motherly.”
“I may have to rest a little, but you must not be worried––you see, Mother hasn’t rested in a long while.”
Peneluna responded to the call. It was late evening when she and Jan-an came to the yellow house. Before starting for the Point Jan-an had insisted upon getting a meal and afterward she had helped Mary-Clare put Noreen to bed. All this had delayed her.
“Now,” she said at last, “I’ll go. I guess you’re edging to the limit, ain’t yer?”
Mary-Clare nodded.
“I’ve never been sick, not plain sick, in all my life,” she murmured, “and why should I be now?”
But left alone, she made ready, in a strange way, for what she felt was coming upon her. She undressed carefully and put her room in order. Then she lay down upon her bed and drifted lightly between the known and the unknown.
She touched Noreen’s sleeping face so gently that the child did not heed the caress. Then:
“Perhaps I am going to die––people die so easily at times––just flare out!”
And so Peneluna found her and knelt beside her.
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“You hear me, Mary-Clare?”
“Yes. I hear you, of course.”
“Well, then, child, take this along with you, wherever you bide for a time. I’m here and God Almighty’s here and things is safe! You get that?”
“Yes, Peneluna.”
“Then listen––‘The solitary place shall be glad––and a highway shall be there––and a way.’” The confused words fell into a crooning song.
“Solitary Place–––” Mary-Clare drifted to it, her eyes closed wearily, but she smiled and Peneluna believed that she had found The Way. Whether it wound back or out––well! Peneluna turned to her task of nursing. She had the gift of healing and she had an understanding heart, and so she took command.
It was a rough and difficult Way and beset with dangers. A physician came and diagnosed the case.
“Bad fall––almost concussion.”
Aunt Polly came and shared the nursing. Jan-an mechanically attended to the house while Uncle Peter took Noreen under his care.
The dull, uneventful days dragged on before Mary-Clare came back to her own. One day she said to Jan-an, “I––I want you to go to the cabin, Jan-an. I have given it––back to God. Close the windows and doors––for winter has come!”
Jan-an nodded. She believed Mary-Clare was “passing out”––she was frightened and superstitious. She did not pause to explain to Peneluna, in the next room, where she was going, but covering her head and shoulders with an old shawl, she rushed forth.
It was bitingly cold and the dry twigs struck against the girl’s face like ice. The ghost-wind added terror to the hour, but Jan-an struggled on.
When she reached the cabin it was nearly dark––the empty room was haunted by memories and there were little scurrying creatures darting about. Standing in the centre of the room, Jan-an raised her clenched hands and extended them223as if imploring a Presence. If Mary-Clare had given the Place back to God, then it might be that God was there close and––listening. Jan-an became possessed by the spiritual. She lifted her faithful, yearning eyes and spoke aloud.
“God!” She waited. Then: “God, I’m trusting and I ain’t afraid––much! God, listen! I fling this to Your face. Yer raised Lazarus and others from the dead and Mary-Clare ain’t dead yet––can’t Yer––save her? Hear me! hear me!”
Surely God heard and made answer, for that night Mary-Clare’s Way turned back again toward the little yellow house.
When she was able, Aunt Polly insisted that she be moved to the inn.
“It will make less trouble all around and Peneluna will stay on.”
So they went to the inn, and the winter settled down upon the Forest and the Point and the mines. The lake was frozen and became a glittering highway; children skated; sleighs darted here and there. The world was shut away and things sank into the old grooves.
During her convalescence Mary-Clare had strange visionary moments. She seemed to be able at times to detach herself from her surroundings and, guided by almost forgotten words of Northrup’s, find herself––with him. And always he was alone. She never visualized his mother; she could, thank heaven, eliminate Kathryn.
She was alone with Northrup in a high place. They did not speak or touch each other––but they knew and were glad! There seemed to be mists below them, surrounding them; mists that now and then parted, and she and Northrup would eagerly try to––see things! Mary-Clare imagined herself in that high place as she did Northrup, a personality quite outside her own.
After awhile those moments took more definite shape and form. She and Northrup were trying to see their city in the mists; trying to create their city.
This became a thrilling mental exercise to Mary-Clare,224and in time she saw a city. Once or twice she almost felt him as she, that girl of her own creation, reached out to the man whom she loved; who loved her, but who knew, as she did, that love asks renunciation at times as well as acceptance if one were to keep––truth.
