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-The Project Gutenberg EBook of At the Crossroads, by Harriet T. Comstock

-

-This eBook is for the use of anyone anywhere at no cost and with

-almost no restrictions whatsoever.  You may copy it, give it away or

-re-use it under the terms of the Project Gutenberg License included

-with this eBook or online at www.gutenberg.org

-

-

-Title: At the Crossroads

-

-Author: Harriet T. Comstock

-

-Illustrator: Walter De Maris

-

-Release Date: September 26, 2009 [EBook #30095]

-

-Language: English

-

-Character set encoding: ASCII

-

-*** START OF THIS PROJECT GUTENBERG EBOOK AT THE CROSSROADS ***

-

-

-

-

-Produced by Roger Frank and the Online Distributed

-Proofreading Team at http://www.pgdp.net

-

-

-

-

-

-

-

-

-

-AT THE CROSSROADS

-

-

-

-

-BOOKS BY HARRIET T. COMSTOCK

-

-  A Little Dusky Hero

-  A Son of the Hills

-  At the Crossroads

-  Camp Brave Pine

-  Janet of the Dunes

-  Joyce of the North Woods

-  Mam'selle Jo

-  Princess Rags and Tatters

-  The Man Thou Gavest

-  The Place Beyond the Winds

-  The Shield of Silence

-  The Vindication

-  Unbroken Lines

-

-

-

-

-[Illustration: "_It might have seemed an empty house but for the

-appearance of care and a curl of smoke from the chimney._"]

-

-

-

-

-AT THE CROSSROADS

-

-BY

-

-HARRIET T. COMSTOCK

-

-FRONTISPIECE BY

-

-WALTER DE MARIS

-

-GARDEN CITY--NEW YORK

-

-DOUBLEDAY, PAGE & COMPANY

-

-1922

-

-

-

-

-COPYRIGHT, 1922, BY DOUBLEDAY, PAGE & COMPANY

-

-ALL RIGHTS RESERVED, INCLUDING THAT OF TRANSLATION INTO

-FOREIGN LANGUAGES, INCLUDING THE SCANDINAVIAN

-

-PRINTED IN THE UNITED STATES AT THE COUNTRY LIFE PRESS,

-GARDEN CITY, N.Y.

-

-

-

-

-AT THE CROSSROADS

-

-

-

-

-AT THE CROSSROADS

-

-

-The great turning points of life are often rounded unconsciously.

-Invisible tides hurry us on and only when we are well past the curve

-do we realize what has happened to us.

-

-Brace Northrup, sitting in Doctor Manly's office, smoking and

-ruminating, was not conscious of turning points or tides; he was

-sluggish and depressed; wallowing in the after-effects of a serious

-illness.

-

-Manly, sitting across the hearth from his late patient--he had shoved

-him out of that category--regarded him from the viewpoint of a

-friend.

-

-Manly was impressionistic in his methods of thought and expression.

-Every stroke told.

-

-The telephone had not rung for fifteen minutes but both men knew its

-potentialities and wanted to make the most of the silence.

-

-"Oh! I confess," Northrup admitted, "that my state of gloom is due

-more to the fact that I cannot write than to my sickness. I'm done

-for!"

-

-Manly looked at his friend and scowled.

-

-"Rot!" he ejaculated. Then added: "The world would not perish if you

-didn't write again."

-

-"I'm not thinking about the world," Northrup was intent upon the fire,

-"it's how the fact is affecting me. The world can accept or decline,

-but I am made helpless. You see my work is the only real, vital thing

-I have clawed out of life, by my own efforts, Manly; that means a lot

-to a fellow."

-

-Manly continued to scowl. Had Northrup been watching him he might have

-gained encouragement, for Manly's scowls were proof of his deeply

-moved sympathies.

-

-"The trouble with you, old man," he presently said, "is this: You've

-been dangerously ill; you thought you were going to slip out, and so

-did I, and all the others. You're like the man who fell on the

-battlefield and thought his legs were shot off. You've got to get up

-and learn to walk again. We're all suggesting the wrong thing to you.

-Go where people don't know, don't care a damn for you. Take to the

-road. That ink-slinging self that you are hankering after is just

-ahead. You'll overtake it, but it will never turn back for you--the

-self that you are now."

-

-Manly fidgeted. He hated to talk. Then Northrup said something that

-brought Manly to his feet--and to several minutes of restless striding

-about the room.

-

-"Manly, while I was at my worst I couldn't tell whether it was

-delirium or sanity, I saw that Thing across the water, the Thing that

-for lack of a better name we call war, in quite a new light. It's what

-has got us all and is shaking us into consciousness. We're going to

-know the true from the false when this passes. My God! Manly, I wonder

-if any of us know what is true and what isn't? Ideals, nations,

-folks!"

-

-Northrup's face flushed.

-

-"See here, old man," Manly paused, set his legs wide apart as if to

-balance himself and pointed a finger at Northrup, "You've got to cut

-all this out and--beat it! Whatever that damned thing is over there,

-it isn't our mess. It's the eruption of a volcano that's been bubbling

-and sizzling for years. The lava's flowing now, a hot black filth, but

-it's going to stop before it reaches us."

-

-"I wonder, Manly, I wonder. It's more like a divining rod to me,

-finding souls."

-

-"Very well. Now I'm going to put an ugly fact up to you, Northrup.

-Your body is all right, but your nerves are frayed and unless you mind

-your step you're going to go dippy. Catch on? There are places where

-nothing happens. Nothing ever has happened. Go and find such a hole

-and stay in it a month, six weeks--longer, if you can. Be a part of

-the nothingness and save your life. Break all the commandments, if

-there are any, but don't look back! I've seen big cures come from

-letting go! I'll look after your mother and Kathryn."

-

-The telephone here interrupted.

-

-"All right! all right!" snapped Manly into the receiver, "set the

-operation for ten to-morrow and have the hair shaved from the side of

-her head."

-

-Then he turned back to Northrup as if disfiguring a woman were a

-matter of no importance.

-

-"The fact is, Northrup, most of us get glued to our own narrow slits

-in the wall, most of us are chained to them by our jobs and we get to

-squinting, if we don't get blinded. I'm not saying that we don't each

-have a slit and should know it; but your job requires moving about and

-peering through other fellows' slits, and lately, ever since that last

-book of yours, you've kept to your hole; the fever caught you at the

-wrong time and this mess across seas has got mixed up with it all

-until you're no use to yourself or any one else. Beat it!"

-

-Something like a wave of fresh air seemed to have entered the quiet,

-warm room. Northrup raised his head. Manly took heed and rambled on;

-he saw that he was making an impression at last.

-

-"Queer things jog you into consciousness when you detach yourself from

-your moorings. A mountain-top, a baby's hold on your finger, when

-you're about to hurt it. A sunset, a woman's face; a moment when you

-realize your soul! You're never the same after, Northrup, but you do

-your job better and your slit in the wall is wider. Man, you need a

-jog."

-

-"What jogged you, Manly?"

-

-This was daring. People rarely questioned Manly.

-

-"It was seeing my soul!" Quite simply the answer came.

-

-There was a long, significant silence. Both men had to travel back to

-the commonplace and they felt their way gingerly.

-

-"Northrup, drop things. It is your friend speaking now. Go where the

-roar and rumble of what doesn't concern you haven't reached.

-Good-night."

-

-Northrup got up slowly.

-

-"I wonder if there is such a place?" he muttered.

-

-"Sure, old man. Outside of this old sounding-board of New York, there

-are nooks where nothing even echoes. Usually you find good fishing in

-them. Come now, get out!"

-

-

-

-

-CHAPTER I

-

-

-Brace Northrup received the first intimation of his jog when he

-knocked on the door of a certain little yellow house set rakishly at

-the crossroads, a few miles from King's Forest.

-

-The house gave the impression of wanting to go somewhere but had not

-decided upon the direction. Its many windows of shining glass were

-like wide-open eyes peering cheerfully forth on life, curiously

-interested and hopeful. The shades, if there were any, were rolled

-from sight. It might have seemed an empty house but for the appearance

-of care and a curl of smoke from the chimney.

-

-Northrup walked across the bit of lawn leading, pathless, to the stone

-step, and knocked on the door. It was a very conservative knock but

-instantly the door swung in--it was that kind of a door, a welcoming

-door--and Northrup was precipitated into a room which, at first

-glance, appeared to be full of sunlight, children, and dogs.

-

-As a matter of fact there were two or three little children and an

-older girl with a strange, vague face; four dogs and a young person

-seated on the edge of a table and engaged, apparently, before

-Northrup's arrival, in telling so thrilling a story that the small,

-absorbed audience barely noted his entrance. They turned mildly

-interested eyes upon him much as they might have upon an unnecessary

-illustration adorning the tale.

-

-The figure on the table wore rough knickerbockers, high, rather muddy

-boots, a loose jacket, and a cap set crookedly on the head. When

-Northrup spoke, the young person turned and he saw that it was a

-woman. There was no surprise, at first, in the eyes which met

-Northrup's--the door of the little yellow house was constantly

-admitting visitors--but suddenly the expression changed to one of

-startled wonder. It was the expression of one who, never expecting a

-surprise, suddenly is taken unawares.

