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“Yes, Rivers, I catch on.” Then after a pause: “Let me light the lamp.” But Rivers caught hold of him.
“No, don’t waste time––they may come back at any moment––there’ll never be another chance.”
“All right, go on, Rivers.”
The soft autumn day was drawing to its close, but the west was still golden. The light fell on the two men near the window; one shivered.
“There isn’t much more to say. I wanted you to know that I’m not going to be in the way very long.
“You and I talked man to man once back there in the shack. Northrup, we must do it now. We needn’t be damned fools. I’ve got a line on Mary-Clare and yes, thank God! on you. I can trust you both. She mustn’t know. When it’s all over, I want her to have the feeling that she’s played square. She has, but if she thought I felt as I do to-day, it would hurt her. You understand? She’s like that. Why, she’s fixed it up in her mind that I’m going to pull through, and she’s braced to do her part to the end; but”––here Larry paused, his dull eyes filled with hot tears; his strength was almost gone––“but I wanted you to help her––if it means what it once did to you.”
“It means that and more, Rivers.”
Northrup heard his own words with a kind of shock. Again he and Rivers were stripped bare as once before they had been.
“It––it won’t be long, Northrup––there’s damned little I can do to––to make good, but––I can do this.”
The choking voice fell into silence. Presently Northrup stood up. Years seemed to have passed since he had come into the room. It was a trick of life, in the Forest, when big things happened––they swept all before them.
“Rivers, you are a brave man,” he slowly said. “Will you shake hands?”
The thin cold fingers instantly responded.
“God helping me, I will not betray your trust. Once I would not have been so sure of myself, but you and I have been taught some strange truths.”
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Then something of the old Larry flashed to the surface: the old, weak relaxing, the unmoral craving for another’s solution of his problems.
“Oh, it always has to be someone to help me out,” he said.
“You know about Maclin?”
“Yes, Rivers.”
“Well, I did the turn for that damned scoundrel. I got the Forest out of his clutches.”
“Yes, you did when you got your eyes opened, Rivers.”
“They’re open now, Northrup, but there always has to be––someone to help me out.”
“Rivers, where is your wife?” So suddenly did Northrup ask this that Larry started and gave a quick laugh.
“She went to that cabin of hers––you know?”
“Yes, I know.”
Both men were reliving old scenes.
Then Larry spoke, but the laugh no longer rang in his tone:
“She’ll be coming, by now, down the trail,” he whispered. “Go and meet her, tell her you’ve been here, that I told you where she was––nothing more! Nothing more. Ever!”
“That’s right, never!” Northrup murmured. Then he added:
“I’ll come back with her, Rivers, soon. I’m going to stay at the inn for a time.”
Their hands clung together for a moment longer while one man relinquished, the other accepted. Then Northrup turned to the door.
There was a dull purplish glow falling on the Forest. The subtle, haunting smell of wood smoke rose pungently. It brought back, almost hurtingly, the past. Northrup walked rapidly along the trail. Hurrying, hurrying to meet––he knew not what!
Presently he saw Mary-Clare, from a distance, in the ghostly woods. Her head was bowed, her hands clasped lightly before her. There was no haste, no anticipation in her appearance; she simply came along!
The sight of youth beaten is a terrible sight, and Mary-Clare, off her guard, alone and suffering, believed herself280beaten. She was close to Northrup before she saw him. For a moment he feared the shock was going to be too great for her endurance. She turned white––then the quick red rose threateningly, the eyes dimmed.
Northrup did not speak––he could not. With gratitude he presently saw the dear head lift bravely, the trembling smile curl her cold lips.
“You––have come!”
“Yes, Mary-Clare.”
“How––did you know––where I was?”
“I stopped at the yellow house. I saw your––I saw Larry––he told me where to find you.”
“He told you that?”
The bravery flickered––but pride rallied.
“He is very changed.” The words were chosen carefully. “He is very patient and––and Noreen loves him. She never could have, if he had not come back! She––well, you remember how she used to take care of me?”
“Yes, Mary-Clare.”
“She takes care of her father in that way, now that she understands his need.”
“She would. That would be Noreen’s way.”