Presently Mary-Clare was able to walk in the sunshine and then she often went to the deserted chapel and sat silent for hours.
And there Maclin found her one day––a smiling, ingratiating Maclin. Maclin had been much disturbed by Larry’s abrupt and, up to the present, successful escape. Of course Maclin’s very one-track mind had at the hour of Rivers’s disappearance accounted for things in a primitive way. Northrup had bought Larry off! That was simple enough until Northrup himself disappeared.
At this Maclin was obliged to do some original conjecturing. There must have been a scene––likely enough in that wood cabin. Northrup’s woman had got the whip hand and Northrup had accepted terms––leaving Mary-Clare. That would account for the illness.
So far, so good. But with both Larry and Northrup off the ground, the Heathcotes would have to take responsibility. This would be the psychological moment to buy the Point! So Maclin, keeping watch, followed Mary-Clare to chapel island.
“Well, well!” he exclaimed as if surprised to see the girl in the angle of the old church. “Decided to get well, eh? Taking a sun bath?”
Mary-Clare gathered her cloak closer, as if shrinking from the smiling, unwholesome-looking man.
“Yes, I’m getting well fast,” she said.
“Hear anything from Larry?” It seemed best to hide his own feelings as to Larry.
“No.”
“Some worried, I expect?”
“No, I do not worry much, Mr. Maclin.” Mary-Clare was thinking of her old doctor’s philosophy. She wasn’t going to die, so she must live at once!
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“It’s a damned mean way to treat a little woman the way you’ve been treated.”
Maclin stepped nearer and his neck wrinkled. Mary-Clare made no reply to this. Maclin was conscious of the back of his neck––it irritated him.
“Left you strapped?” he asked.
“What is that?” Mary-Clare was interested.
“Short of money.”
“Oh! no. My wishes are very simple––there’s money enough for them.”
“See here, Mrs. Rivers, let’s get down to business. Of course you know I want the Point. I’ll tell you why. The mines are all rightasmines, but I have some inventions over there ripe for getting into final shape. Now, I haven’t told a soul about this before––not even Larry––but I always hold that a womancankeep her tongue still. I’m not one of the men who think different. I want to put up a factory on the Point; some model cottages and––andmakeKing’s Forest. Now what would you take for the Point, and don’t be too modest. I don’t grind the faces of women.”
Maclin smiled. The fat on his face broke into lines––that was the best a smile could do for him. Mary-Clare looked at him, fascinated.
“Speak up, Mrs. Rivers!” This came like a poke in the ribs––Mary-Clare recoiled as from a physical touch.
“I do not own the Point any longer,” she said.
“What in thunder!” Maclin now recoiled. “Who then?”
“I gave it to Larry.”
“How the devil could Larry pay you for it?”
“Larry gave me no money.”
“Do you expect me to believe this, Mrs. Rivers?” The fat now resumed its flaccid lines.
“It doesn’t interest me in the least, Mr. Maclin, whether you do or not.”
Then Mary-Clare rose, rather weakly, and turned toward the bridge.
And there stood Maclin alone! Like all people who have226much that they fear to have known, Maclin considered now how much Larry really knew? Did he know what the Point meant? Had he ever opened letters? This brought the sweat out on Maclin.
Had he copied letters with that devilish trick of his? Could he sell the Point to––to–––?
Maclin could bear no longer his unanswered questions. He went back to the mines and was not seen in King’s Forest for many a day.
227CHAPTER XIX
Once back in the old environment, Northrup went, daily, through the sensations of his haunting dream, without the relief of awakening. The corridor of closed doors was an actuality to him now. Behind them lay experiences, common enough to most men, undoubtedly, but, as yet, unrevealed to him.
In one he had dwelt for a brief time––good Lord! had it only been for weeks? Well, the memory, thank heaven, was secure; unblemished. He vowed that he would reserve to himself the privilege of returning, in thought, to that memory-haunted sanctuary as long as he might live, for he knew, beyond any doubt, that it could not weaken his resolve to take up every duty that he had for a time abandoned. It should be with him as Manly had predicted.
This line of thought widened Northrup’s vision and developed a new tie between him and other men. He found himself looking at them in the street with awakened interest. He wondered how many of them, stern, often hard-featured men, had realized their souls in private or public life, and how had they dealt with the revelation? He grew sensitive as to expressions; he believed, after a time, that he could estimate, by the look in the eyes of his fellowmen, by the set of their jaws, whether they had faced the ordeal, as he was trying to do, or had denied the soul acceptance. It was like looking at them through a magnifying lens where once he had regarded them through smoked glass.