-

-"I beg your pardon!" stammered Northrup. "I assure you I did knock. I

-merely want to ask the direction and distance of Heathcote Inn.

-Crossroads are so confusing when one is tired and hungry and----"

-

-Once having begun to speak, Northrup was too embarrassed to stop. The

-eyes confronting him were most disconcerting. They smiled; they seemed

-to be glad he was there; the girl apparently was enjoying the

-situation.

-

-"The inn is three miles down the south road; the lake is just beyond.

-Follow that. They serve dinner at the inn at one."

-

-The voice was like the eyes, friendly, vital, and lovely.

-

-Then, as if staged, a clock set on a high shelf announced in crisp,

-terse tones the hour of twelve.

-

-"Thank you."

-

-That was all. The incident was closed and Northrup backed out, drawing

-the humorous door after him. As the latch caught he heard a thin,

-reedy voice, probably belonging to the vague girl, say:

-

-"Now that he's gone, please go on. You got to where----"

-

-Northrup found himself at the crossroads where, five minutes before,

-he had stood, and there, in plain sight of any one not marked by Fate

-for a turning-point, was a sign-board in perfectly good condition,

-stating the fact that if one followed the direction, indicated by a

-long, tapering finger, for three miles, he would come to Heathcote

-Inn, "Open All the Year."

-

-"The girl must take me for a fool, or worse!" thought Northrup. Then

-he was conscious of a feeling that he had left something behind him in

-that room he had just invaded. But no! His gripsack was securely

-fastened on his back, his walking stick was in his hand, his hat upon

-his head. Still he felt that lack of something.

-

-"It's the air!" Northrup sniffed it. "I'm as hungry as a wolf, too.

-Hungry as I used to be twenty years ago." Northrup was twenty-seven.

-"Lord! what a day."

-

-It was a day with which to reckon, there was no doubt about that. An

-autumn day of silence, crispness, and colour. Suddenly, something

-Manly had said came hurtingly into Northrup's consciousness: "... _or

-a woman's face!_"

-

-Then, because of the day and a certain regained strength, Northrup

-laughed and shook off that impression of having left something behind

-him and set off at a brisk rate on the road to the inn. He soon came

-to the lake. It lay to the right of the road. The many-coloured hills

-rose protectingly on the left. All along the edge of the water a

-flaming trail of sumach marked the curves where the obliging land

-withdrew as the lake intruded.

-

-"I might be a thousand miles from home," Northrup thought as he swung

-along.

-

-In reality, he had been only a week on his way and had taken it easy.

-He had made no plans; had walked until he was weary, had slept where

-he could find quarters, and was doing what he had all his life wanted

-to do, and which at last Manly had given him courage to do: leave the

-self that circumstances had evolved and take to the open trail,

-seeking, as Manly had figuratively put it, his real self.

-

-During his long illness reality seemed to have fallen from his

-perceptions--or was it unreality? He knew that he must find out or he

-could never again hope to take his place among men with any assurance.

-As far as he could he must cut himself off from the past, blot out the

-time-honoured prejudices that might or might not be legitimate. He

-must settle that score!

-

-Northrup was a tall, lean man with a slant of the body that suggested

-resistance. His face, too, carried out the impression. The eyes, deep

-set and keenly gray, brooded questioningly when the humour of a

-situation did not control them. The mouth was not an architectural

-mouth; the lines had been evolved; the mouth was still in the making.

-It might become hard or bitter: it could never become cruel. There was

-hope in the firm jaw, and the week of outdoor air and sun had done

-much to remove the pallor of sickness and harden the muscles.

-

-With every mile that set him apart from his old environment the eyes

-grew less gloomy; the lines of the mouth more relaxed: in fact,

-Northrup's appearance at that moment might have made Manly sympathize

-with the creator of Frankenstein. The released Northrup held startling

-possibilities.

-

-Striding ahead, whistling, swinging his stick, he permitted himself to

-recall the face of the woman in the yellow house. He had taken the

-faces of women in the past largely for granted. They represented

-types, ages, periods. Only once before had he become aware of what

-Life, as he had not known it, could do to women's faces: While he was

-writing his last book--the one that had lifted him from a low literary

-level and set him hopefully upon a higher--he had lived, for a time,

-on the lower East Side of New York; had confronted the ugly results of

-an existence evolved from chance, not design.

-

-But this last face--Life had done something to it that he could not

-comprehend. What was it? Then Northrup suddenly concluded that Life

-had done nothing to it--had, in fact, left it alone. At this point,

-Northrup resorted to detail. Her eyes were almost golden: the lashes

-made them seem darker. The face was young and yet it held that

-expression of age that often marks the faces of children: a wondering

-look, yet sweetly contemptuous: not quite confident, but amused.

-

-Now he had it! The face was like a mirror; it reflected thought and

-impression. Life had had nothing to do with it. Very good, so far.

-

-"And her voice! Queer voice to be found here"--Northrup was keen about

-voices; they instantly affected him. "Her voice had tones in it that

-vibrated. It might be the product of--well, everything which it

-probably wasn't."

-

-This was laughable.

-

-Northrup would not have been surprised at that moment to have seen The

-Face in the flaming bushes by the roadside.

-

-"I wonder if there is any habitation between that yellow house and the

-inn?" He pulled himself together and strode on. Hunger and weariness

-were overcoming moods and fancies. There was not. The gold and

-scarlet hills rose unbroken to the left and the road wound divertingly

-by the lake.

-

-There was no wind; scarcely a stirring of the leaves, but birds sang

-and fish darted in the clear water that reflected the colour and form

-of every branch and twig.

-

-In another half hour Northrup saw the inn on ahead. He knew it at once

-from a picture-card he had bought earlier in the day. It set so close

-to the lake as to give the impression of getting its feet wet. It was

-a long, low white building with more windows, doors, and chimneys than

-seemed necessary. Everything looked trim and neat and smoke curled

-briskly above the hospitable house. There were, apparently, many fires

-in action, and they bespoke comfort and food.

-

-Northrup, upon reaching the inn, saw that a mere strip of lawn

-separated it from the road and lake, the piazza was on a level with

-the ground and three doors gave choice of entrance to the wayfarer.

-Northrup chose the one near the middle and respectfully tapped on it,

-drawing back instantly. He did not mean to have a second joke played

-upon him by doors.

-

-There was a stirring inside, a dog gave a sleepy grunt, and a man's

-voice called out:

-

-"The bolt's off."

-

-It would seem that doors were incidental barriers in King's Forest. No

-one was expected to regard them seriously.

-

-Northrup entered and then stood still.

-

-He was alive to impressions, and this second room, within a short

-space of time, had power, also, to arouse surprise. There was no

-sunlight here--the overshadowing piazza prevented that--but there were

-two enormous fireplaces, one at either end of the large room, and upon

-the hearths of both generous fires were burning ruddily.

-

-By the one nearer to Northrup sat a man with a bandaged leg stretched

-out before him on a stool, and a gold-and-white collie at his side.

-The man was elderly, stout, and imposing. His curly gray hair

-sprang--no other word conveyed the impression of the vitality and

-alertness of the hair--above a rosy, genial face; the eyes were

-small, keen, and full of humour, the voice had already given a

-suggestion of welcome.

-

-"You are Mr. Heathcote, I suppose?"

-

-Northrup was subconsciously aware of the good old mahogany furniture;

-the well-kept appearance of everything.

-

-"You've struck it right. Will you set?"

-

-"Thanks."

-

-Northrup took the chair opposite the master of the inn.

-

-"My name is Northrup, Brace Northrup from New York."

-

-"Footing it?" Heathcote was rapidly making one of his sudden

-estimates; generally he did not take the trouble to do this, but some

-people called forth his approval or disapproval at once.

-

-"Yes. I've taken my time, been a week on the way and, incidentally,

-recovering from an illness."

-

-"Pausing or staying on?"

-

-Northrup meant to say "pausing"; instead he found himself stating that

-he'd like to stay on if he could be accommodated.

-

-"We'll have to consult Aunt Polly as to that," said Heathcote. "You

-see I'm rather off my legs just now. Gander! Great bird, that gander.

-He lit out two weeks ago and cut me to the bone with his wing. He's

-got a wing like a hatchet. I'll be about in a day or two and taking

-command, but until then I have to let my sister have her say as to

-what burdens she feels she can carry."

-

-For a moment Northrup regarded himself, mentally, as a burden. It was

-a new sensation and he felt like putting up a plea; but before he

-could frame one Heathcote gave a low whistle and almost at once a door

-at the rear opened, admitting a fragrance of delectable food and the

-smallest woman Northrup had ever seen. That so fragile a creature

-could bear any responsibility outside that due herself, was difficult

-to comprehend until one looked into the strange, clear eyes peering

-through glasses, set awry. Unquenchable youth and power lay deep in

-those piercing eyes; there was force that could command the slight

-body to do its bidding.