“Yes, her way. And I am glad he came back to us. It might all have been so different.”
There was a suggestion of passionate defence in the low, hurried words, a quick insistence that Northrup accept her position as she herself was doing.
“Yes, Mary-Clare. Your old philosophy has proved itself.”
“I am glad you believe that.”
“I have come to the Forest to tell you so. The things that do not count drop away. We do not have to push them from our lives.”
“Oh! I am glad to hear you say that.”
Mary-Clare caught her breath.
There seemed to be nothing to keep them apart now––a word, a quick sentence were all that were necessary to bridge the past and the present. Neither dared consider the future.
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The small, common things crept into the conversation for a time, then Mary-Clare asked hesitatingly:
“You––you are happy? And your book?”
“The book is awaiting its time, Mary-Clare. I must live up to it. I know that now. And the girl you once saw here, well! that is all past. It was one of those things that fell away!”
There was nothing to say to this, but Northrup heard a sharp indrawing of the breath, and felt the girl beside him stumble on the darkening trail.
“You know I went across the water to do my part?” he asked quickly.
“You would, of course. That call found such men as you. Larry went, too!” This came proudly.
“Yes, and he paid more than I did, Mary-Clare.”
“He had more to pay––there was Maclin. Do you know about Maclin?”
“Yes. It was damnable. We all scented the evil, but we’re not the sort of people to believe such deviltry until it’s forced upon us.”
“It frightened us all terribly,” Mary-Clare’s voice would always hold fear when she spoke of Maclin. “I do not know what would have happened to the Forest if––a Mrs. Dana had not come just when things were at the worst.”
There are occurrences in life that seem always to have been half known. Their acceptance causes no violent shock. As Mary-Clare spoke that name, Northrup for a moment paused, repeated it a bit dazedly, and, as if a curtain had been withdrawn, he saw the broad, illuminating truth! “You have heard of Mrs. Dana?” Mary-Clare asked. That Northrup knew so much did not surprise her.
“Yes, of course! And it would be like her to drop in at the psychological moment.”
“She set us to work!” Mary-Clare went on. “She is the most wonderful woman I ever knew.”
“She must be!”
Slower and slower the two walked down the trail. They were clutching the few golden moments.
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It was quite dark when they came to the yellow house. The door was wide open, the heart of the little home lay bare to the passer-by.
Jan-an was on her knees by the hearth, puffing to life the kindlings she had lighted. Larry’s chair was drawn close and upon its arm Noreen was perched.
“They always leave it so for me,” Mary-Clare whispered. “You see how everything is?”
“Yes, I see, Mary-Clare.”
Northrup reached forth and drew the small clasped hands into his own!––then he bent and kissed them.
“I see, I see.”
“And you will come in? Larry loves company.”
“Not to-night, Mary-Clare, but to-morrow. I am going to stay at the inn for a few days.”
“Oh! I am glad!” Almost the brave voice broke.
“There is something else I see, my dear,” Northrup ignored the poor disguise for a moment. “I see the meaning ofyouas I never saw it before. You have never broken faith! That is above all else––it is all else.”
“I have tried.” Upon the clasped hands tears fell, but Northrup caught the note of joy in her grieving voice.
“You have carried on what your doctor entrusted to you.”
“Oh! thank you, bless you for saying that.”
“Good-night.” Northrup released the cold hands––they clung for a moment in a weak, human way. “There is to-morrow, you know,” he whispered.
Alone, a little later, on the road, Northrup experienced that strange feeling of having left something back there in the yellow house.
He heard the water lapping the edge of the road where the sumach grew; the bell, with its new tone, sounded clearly the vesper hour; and on ahead the lights of the inn twinkled.
And then, as if hurrying to complete the old memory, Mary-Clare seemed to be following, following in the darkness.
Northrup’s lips closed grimly. He squared his shoulders to his task.
He must go on, keeping his mind fixed upon the brighter283hope that Mary-Clare could not, now, see; must not now see. For her, there must be the dark stretch; for him the glory of keeping the brightness undimmed––it must be a safe place for her to rest in, by and by. “She has kept the faith with life,” Northrup thought. “She will keep it with death––but love must keep faith with her.”
THE END