And the women? Well, Northrup was very humble about women in those days. He grew restive when he contemplated results and pondered upon the daring that had assumed responsibility where complete understanding had never been attempted. It seemed, in his introspective state, that God,228even, had been cheated. Women were, he justly concluded, pretty much a response to ideals created for them, not by them.
Mary-Clare was having her way with Northrup!
Something of all this crept into his book for, after a fortnight at home, he set his own jaw and lips rather grimly, went to his small office room in the tower of a high building, and paid the elevator boy a goodly sum for acting as buffer during five holy hours of each day.
It was like being above the world, sitting in that eyrie nook of his. Northrup often recalled a day, years before, when he had stood on a mountain-peak bathed in stillness and sunlight, watching the dramatic play of the elements on the scene below. Off to the right a violent shower spent itself mercilessly; to the left, rolling mists were parting and revealing pleasant meadows and clustering hamlets. And with this recollection, Northrup closed his eyes and, from his silent watch tower, saw, as no earthly thing could make him see, the hideous tragedy across the seas.
Since his return his old unrest claimed him. It was blotting out all that he had believed was his––ideals; the meaning of life; love; duty; even his city––his––was threatened. Nothing any longer seemed safe unless it were battled for. There was something he owed––what was it?
Try as he valiantly did, Northrup could put little thought in his work––it eluded him. He began, at first unconsciously, to plan for going away, while, consciously, he deceived himself by thinking that he was readjusting himself to his own widened niche in the wall!
When Northrup descended from his tower, he became as other men and the grim lines of lips and jaws relaxed. He was with them who first caught the wider vision of brotherhood.
At once, upon his return, he had taken Manly into his confidence about his mother, and that simple soul brushed aside the sentimental rubbish with which Kathryn had cluttered the situation.
“It’s all damned rot, Brace,” he snapped. “You had a229grandmother who did work that was never meant for women to do––laid a carpet or tore one up, I forget which, I heard the story from my father––and she developed cancer––more likely it wasn’t cancer––I don’t think my father was ever sure. But, good Lord! why should her descendants inherit an accident? I thought I’d talked your mother out of that nonsense.”
Thus reassured, Northrup told Kathryn that all the secret diplomacy was to be abandoned and that his mother must work with them.
“But, Brace dear, you don’t blame me for my fright? I was so worried!”
“No, little girl, you were a trump. I’ll never forget how you stood by!”
So Helen Northrup put herself in Manly’s hands––those strong, faithful hands. She went to a hospital for various tests. She was calm but often afraid. She sometimes looked at the pleasant, thronged streets and felt a loneliness, as if she missed herself from among her kind. Manly pooh-poohed and shrugged his broad shoulders.
“Women! women!” he ejaculated, but there were hours when he, too, had his fears.
But in the end, black doubt was driven away.
“Of course, my dear lady,” Manly said relievedly, patting her hand, “we cannot sprint at fifty-odd as we did at twenty. But a more leisurely gait is enjoyable and we can take time to look around at the pleasant things; do the things we’ve always wanted to do––but didn’t have time to do. Brace must get married––he’ll have children and you’ll begin all over with them. Then I’d like to take in some music with you this winter. I’ve rather let my pet fads drop from sheer loneliness. Let’s go to light opera––we’re all getting edgy over here. I tell you, Helen, it’s up to us older fry to steer the youngsters away from what does not concern them.”
Poor Manly! He could not deafen his conscience to the growing call from afar and already he saw the trend. So he talked the more as one does to keep his courage up in grave danger.
230
With his anxiety about Helen Northrup removed, Manly gave attention to Brace. Brace puzzled him. He acknowledged that Northrup had never looked better; the trip had done wonders for him. Yes; that was it––something rather wonderful had been done.
He attacked Northrup one day in his sledge-hammer style.
“What in thunder has got mixed up in your personality?” he asked.
“Oh! I suppose anxiety about Mother, Manly. And the thought that I had slipped from under my responsibilities. Had she died––well! it’s all right now.”
But this did not satisfy Manly.
“Hang it all, I don’t mean anxiety,” he blurted out. “The natural stuff I can estimate and label. But you look somehow as if you had been switched off the side track to the main line.”