-

-"Polly, this is Mr. Northrup, from New York"--was there lurking

-amusement in the tone?--"He wants to stop on; what do you say? It's up

-to you and don't hesitate to speak your mind."

-

-The woman regarded the candidate for her favour much as she might

-have a letter of introduction; quite impersonally but decidedly

-judicially.

-

-"If Mr. Northrup will take pot luck and _as is_, I think he can stay,

-brother."

-

-Northrup had an unreasoning sense of relief. All his life his pulses

-quickened when what he desired seemed about to elude him. He smiled,

-now, like a boy.

-

-"Thank you," he ventured, "you'll find me most grateful and

-adaptable."

-

-"Well, since that's settled," Aunt Polly seemed to pigeonhole her

-guest and label him as an individual, "I'll run out and lay another

-plate. You just go along upstairs and pick out your room. They are all

-ready. The front ones open to the lake and the west; the back ones are

-east and woodsy; outside of that there isn't much choice. It's one o'

-clock now, but I can put things back a spell and give you a chance to

-wash before dinner."

-

-Northrup picked up his bag and hat and started for the stairs at the

-far end of the room. The sense of unreality was still upon him. He

-felt like breathing low and stepping light. The sensation smacked of

-magic. So long as one could believe it, it would hold, but once you

-doubted, the old, grim existence would snatch you!

-

-Upstairs the hall ran from north to south of the rambling house, on

-either side the doors opened, leading to small, orderly rooms,

-apparently alike except in detail of colour and placing of furniture.

-There was a hearth in every room, upon which lay wood ready to light

-and beside which stood huge baskets of logs giving promise of

-unlimited comfort. Fresh towels and water were on stands, and the beds

-fairly reached out to tired bodies with assurances of rest and sleep.

-Northrup went, still treading light and believing, from door to door,

-and then he chose a west room because the lapping of the lake sounded

-like a lullaby.

-

-It was the work of a few moments to drop dust-stained garments and

-plunge one's head into the icy water; a few moments more and a

-refreshed man emerged from a vigorous rubbing and gave a laugh of

-sheer delight.

-

-"I'm in for it!" he muttered, still clinging to the mood of unreality.

-"I bet my last nickel that something's going to happen and by the lord

-Harry! I'm going to see it through. This is one of those holes Manly

-prophesied about. Looks as if it had been waiting for me to come."

-

-He was downstairs in time to help his host to the head of his table,

-in the adjoining room. They made rather an imposing procession, Aunt

-Polly leading, the golden collie bringing up the rear.

-

-Heathcote in a fat whisper gave some staccato advice en route: "Better

-call sister 'Aunt Polly' at once. If you don't suggest offishness,

-none will be suspected. Fall in line, I say! Dog's name is Ginger.

-Animals like to be tagged, more human-like. Act as if you always had

-been, or had come back. If there's one thing Polly can't abide, it's

-hitting a snag."

-

-Devoutly Northrup vowed he'd be no snag.

-

-He took his place on the east side of the table, so to speak, and the

-lake was in front of him. The lake was becoming a vital feature in the

-new environment.

-

-The water was ruffled now; the reflections trembled and the lapping

-was more insistent.

-

-The food was excellent. Aunt Polly had prepared it and watched, with a

-true artist's eye, her guest's appreciation of it.

-

-"Food is just food to some folks," she confided, casting a slantwise

-glance at her brother, "just what you might call fodder. But I allas

-have held that, viewed rightly, it feeds body _and_ soul."

-

-Heathcote chuckled.

-

-"And right you are, Aunt Polly!" Northrup said, watching the effect of

-his familiarity. Nothing occurred. He was being taken for granted.

-

-Bits of history crept into the easy conversation during the meal.

-Apparently meal-time was a function at the inn, not an episode.

-

-Heathcote and his sister, it appeared, had come to King's Forest for

-his health, fifty years before. He was twenty then; Aunt Polly

-eighteen.

-

-"Just like silly pioneers," Polly broke in, "but we found health and

-work and we grew to love the place. We feel toward it as one does to

-an adopted child, less understanding, but more responsible. Every once

-so often, when we got into ruts, God Almighty made us realize that He

-was keeping His hand on the reins," the dear old soul chuckled

-happily. "Peter got himself made into a magistrate and that was

-something to work with. We made a home and friends, but the Forest

-isn't an easy proposition. It ain't changed much. It's lazy and rough,

-and I often tell Peter that the place is like two old folks over on

-the Point, Twombley and Peneluna. Still and scroogy, but keeping up a

-mighty lot of thinking. If anything ever wakes the Forest up it's

-going to show what it's been cogitating about."

-

-"Is there a village?" Northrup asked.

-

-"There's one seven miles from here," Heathcote replied; "stores, post

-office, a Methodist minister--necessary evils, you know," this came

-with a fat chuckle, "but the Forest ain't anything but the Forest.

-Houses sorter dropped down carelesslike where someone's fancy fixed

-'em. There used to be a church and school. The school burned down; the

-church, half finished, stands like a hint for better living, on a

-little island a half mile down the line. There's the Point where the

-folks live as can't get a footing elsewhere. There's always a Point or

-a Hollow, you know. And there's the Mines, back some miles to the

-south. Iron that used to be worked. Queer holdings!"

-

-Peter paused. Sustained conversation always made him pant and gave

-Polly an opportunity to edge in.

-

-"As I was saying," she began calmly, "every once so often God Almighty

-made us realize that He had His hand on the reins. When me and Peter

-got to acting as if we owned things, someone new happened along

-and--stuck.

-

-"First there was old Doctor Rivers. We never rightly knew where he

-came from, or why. By and by we got to feeling we best showed our love

-and respect by not wondering about him.

-

-"Then after the doctor did his stint and left his mark, Maclin came.

-We're studying over Maclin yet. He bought the Mines and kinder settled

-down on us all like a heavy air that ain't got any set of the wind."

-

-Aunt Polly was picturesque. Peter eyed her admiringly and gave his

-comfortable chuckle.

-

-"Sister holds," he explained, "that the Forest isn't the God-forsaken

-place it looks to be, but is a rich possibility. I differ, and that is

-what queers Maclin with us. His buying those wore-out mines and saying

-he's going to _make_ the Forest is damaging evidence against him. He

-ain't no fool: then what is he? That's what we're conjuring with.

-Maclin ain't seeing himself in partnership with the Almighty, not he!

-One-man firm for Maclin."

-

-"Now, brother!" Polly remarked while Heathcote was catching his

-breath, "I say give a good doubt to a man till you have to give a bad

-one. We've no right to judge Maclin yet, he's only just begun to have

-his say-so out loud, and put out feelers."

-

-"And now"--Peter put his plate down for the faithful Ginger to lap

-clean, and prepared to rise--"and now, you've come, stranger. When you

-hesitated a time back as to whether you was pausing or staying on, I

-just held my breath, and when you slapped out, 'staying on,' I thought

-to myself, 'Now, which is he, a dispensation of Providence or just a

-plain passer-by?'"

-

-Northrup smiled grimly. This all fitted into his own vague mood of

-unreality.

-

-"You mustn't take me seriously," he said, going around the table to

-help his host. "I'm as ordinary as the majority. I like the looks of

-things here. I stop and enjoy myself, and pass on! That's the usual

-way, isn't it?"

-

-"Yes"--Polly began gathering the dishes--"it's what happens while one

-stops, that counts. That, and what one leaves behind, when he passes

-on. It's real queer, though, to have any one staying on this season of

-the year."

-

-During the afternoon Northrup wandered in the woods which rose

-abruptly from behind the house. So still was the brilliant forest that

-a falling leaf startled him and a scurrying creature among the bushes

-set his nerves tingling. Then it was that the haunting face and voice

-of the girl in the little yellow house rose again with an insistence

-that could not be disregarded. It dominated his thought; it was part

-of this strange sense of shadowy and coming events; it refused to be

-set aside.

-

-It did not mock him--he could have dealt with that phase--it pleaded.

-It seemed to implore him to accept it along with his quickened pulses;

-the colour of the autumn day; the sweetness of the smell of crushed

-leaves; the sound of lapping water; the song of birds.

-

-"I wonder who she is, and why she looks as she does?"

-

-Northrup ceased to scoff at his fancy; he wooed it. He pictured the

-girl's hair loose from the rough cap--curly, rather wild hair with an

-uplift in every tendril. What colour was it? Gold-brown probably, like

-the eyes. For five minutes he tried to decide this but knew that he

-would have to see it again to make sure.

-

-The face was a small face, but it was strong and unutterably

-appealing. A hungry little face; a face whose soul was ill-nourished,

-a contradictory face.

-

-Northrup called himself to order just here. He wasn't going to be an

-ass, not if he could help it!

-

-"Strange voice!" he thought on. "It had _calls_ in it. I _am_ an ass!"

-he admitted, and in order to get the better of the situation he turned

-sharply and went back to the inn.