“Or the other way about, old man?” Northrup broke in and laughed.
“No, sir; you’re on the main line, all right; but you don’t look as if you knew where you were going. Keep the headlight on, Brace.”
“Thanks, Manly; I do not fully understand just where I may land, but I’m going slow. Now this––this horror across seas–––” Always it was creeping in, these days.
“Oh! that’s their business, Northrup. They’re always scrapping––this isn’t our war, old man,” Manly broke in roughly, but Northrup shook his head.
“Manly, I cannot look at it as a war––just a plain war, you know. I’ve had a queer experience that I will tell you about some day, but it convinced me that above all, and through all, there is a Power that forces us, often against our best-laid plans, and I believe that Power can force the world as well. Manly, take it from me, this is no scrap over there, it’s a soul-finder; a soul-creator, more like. Before we get through, a good many nations and men will be compelled to look, as you once did, at bare, gaunt souls or”––a pause––“set to work and make souls.”
Manly twisted in his seat uneasily. Northrup went on.
231
“Manly”––he spoke quietly, evenly––“do you remember our last talk in this office before I left?”
“Well, some of it. Yes.”
“Jogs, you know. Mountain peaks, baby hands, women faces, and souls?”
“Oh! yes. Sick talk to a sick man.” Manly snapped his fingers.
“Manly, what did you mean by saying that you had once seen your soul?” Northrup was in dead earnest. Manly swung around in his swivel chair.
“I meant that I saw mine once,” he said sharply, definitely.
“How did it look?”
“As if I had neglected it. A shrunken, shivering thing.” Manly stopped suddenly, then added briefly: “You cannot starve that part of you, Northrup, without a get-back some day.”
“No. And that’s exactly what I am up against––the get-back!”
After that talk with Manly, Northrup, singularly enough, felt as if he had arrived at some definite conclusion; had received instructions as to his direction. He was quietly elated and, sitting in his office, experienced the peace and satisfaction of one who spiritually submits to a higher Power.
The globe of light on the peak of his tower seemed, humorously, to have become his headlight––Manly’s figures of speech clung––its white and red flashes, its moments of darkness, were like the workings of his mind, but he knew no longer the old depression. He was on the main line, and he had his orders––secret ones, so far, but safe ones.
Kathryn grew more charming as time passed. She did not seem to resent Northrup’s detachment, though the tower room lured him dangerously. Once she had hinted that she’d love to see his workshop; hear some of his work. But Northrup had put her off.
“Wait, dear, until I’ve finished the thing, and then you and I will have a regular gorge of it, up in my tower.”
Kathryn at this put up her mouth to be kissed while behind her innocent smile she was picturing the girl of King’s Forest232in those awful muddy trousers!Shehad heard the book in the making; she had not been pushed aside.
More and more Mary-Clare became a stumbling block to Kathryn. She felt she was a dangerous type; the kind men never could understand, until it was too late, and never forgot. And Bracewaschanged. The subtle unrest did not escape Kathryn.
“I wonder–––” And Kathryn did wonder. Wondered most at the possibility of Mary-Clare ever appearing on the surface again. For––and this was a humiliating thought to Kathryn––she realized she was no match for that girl of the Forest!
However, Kathryn, as was her wont when things went wrong, pulled down the shade mentally, as once she had done physically, against the distasteful conditions Brace had evolved.
And there was much to be attended to––so Kathryn, with great efficiency, set to work. She must make provision for her aunt’s future. This was not difficult, for poor Anna was so relieved that any provision was to be considered, that she accepted Kathryn’s lowest figure.
Then there was Arnold. Sandy, at the moment, was disgusted at Northrup’s return. It interfered with his plans. Sandy had a long and keen scent. The trouble overseas had awakened a response in him, he meant to serve the cause––but in his own way. Secretly he was preparing. He was buying up old vessels, but old vessels were expensive and the secrecy prevented his borrowing money. He wanted to get married, too. Kathryn, with only his protection and he with Kathryn’s little fortune, would create, at the moment, a situation devoutly to be desired.
Kathryn had to deal with this predicament cautiously. Sandy was so horribly matter-of-fact––not a grain of Northrup’s idealism about him! But for that very reason, in the abominably upset state of the world, he was not lightly to be cast on the scrap-heap. One never could tell! Brace might act up sentimentally, but Sandy could be depended upon always––he was a rock!