-

-

-

-

-CHAPTER II

-

-

-Northrup decided to refrain from asking questions. Long ago he

-discovered that he could gain more from a receptive state of mind than

-an inquiring one.

-

-He began to understand his peculiar mental excitement. Manly was

-right. All that was needed to bring about complete recovery was

-detachment and opportunity for his machinery to get into action. He

-knew the signs. The wheels were beginning to turn!

-

-Now from Northrup's point of view this was all right; but his sudden

-appearance in a place where bad roads and no reason for coming usually

-kept people out, caused a ripple to reach from the inn to the Point

-and even the Mines, twelve miles away.

-

-The people took time before accepting strangers; they had not yet

-digested Maclin, and in silent disapproval they regarded Northrup as

-in some way connected with Maclin.

-

-The mine owner had been more or less familiar to the Forest for

-several years: his coming and going were watched and speculated upon.

-Recently he had imported foreign labour, much to the sneering contempt

-of the natives whose philosophy did not include the necessity of

-perpetual work and certainly repudiated the idea of outsiders

-originating a new system. But Northrup was not a foreigner. He must be

-regarded from a different angle.

-

-Aunt Polly made it her business, after the first few days, to start

-propaganda of a safe and inspiring character about her guest. While

-not committing herself to any definite statement, she made it known

-that if Northrup had any connection with Maclin, he was against him,

-not for him.

-

-Maclin just then was the hub from which the spokes of curiosity led.

-

-"He couldn't be for Maclin," Polly had said to Peter. "You know that

-as well as I do, Peter Heathcote. And getting facts signed and

-witnessed is an awful waste of time. The Lord gave women a sixth sense

-and it's a powerful sight surer than affidavits."

-

-Peter grunted. So long as Polly hinted and made no statements he was

-content. He believed she was partly right. He thought Northrup might

-be on Maclin's trail, and from appearances Peter had confidence in his

-guest's ability to run his quarry to earth where, heretofore, others

-of the Forest had failed.

-

-He liked Northrup, believed in him, and while he sat and nursed his

-leg, he let Polly do her hinting.

-

-It was the evening of Northrup's third day at the inn when the three,

-with Ginger blinking contentedly, sat by the fire. Polly knitted and

-smiled happily. She had drifted that day into calling Northrup "Brace"

-and that betokened surrender. Peter puffed and regarded his bandaged

-leg--he had taken a few steps during the afternoon, leaning on

-Northrup's arm, and his mood was one of supreme satisfaction.

-

-Breaking the silence, now and again, an irritating sound of a bell

-intruded. It was a disconcerting note for it had a wild quality as if

-it were being run away with and was sending forth an appeal. Loud;

-soft; near; distant.

-

-"Is there a church around here?" Northrup asked at last.

-

-"There is," Heathcote replied, taking the pipe from his lips. "It's

-the half-built church I mentioned to you. A bit down the line you come

-to a bridge across an arm of the lake. On a little island is the

-chapel. It ain't ever used now. Remember, Polly," Heathcote turned to

-his sister, "the last time the Bishop came here? Mary-Clare was about

-as high as nothing, and just getting over the mumps. She got panicky

-when she heard of the Bishop, asked ole Doc if she could catch it. I

-guess the Bishop wasn't catching! Yes, sir, the church is there, but

-it's deserted."

-

-"What is the bell ringing for?" Northrup roused, more because the

-name of Mary-Clare had been introduced than because the bell

-interested him.

-

-He knew, now, that the girl in the yellow house was Mary-Clare. Her

-name slipped into sound frequently, but that was all.

-

-"Who is ringing the bell?"

-

-Aunt Polly rolled her knitting carefully and set her glasses aslant on

-the top of her head. Northrup soon learned that the angle and position

-of Aunt Polly's spectacles were significant.

-

-"No human hands are ringing the bell," she remarked quietly. "I hold

-one notion, Peter another. _I_ say the _bell_ is ha'nted; calling,

-calling folks, making them remember!"

-

-"Now, Polly!" Peter knocked the ashes from his pipe on to Ginger's

-back. "Don't get to criss-crossing and apple-sassing about that bell."

-He turned to Northrup and winked.

-

-"Women is curious," he admitted. "When things are flat and lacking

-flavour they put in a pinch of this or that to spice them up. Fact

-is--there's a change of wind and it ain't sot yet. While it's shifting

-around it hits, once so often, a chink in the belfry that's got to be

-mended some day. That's the sum and tee-total of Polly's ha'nted

-tower."

-

-Then, as if the question escaped without his sanction and quite to his

-consternation, Northrup spoke again:

-

-"Who lives in the yellow house by the crossroads?"

-

-This was not honest. Northrup knew _who_. What he wanted to say, but

-had not dared, was: "Tell me about her."

-

-"I reckon you mean Mary-Clare." Aunt Polly shook a finger at Ginger.

-"That dog," she added, "jest naturally hates the bell ringing. Animals

-sense more than men!"

-

-This slur escaped Peter, he was intent upon Northrup's question.

-

-"Seen that girl in the yellow house?" he asked. "Great girl,

-Mary-Clare. Great girl."

-

-"I stopped there on my way here to ask directions. Rather unusual

-looking girl."

-

-"She is that!" Peter nodded. Mary-Clare was about the only bit of

-romance Peter permitted himself. "Remember the night Mary-Clare was

-born, Polly?"

-

-Of course Polly remembered. Northrup felt fully convinced that Polly

-knew everything in King's Forest and never forgot it. She nodded, drew

-her spectacles over her eyes, and continued her knitting while Peter

-hit the high spots of Mary-Clare's past. Somehow the shallows Northrup

-was filling while he listened.

-

-Peter was in his element and drawled on:

-

-"The wildest storm you ever saw round these parts--snow and gale; they

-don't usually hang together long, but they did that night. It was a

-regular night if there ever was one. Nobody stirring abroad 'less he

-had to. Ole Doc was out--someone over the mine-way had got mussed up

-with the machinery. Ole Doc was a minister as well as a doctor. He'd

-tried both jobs and used to say it came in handy, but he leaned most

-to medicine as being, what you might say, more practical."

-

-"You needn't be sacrilegious, brother," Polly interjected. "The story

-won't lose anything by holding to reverence."

-

-"Oh, well," Heathcote chuckled, "have it any way you want to. Ole Doc

-had us coming and going, that's what I'm getting over. If he found he

-couldn't help folks to live, he plumped about and helped 'em to

-die. Great man, ole Doc! Came as you did, son, and settled. We never

-knew anything about his life before he took root here. Well, that

-night I'm telling you about, he was on his way back from the mines

-when he spied a fire on the up-side of the lake. He said it looked

-mighty curious shining and flaming in the blinding whiteness. It

-was Dan Hamlin's shack. Later we heard what had happened. Dan had

-come home drunk--when he wasn't drunk you couldn't find a decenter

-man than Hamlin, but liquor made him quarrelsome. His wife was

-going to have a baby--Mary-Clare, to be exact--and when he came in

-with Jack Seaver, the mail-carrier, there was a row on concerning

-something Seaver hadn't brought that Hamlin had ordered for his

-wife. There never was any reasoning with Hamlin when he was

-drunk, so Seaver tried to settle the question by a fight. Seaver was

-like that--never had any patience. Lamp turned over, set the shack

-on fire!" Peter breathed hard.

-

-"Mrs. Hamlin ran for her life and the two men ran from justice. Seaver

-came back later and told the story. Hamlin shot himself the following

-day when he heard what had happened. Blamed fool! Mary-Clare was left,

-but she didn't seem to amount to much in the beginning. It was this

-way: Mrs. Hamlin ran till she fell in a snowdrift. Ole Doc found her

-there." Heathcote paused. The logs fell apart and the room grew hot.

-Northrup started as if roused from a dream.

-

-"Yes, sir!" Heathcote went on. "Ole Doc found her there and, well,

-sir, he was doctor and minister for sure that night. There wasn't no

-choice as you might say. Mary-Clare was born in that snowdrift, and

-the mother died there! Ole Doc took 'em both home later."

-

-"Good God!" ejaculated Northrup. "That's the grimmest tale I ever

-listened to. What came next?"

-

-"The funeral--a double one, for they brought Hamlin's body back. Then

-the saving of Mary-Clare. Polly and I wanted her--but ole Doc said

-he'd have to keep an eye on her for a while--she seemed sorter

-petering out for some time, and then when she took a turn and caught

-on, you couldn't pry her away from ole Doc. He gave her his name and

-everything else. His wife was dead; his boy away to school, his

-housekeeper was a master hand with babies, and somehow ole Doc got to

-figuring out that Mary-Clare was a recompense for what he'd lost in

-women folks, and so he raised her and taught her. Good Lord, the

-education he pumped into that girl! He wouldn't let her go to school,

-but whenever he happened to think of anything he taught it to her, and

-he was powerful educated. Said he wanted to see what he could do by

-answering her questions and letting her think things out for herself.

-Remember, Polly, how Mary-Clare used to ride behind ole Doc with a

-book braced up against his back?"

-

-Aunt Polly lifted the sock she was knitting and wiped her eyes.

-

-"Mary-Clare just naturally makes you laugh and cry at once," the old

-voice replied, "remembering her is real diverting. She came from

-plain, decent stock, but something was grafted onto her while she was

-young and it made a new kind of girl of Mary-Clare. So loving and

-loyal." Again Aunt Polly wiped her eyes.

-

-"And brave and grateful," Heathcote took up his story, "and terrible

-far-seeing. I don't hold with Polly that Mary-Clare became something

-new by grafting. Seems more like she was two girls, both keeping pace

-and watching out and one standing guard if the other took a time off.

-I never did feel sure ole Doc was quite fair with Mary-Clare. Without

-meaning to, he got a stranglehold on that girl. She'd have trotted off

-to hell for him, or with him. She'd have held her head high and

-laughed it off, too. I don't suppose any one on God's earth actually

-knows what the real Mary-Clare thinks about things on her own hook,

-but you bet she has ideas!"

-

-Northrup was more interested than he had been in many a day. The story

-thrilled him. The girl of the yellow house loomed large upon his

-vision and he began to understand. He was not one to scoff at things

-beyond the pale of exact science; his craft was one that took much for

-granted that could not be reduced to fact. Standing at the door of the

-little yellow house he had become a victim of suggestion. That

-accounted for it. The mists were passing. He had not been such an ass,

-after all.

-

-"So! that is your old doctor's place down by the crossroads?" he said

-with a genuine sense of relief.

-

-"It was. Ole Doc died seven years back."

-

-"What became of his son--you said he had a boy?" Northrup was

-gathering the threads in his hands. Nothing must escape him; it was

-all grist.

-

-"Oh! Larry came off and on the scene. There are them as think ole Doc

-didn't treat Larry fair and square. I don't know, but anyway, just

-before ole Doc was struck with that stroke that finished him, Larry

-came home and seemed to be forgiving enough, if there had been any

-wrong done. He had considerable education; ole Doc had given him that

-chance, but Larry drifted--allas was, and still is, a drifter. We all

-stand pat for the feller on account of his father and Mary-Clare. It

-was a blamed risky thing, though, Larry's marrying Mary-Clare! I allas

-will hold to that!"

-

-Once, when Northrup was a young boy, he had been shocked by

-electricity. The memory of his experience often recurred to him in

-moments of stress. He had been standing within a few yards of the tree

-that had been shattered, and he had fallen unconscious. When he came

-to, he was vividly aware of the slightest details of sight and sound

-surrounding him. His senses seemed to have been quickened during the

-lapse of time. He winced at the light; the flickering of leaves above

-him hurt; the song of birds beat against his brain with sweet clamour,

-and he vaguely wondered what had happened to him; where he had been?

-

-In like manner Northrup, now, was aware of a painful keenness of his

-senses. Heathcote looked large and his voice vibrated in the quiet

-room; Aunt Polly seemed dwindling, physically, while something about

-her--the light playing on her knitting needles and spectacles,

-probably--radiated. The crackling logs were like claps of thunder.

-Northrup pulled himself to an upright position as one does who resists

-hypnotism.

-

-"I'm afraid you're tiring Brace, brother."

-

-Aunt Polly's voice, low, even, and calm, got into the confusion as a

-soft breeze had, that day so long ago, and brought full consciousness

-in its wake.

-

-"On the other hand," Northrup gave a relieved laugh, "I am intensely

-interested. You see, she looks so young, that Mrs.--Mrs.----"

-

-"Rivers?" suggested Heathcote refilling his pipe. "Lord! I wonder if

-any one ever called Mary-Clare Mrs. Rivers before, Polly?" Heathcote

-paused, then went on:

-

-"Yes; Mary-Clare holds her own and her boy-togs help the idea.

-Mary-Clare ain't properly grown up, anyway. Some parts of her are

-terrible strong and thrifty; parts as has caught the sunlight, so to

-speak, and been sheltered from blasts. The other parts of her ain't

-what you might say shrivelled, but they've kept hid and they ain't

-ever on exhibition."

-

-"How ridiculous you _are_, brother." Aunt Polly was enjoying her

-brother's flights, but felt called upon to keep him in order.

-

-"Oh! it's just a blamed amusing fancy of mine," Heathcote chuckled,

-"to calculate 'bout Mary-Clare. You see, being a magistrate, I married

-Mary-Clare to Larry, and I've never been at ease about the thing,

-though I had to put it through. There lay ole Doc looking volumes and

-not being able to speak a word--nothing to do for him but keep him

-company and try to find out what he wanted. He kept on wanting

-something like all possessed. Larry and Mary-Clare hung over him

-asking, was it this or that? and his big, burning eyes sorter

-flickering, never steady. I recall old Peneluna Todd was there and she

-said the young uns were pestering the ole Doc. Then, it was 'long

-about midnight, Larry rose up from asking some question, and there was

-a new look on his face, a white, frozen kind of look. Mary-Clare

-kinder sprang at him. 'What is it?' she whispered, and I ain't never

-forgot her face. At first Larry didn't answer and he began shaking,

-like he had the chills.

-

-"'You must tell me, Larry!' Mary-Clare went up close and took Larry by

-the shoulders as if she was going to tear his secret from him. Then

-she went on to say how he had no right to keep anything from her--her,

-as would give her soul for the ole Doc. She meant it, too. Well, Larry

-sort of dragged it out of himself. Ole Doc wanted him and Mary-Clare

-to marry! That was what was wanted! There wasn't much time to consider

-things, but Mary-Clare went close to the bed and knelt down and said

-slowly and real tender:

-

-"'You can hear me, can't you, Daddy?' The flicker in ole Doc's eyes

-steadied. I reckon any call of Mary-Clare's could halt him, short of

-the other side of Jordan. 'Then, dearie Dad, listen.' Just like that

-she said it. I remember every word. 'You want me to marry Larry--now?

-It would make you--happy?' The steady look seemed to kinder freeze. I

-called it a listening look more than an understanding one. I'll allas

-hold to that, but God knows there warn't much time to calculate.

-Peneluna began acting up but Mary-Clare set her aside.

-

-"'All right, Daddy darling!' she whispered, and with that she stood up

-and said to me, 'You marry us at once! Come close so that he can see

-and know!'

-

-"Things go here in the Forest that don't go elsewhere; I married

-them two because I couldn't help it--something drew me on. And

-then just when I got to the end, ole Doc rose up like he was

-lifted--he stared at what was passing; tried to say something, and

-sank back smiling--dead!"

-

-Northrup wiped his forehead. There were drops of perspiration on it,

-and his breath came roughly through his throat; he seemed part of the

-dramatic scene.

-

-"Satisfied, _I_ say!" broke in Aunt Polly. "It _was_ a big risk, but

-the dying see far, and the doctor had left all he had to Mary-Clare,

-which didn't seem just right to his flesh-and-blood boy, and I guess

-he wanted to mend a bad matter the only way he could."

-

-"Maybe!" sighed Peter. "Maybe. But he took big chances even for a

-dying man. I couldn't get rid of the notion that when he cottoned to

-what had been done, he sorter threw up his hands! But what happened to

-Mary-Clare just took my breath. 'Pon my soul, as I looked at her it

-was like I saw her going away after ole Doc and leaving, in her place,

-a new, different woman that really didn't count so long as she looked

-after things while the real Mary-Clare went about her business. It was

-disturbing and I felt downright giddy."

-

-"You're downright silly, Peter Heathcote"--Polly tossed her knitting

-aside and shifted the pillows of the couch--"making Mary-Clare out the

-way you do when she's ordinary enough and doing her life tasks same as

-other folks."

-

-"How has it worked out?" Northrup heard the words as if another spoke

-them.

-

-"I guess, friend, that's what no one actually knows." Peter pulled on

-his pipe. "Larry is on and off. Maclin, over to the mines, seems to do

-the ordering of Larry's coming and going. Darned funny business, I

-say. However, there you are. When Larry is home I guess the way

-Mary-Clare holds her head and laughs gets on his nerves. No man likes

-to feel that he can't clutch hold of his wife, but it comes to that,

-say what you will, Mary-Clare keeps free of things in a mighty odd

-fashion; I mean the real part of her; the other part goes regular

-enough.

-

-"She don't slacken up on her plain duty. What the ole Doc left she

-shares right enough with Larry; she keeps the house like it should be

-kept, and she's a good second to Polly here, where fodder is

-concerned. But something happened when Larry was last home that leaked

-out somehow. A girl called Jan-an let it slip. Not a quarrel exactly,

-but a thing that wasn't rightfully settled. Larry was ordered off,

-sudden, by Maclin, but take it from me, when Larry comes back he'll

-get his innings. Larry isn't what you could call a sticker, but he

-gets there all the same. He ain't going to let any woman go too far

-with him. That's where Larry comes out strong--with women."

-

-"I don't know as you ought to talk so free, brother." Polly looked

-dubious.

-

-"In the meantime," Northrup said quietly, "the little wife lives alone

-in the yellow house, waiting?" He hadn't heard Polly's caution.

-

-He was thinking of Mary-Clare's look when she confronted him the day

-of his coming. Was she expecting her husband? Had she learned to love

-him? Was she that kind of woman? The kind that thrives on neglect and

-indifference?

-

-"Not alone, as you might say," Heathcote's voice drawled. "There's

-Noreen, her little girl, you know. Noreen seems at times to be about a

-thousand years older than her mother, but by actual count she's going

-on six, ain't that it, Polly?"

-

-Again Northrup felt as he had that day by the lightning-shattered

-tree.

-

-"Her little girl?" he asked slowly, and Aunt Polly raised her eyes to

-his face. She looked troubled, vaguely uneasy.

-

-"Yep!" Peter rose stiffly. He wanted to go to bed. "Noreen's the

-saving from the litter. How many was there, Polly?"

-

-Polly got upon her feet, the trouble-look growing in her eyes.

-

-"Noreen had a twin as was dead," she said tenderly. "Then the last one

-lived two hours--that's all, brother." She walked to the window. "The

-storm is setting this way," she went on. "Just listen to that lake

-acting up as if it was the ocean."

-

-The riotous swish of the water sounded distant but insistent in the

-warm, quiet room, and faintly, at rare intervals, the bell, rung by

-unseen forces, struck dully. It had given up the struggle.

-

-Northrup, presently, had a strong inclination to say to his host that

-he had changed his mind and must leave on the morrow. That course

-seemed the only safe and wise one.

-

-"But why?" Something new and uncontrolled demanded an answer. Why,

-indeed? Why should anything he had heard cause him to change his

-plans? This hectic story of a young woman had set his imagination

-afire, but it must not make a fool of him. What really was taking

-place became presently overpoweringly convincing.

-

-"I am going to write!"

-

-That was it! The story had struck his dull brain into action and he

-had been caught in time, before running away. He had gained the thing

-he had been pursuing, and he might have let it escape! The woman of

-the yellow house became a mere bearer of a rare gift--his restored

-power! He was safe; everything was safe. The world had righted itself

-at last. It wasn't the woman with the dun-coloured ending to her story

-that mattered; it was the story.

-

-"I think I'll turn in," he said, stifling a yawn, "Good-night."

-

-"Don't hurry about breakfast," Aunt Polly said gently. "Breakfast is

-only a starter, I always hold. It's like kindlings to start the big

-logs. Sleep well, and God bless you!"

-

-She smiled up at her guest as if he were an old friend--come back!

-

-Up in his room Northrup had difficulty in keeping himself from work.

-He dared not begin; if he did he would write all night. He must be

-sure. In the meantime, he wrote to his mother:

-

-  By the above heading you'll see how far I've got on my way,

-  searching for my lost health. I'm really in great shape. Manly was

-  right: I had to let go! I'm struggling now between two courses.

-  Apparently I was in a blue funk; all I needed was to find it out.

-  Well, I've found it out. Shall I come home and prove it by doing

-  the sensible thing, or shall I go on and make it doubly sure? If

-  anything important turns up I would telegraph, but in case I _do_

-  go on I want to do the job thoroughly and for a time lose myself.

-  I will wait your word, Mother.

-

-Northrup was not seeking to deceive any one. He might strike out for

-new places in a week, or he might, if the mood held, write in King's

-Forest. It all depended upon the mood. What really mattered was an

-unfettered state.

-

-The vagrant in him, that had been starved and denied, rose supreme.

-Now that he was sure that he was going to write, had a big theme,

-there was excuse for his desire to be free. He would return to his

-chink in the wall, as Manly explained, better fitted for it and with a

-wider vision. He had a theory that a writer was, more or less, like a

-person with a contagious disease: he should be exiled until all danger

-to the peace and happiness of others was past. If only the evenly

-balanced folks would see that and not act as if they were being

-insulted!

-

-While he undressed, Northrup was sketching his plot mentally. In the

-morning it would be _fixed_; it would be more like copying than

-creating when a pen was resorted to.

-

-"I'll take that girl in the yellow house and do no end of things with

-her. Dual personality! Lord, and in this stagnant pool! All right.

-Dual personality. Now she must get a jog about her husband and wake

-up! Two men and one woman. Triangle, of course. Nothing new under

-God's heaven. It's the handling of the ragged old things. I can make

-rather a big story out of the ingredients at hand."

-

-Northrup felt that he was going to sleep; going to rise to the

-restored desire for work. No wonder he laughed and whistled--softly;

-he had overtaken himself!

-

-Three days later a telegram came from Mrs. Northrup.

-

-"Go on," it said simply. Mrs. Northrup knew when it was wisest to let

-go. But this was not true of Kathryn Morris, the other woman most

-closely attached to Northrup's life. Kathryn never let go. When she

-lost interest in any one, or anything, she flung it, or him, from her

-with no doubtful attitude of mind. Kathryn meant to marry Northrup

-some day and he fully expected to marry her, though neither of them

-could ever recall just when, or how, this understanding had been

-arrived at.

-

-It was, to all appearances, a most fitting outcome to close family

-interests and friendships. It had just naturally happened up to the

-point when both would desire to bring it to a culmination. The next

-step, naturally, must be taken by Kathryn for, when Northrup had

-ventured to suggest, during his convalescence, a definite date for

-their wedding, Kathryn had, with great show of tenderness, pushed the

-matter aside.

-

-The fact was, marriage to Kathryn was not a terminal, but a way

-station where one was obliged to change for another stretch on a

-pleasant and unhampered journey, and she had no intention of marrying

-a possible invalid or, perhaps, a dying man.

-

-So while Northrup struggled out of his long and serious illness,

-Kathryn played her little game under cover. Some women, rather dull

-and stupid ones, can do this admirably if they are young enough and

-lovely enough to carry it through, and Kathryn was both. She had also

-that peculiar asset of looking divinely intuitive and sweet during her

-silences, and it would have taken a keen reader of human nature to

-decide whether Kathryn Morris's silences brooded over a rare storeroom

-of treasure or over a haunted and empty chamber.

-

-Without any one being aware of the reasons for his reappearance, a

-certain Alexander Arnold materialized while Northrup had been at his

-worst. Sandy Arnold had figured rather vehemently in the year

-following Kathryn's "coming out," but had faded away when Northrup

-began to show signs of becoming famous.

-

-Arnold was a man who made money and lost it in a breath-taking

-fashion, but gradually he was steadying himself and was more often up

-than down--he was decidedly up at the time of Northrup's darkest hour;

-he was still refusing to disappear when Northrup emerged from the

-shadows and showed signs of persisting. This was disconcerting.

-Kathryn faced a situation, and situations were never thrilling to her:

-she lacked the sporting spirit; she always played safe or endeavoured

-to. Sandy was still in evidence when Northrup disappeared from the

-scene.

-

-Mrs. Northrup read Brace's letter to Kathryn, and something in the

-girl rose in alarm. This ignoring of her, for whatever reason, was

-most disturbing. Brace should have taken her, if not his mother, into

-his confidence. Instead he had "cut and run"--that was the way Kathryn

-_thought_ of it. Aloud she said, with that ravishing look of hers:

-

-"How very Brace-like! Getting material and colour I suppose he calls

-it. I wish"--this with a tender, yearning smile--"I wish, for your

-sake and mine, dear, that his genius ran in another direction, stocks

-or banking--anything with an office. It is so worrying, this trick of

-his of hunting plots."

-

-"I only hope that he can write again," Mrs. Northrup returned, patting

-the letter on her knee. Once she had wanted to write, but she had had

-her son instead. In her day women did not have professions _and_ sons.

-They chose. Well, she had chosen, and paid the price. Her husband had

-cost her much; her son was her recompense. He was her interpreter,

-also.

-

-"Where do you think he'll go?" Kathryn asked.

-

-"He'll tell us when he comes home." There was something cryptic about

-Helen Northrup when she was seeking to help her son. Kathryn once more

-bridled. She was direct herself, very direct, but her advances were

-made under a barrage fire.

-

-Her next step was to go to Doctor Manly. She chose his office hour,

-waited her turn, and then pleaded wakefulness and headache as her

-excuse for the call.

-

-Manly hated wakefulness and headaches. You couldn't put them under the

-X-ray; you couldn't operate on them; you had to deal with them by

-faith. Kathryn was not lacking in imagination and she gave a fairly

-accurate description of long, black hours and consequent pain--"here."

-She touched the base of her brain. She vaguely recalled that the nerve

-centres were in that locality.

-

-Manly was impressed and while he was off on that scent, somehow

-Northrup got into the conversation.

-

-"I cannot help worrying about Brace, more for his mother's sake than

-his." Kathryn looked very sweet and womanly, "He has been so ill and

-the letter his mother has just received _is_ disturbing."

-

-Here Kathryn quoted it and Manly grinned.

-

-"That's all right," he said, shaking a bottle of pills. "It does a

-human creature no end of good to run away at times. I often wonder why

-more of us don't do it and come back keener and better."

-

-"Some of us have duties." Kathryn looked noble and self-sacrificing.

-

-"Some of us would perform them a darned sight better if we took the

-half holiday now and then that the soul, or whatever you call it,

-craves. Now Northrup ought to look to his job--it _is_ a job in his

-case. You wouldn't expect a travelling salesman to hang around his

-shop all the time, would you?"

-

-Kathryn had never had any experience with travelling salesmen--she

-wasn't clear as to their mission in life. So she said doubtfully:

-

-"I suppose not."

-

-"Certainly not! An office man is one thing; a professional man,

-another; and these wandering Johnnies, like Northrup, still another

-breed. He's been starving his scent--that's what I told him. Too much

-_woman_ in his--and I don't mean to hurt you, Kathryn, but you ought

-to get it into your system that marrying a man like Northrup is like

-marrying a doctor or minister; you've got to have a lot of faith or

-you're going to break your man."

-

-Kathryn's eyes contracted, then she laughed.

-

-"How charming you are, Doctor Manly, when you're making talk. Are

-those pills bitter?" Kathryn reached out for them. "Not that I mind,

-but I hate to be taken by surprise."

-

-"They're as bitter as--well, they're quinine. You need toning up."

-

-"You think I need a change?" The tone was pensive.

-

-"Change?" Manly had a sense of humour. "Well, yes, I do. Go to bed

-early. Cut out rich food; you'll be fat at forty if you don't, Miss

-Kathryn. Take up some good physical work, not exercises. Really, it

-would be a great thing for you if you discharged one of your maids."

-

-"Which one, Doctor Manly?"

-

-"The one who is on her feet most."

-

-And so, while Northrup settled down in King's Forest, and his mother

-fancied him travelling far, Kathryn set her pretty lips close and

-jotted down the address of Helen Northrup's letter in a small red

-book.

-

-

-

-

-CHAPTER III

-

-

-Mary-Clare stood in the doorway of the little yellow house. Her

-mud-stained clothes gave evidence that the recent storm had not kept

-her indoors--she was really in a very messy, caked state--but it was

-always good to breathe the air after a big storm; it was so alive and

-thrilling, and she had put off a change of dress while she debated a

-second trip. There was a stretching-out look on Mary-Clare's face and

-her eyes were turned to a little trail leading into the hilly woods

-across the highway.

-

-Noreen came to the door and stood close to her mother. Noreen was only

-six, but at times she looked ageless. When the child abandoned herself

-to pure enjoyment, she talked baby talk and--played. But usually she

-was on guard, in a fierce kind of blind adoration for her mother. Just

-what the child feared no one could tell, but there was a constant

-appearance of alertness in her attitude even in her happiest moments.

-

-"I guess you want the woods, Motherly?" The small up-turned face made

-the young mother's heart beat quicker; the tie was strong between

-them.

-

-"I do, Noreen. It has been ten whole days since I had them."

-

-"Well, Motherly, why don't you go?"

-

-"And leave my baby alone?"

-

-"I'll get Jan-an to come!"

-

-"Oh! you blessed!" Mary-Clare bent and kissed the worshipping face. "I

-tell you, Sweetheart. Mother will take a bite of lunch and go up the

-trail, if you will go to Jan-an. If you cannot find her, then come up

-the trail to Motherly--how will that do?"

-

-"Yes," Noreen sweetly acquiesced. "I'll come to the--the----" she

-waited for the word.

-

-"Yawning Gap," suggested the mother, reverting to a dearly loved

-romance.

-

-"Yes. I'll come to the Yawning Gap and I'll give the call."

-

-"And I'll call back: _Oh! wow!--Oh! wo!_" The musical voice rose like

-a flute and Noreen danced about.

-

-"And I'll answer: _wo wow!--oh!_" The piping tones were also

-flute-like, an echo of the mother's.

-

-"And then, down will fall the drawbridge with a mighty clatter."

-Mary-Clare looked majestic even in her muddy trousers as she portrayed

-the action. "And over the Gap will come the Princess Light-of-my-Heart

-with her message."

-

-"Ah! yes, Motherly. It will be such fun. But if Jan-an can come here

-to stay, then what?" the voice faltered.

-

-"Why, Light-of-my-Heart, I will return strong and hungry, and Jan-an

-and my Princess and I will sit by the fire to-night and roast

-chestnuts and apples and there will be such a story as never was

-before."

-

-"Both ways are beautiful ways, Motherly. I don't know which is

-bestest."

-

-It was always so with Mary-Clare and Noreen, all ways were alluring;

-but the child had deep intuitions, and so she set her face at once

-away from the little yellow house and the mother in the doorway, and

-started on her quest of Jan-an.

-

-When the child had passed from sight Mary-Clare packed a bit of

-luncheon in a basket and ran lightly across the road. She looked back,

-making sure that no one was watching her movements, then she plunged

-into the woods, her head lowered, and her heart throbbing high.

-

-The trail was not an easy one--Mary-Clare had seen to that!--and as no

-one but Noreen and herself ever trod it, it was hardly discernible to

-the uninitiated. Up and up the path led until it ended at a rough,

-crude cabin almost hidden by a tangle of vines.

-

-Looking back over the years of her married life, Mary-Clare often

-wondered how she could have endured them but for the vision and

-strength she received in her "Place," as she whimsically called

-it--getting her idea from a Bible verse.

-

-Among the many things that old Doctor Rivers had given Mary-Clare was

-a knowledge and love of the Bible. He had offered the book to her as

-literature and early in life she had responded to the appeal. The

-verse that had inspired her to restore a deserted cabin to a thing of

-beauty and eventually a kind of sanctuary, was this:

-

-  And the woman fled into the wilderness where she hath a place

-  prepared of God that they should feed her there.

-

-The words, roughly carved, were traced on the east wall of the cabin

-and under a picture of Father Damien.

-

-The furniture of the shack was made by Mary-Clare's own hands. A long

-table, some uneven shelves for books she most loved, a chair or two

-and a low couch over which was thrown a gay-patched quilt. Once the

-work of love was completed, Nature reached forth with offerings of

-lovely vines and mountain laurel and screened the place from any

-chance passer-by.

-

-A hundred feet below the cabin was a little stream. That marked the

-limit of even Noreen's territory unless, after due ceremony, she was

-permitted to advance as far as the cabin door. The pretty game was

-evolved to please the child and secure for the mother a privacy she

-might not have got in any other way.

-

-As Mary-Clare reached the "Place" this autumn day, she was a bit

-breathless and stepped lightly as one does who approaches a shrine;

-she went inside and, kneeling by the cracked but dustless hearth,

-lighted a fire; then she took a seat by the rough table, clasped her

-hands upon it and lifted her eyes to the words upon the opposite

-wall.

-

-Sitting so, a startling change came over the young face. It was like a

-letting down of strong defences. The smile fled, the head bowed, and a

-pitiful look of appeal settled from brow to trembling lips.

-

-Mary-Clare had come to a sharp turn on her road and, as yet, she

-could not see her way! She had drifted--she could, with Larry

-away--but now he was coming home!

-

-She had tried, God knew, for three long months to be sure. She _must_

-be sure, she was like that; sure that she _felt_ her way to be the

-_right_ way; so sure that, should she find it later the wrong way, she

-could retrace her steps without remorse. It was the believing, at the

-start, that she was doing right, that mattered.

-

-Sitting in the quiet room with the autumn sunlight coming through the

-clustering vines at window and door and falling upon her in dancing

-patterns, the woman waited for guidance. The room became a place of

-memory and vision.

-

-Help would come, she still had the faith, but it must come at once for

-her husband might at any hour return from one of his mysterious

-business trips and there must be a decision reached before she met

-him. She could not hope to make him understand her nor sympathize with

-her; he and she, beyond the most ordinary themes, spoke different

-languages. She had learned that.

-

-She must take her stand alone; hold it alone; but the stand must seem

-to her right and then she could go on. Like the flickering sunbeams

-playing over her, the past came touching her memory with light and

-shade, unconsciously preparing her for her decision. She was not

-thinking, but thought was being formed.

-

-The waves of memory swept Mary-Clare from her moorings. She was no

-longer the harassed woman facing her problem in the clear light of

-conviction; but the child, whose mistaken ideals of love and loyalty

-had betrayed her so cruelly. Why had she who early had been taught by

-Doctor Rivers to "use her woman brain," gone so utterly astray?

-

-Why had she married Larry when she never loved him; felt him to be a

-stranger, simply because he had interpreted the words of a dying man

-for her?

-

-In the light of realization the errors of life become our most deadly

-accusers. We dare not make others pay for the folly that we should

-never have perpetrated. Mary-Clare, the woman, had paid and paid,

-until now she faced bankruptcy; she was prepared still to do her part

-as far as in her lay--but she must retrace her steps, be sure and then

-go on as best she could.

-

-Always, in those old childish days, there had been the grim spectre of

-Larry's mother. Her name was never mentioned but to the imaginative,

-sensitive Mary-Clare, she became, for that very reason, a clearly

-defined and potent influence. She was responsible for the doctor's

-lonely life in King's Forest; for Larry's long absences from home; for

-the lines that grew between the old doctor's eyes when he laid down

-the few simple laws of conduct that formed the iron code of life:

-

-_Never lie. Never break a promise. Never take advantage for selfish

-gain. Think things out with your woman brain, and never count the cost

-if you know it is right._

-

-Larry's mother, so the child believed, had not kept the code--therefore,

-Mary-Clare must the more strictly adhere to it and become what the

-other had not! And how desperately she had struggled to reach her

-ideal. In the conflict, only her sunny joyous nature had saved her from

-wreck. Naturally direct and loyal, much of what might have occurred

-was prevented. Passionate love and devout belief in the old doctor

-eliminated other dangers.

-

-It was well and right to use your "woman brain," but when in the end

-you always came to the conclusion that the doctor's way was your way,

-life was simplified. If one could not fully understand, then all the

-more reason for relying upon a good guide, a tested friend; but above

-all other considerations, once the foundation was secure was this: she

-must make up to her adored doctor and Larry for what that unmentioned,

-mysterious woman had denied them.

-

-It had all seemed so simple, when one did not know!

-

-That was it. Breathing hard, Mary-Clare came back to the present. She

-could not know until she had lived, and being married did not stop

-life. And now, Mary-Clare could consider, as if apart from herself,

-from the girl who had married Larry because he had caught the dying

-request of the old doctor. She had wanted to do right at that last

-tragic moment. She had done it with the false understanding of

-reality and found out the truth--by living. It had seemed to her, in

-her ignorance, the only way to relieve the suffering of the dying: to

-help Larry who was deprived of everything.

-

-Mary-Clare must not desert, as the unmentioned woman had.

-

-But life, living--how they had torn the blindness from her! How she

-had paid and paid until that awful awakening after the birth and death

-of her last child, three months before! She had tried then to make

-Larry understand before he went away, but she could not! Larry always

-ascribed her moods, as he called them, to her "just going to have a

-child," or "getting over having one."

-

-He had gone away tolerant, but with a warning: "A man isn't going to

-stand too much!"

-

-These words had been a challenge. There could be no more compromising.

-Pay-day had come for her and Larry.

-

-But the letters!

-

-At this thought Mary-Clare sat up rigidly. A squirrel, that had paused

-at her quiet feet, darted affrightedly across the cabin floor.

-

-The letters! The letters in the box hid on the shelf of the closet in

-the upper chamber. Always those letters had driven her back from the

-light which experience shed upon her to the darkness of ignorance.

-

-Larry had given the letters to her at the time when she questioned,

-after the doctor's death, Larry's right to hold her to her marriage

-vows. How frightened and full of despair she had been. She had felt

-that perhaps Larry had not understood. Why had the doctor never told

-her of his desire for her and Larry to marry? Then it was that Larry

-had gone away to bring proof. He had never meant to show it to her,

-but he must clear himself at the critical moment.

-

-And so he brought the letters. Mary-Clare knew every word of them.

-They were burned into her soul: they had been the guides on the hard

-road she had travelled. The doctor had always wanted her and Larry to

-marry; believed that they would. But she must be left free; no word

-must be spoken until she was old enough to choose. To prove his faith

-and love in his adopted child, Rivers had, so the letters to Larry

-revealed, left his all to her. In case she could not marry Larry, he

-confided in her justice to share with him.

-

-The last dark hour had broken the old doctor's self-control--he had

-voiced what heretofore he had kept secret. The letters stood as silent

-proof of this. And then the old, rigid code asserted its influence. A

-promise must be kept!

-

-And so the payment began, but it was not, had never been, the real

-Mary-Clare who had paid. Something had retreated during the bleak

-years, that which remained fulfilled the daily tasks; kept its own

-council, laughed at length, and knew a great joy in the baby Noreen,

-seemed a proof that God was still with her while she held to what

-appeared to be right.

-

-And then the last child came, looked at her with its deep accusing

-eyes and died!

-

-In that hour, or so it seemed, the real Mary-Clare returned and

-demanded recognition. There was to be no more compromise; no more

-calling things by false names and striving to believe them real. There

-was but one safe road: truth.

-

-And Larry was coming home. He had not understood when he went away: he

-would not understand now. Still, truth must be faced.

-

-The letters!

-

-Mary-Clare now leaned on the table, her eyes fixed upon the wall

-opposite. The roughly carved words caught and held her attention.

-Gradually it came to her, vaguely, flickeringly, like a will-o'-the-wisp

-darting through a murky night, that if life meant anything it meant a

-faith in what was true. She must not demand more than that; a sense

-of truth.

-

-As a little child may look across the familiar environment of its

-nursery and contemplate its first unaided step, so Mary-Clare

-considered her small world: her unthinking world of King's Forest, and

-prepared to take her lonely course. The place in which she had been

-born and bred: the love and friends that had held her close suddenly

-became strange to her. What was to befall her, once she let go the

-conventions that upheld her?

-

-Well, that was not for her to ask. There was the letting go and then

-the first unaided step. Nothing must hold her back--not even those

-letters that had sustained her! In recognizing her big problem in her

-small and crude world, Mary-Clare had no thought of casting aside her

-obligation or duties--her distress was founded upon a fear that those

-blessed, sacred duties would have none of her because she had not that

-with which to buy favour.

-

-There was Noreen--she was Larry's, too. Through the years Mary-Clare

-had remembered that almost fiercely as she combated the child's

-aversion to her father. Suddenly, as small things do occur at strained

-moments, hurting like a cruel blow, a scene at the time when Noreen

-was but four years old, rose vividly before her. Larry, sensing the

-baby's hatred, had tried to force an outward show of obedience and

-affection. He had commanded Noreen to come and kiss him.

-

-Like a bird under the spell of a serpent, Noreen had stood affrighted

-and silent. The command was repeated, laughingly, jeeringly, but under

-it Mary-Clare had recognized that ring of brutality that occasionally

-marked Larry's easy-going tones. Then Noreen had advanced step by

-step, her eyes wide and alert.

-

-"Kiss me!"

-

-"No!"

-

-The words had been explosive. Then Larry had caught the child roughly,

-and Noreen had struck him!

-

-Maddened and keen to the fact that he had been brought to bay, Larry

-had struck back, and for days the mark of his hand had lain across the

-delicate cheek. After that, when their wills clashed, Noreen, her eyes

-full of fear and hate, would raise her hand to her cheek--weighing the

-cost of rebellion. That gesture had become a driving force in

-Mary-Clare's life. She must overcome that which lay like a hideous

-menace between Larry and Noreen! She was accountable for it; out of

-her loveless existence Noreen had birth--she was a living evidence of

-the wrong done.

-

-Looking back now, Mary-Clare realized that on the day when Larry

-struck Noreen he had struck the scales from her eyes. From that hour

-she had bunglingly, gropingly, felt her way along. The only fact that

-upheld her now was that she knew she must take her first lonely step,

-even if all her little unknowing, unthinking world dropped from her.

-

-Again the squirrel darted across the floor and Mary-Clare looked after

-it lingeringly. Even the little wild thing was company for her in her

-hard hour. Then she looked up at the face of Father Damien. It was but

-a face--the meaning of what had gone into its making Mary-Clare could

-not understand--but it brought comfort and encouragement.

-

-The reaction had set in. Worn-out nerves became non-resistant; they

-ceased to ache. Then it was that Noreen's shrill voice broke the

-calm:

-

-"Motherly, Motherly, he's come: he's come home!"

-

-Mary-Clare rose stiffly; her hands were spread wide as if to balance

-her on that dangerous, adventurous trail that lay between her past and

-the hidden future. There lay the trail: within her soul was a sense of

-truth and she had strength and courage for the first step. That was

-all.

-

-"I'm coming, Noreen. I'm coming!" And Mary-Clare staggered on.

-

-

-

-

-CHAPTER IV

-

-

-Mary-Clare met Noreen at the brook, smiling and calm. The child was

-trembling and pale, but the touch of her mother's hand reassured her.

-It was like waking from a painful dream and finding everything safe

-and the dream gone.

-

-"I was just coming down the path with Jan-an, Motherly, when I saw him

-going in the house."

-

-"Daddy, dear?"

-

-"Yes, Motherly, Daddy. He left a bag in the house; looked all around

-and then came out. I was 'fraid he was coming to you, so I ran and

-ran, but Jan-an said she'd stay and fix him if he did."

-

-"Noreen!" The tone was stern and commanding.

-

-"Well, Motherly, Jan-an said that, but maybe she was just funny."

-

-"Of course. Just funny. We must always remember, Noreen, that poor

-Jan-an is just funny."

-

-"Yes, Motherly."

-

-Things were reduced to normal by the time the little yellow house was

-reached. Jan-an was there, crouched by the fireplace, upon which she

-had kindled a welcoming fire after making sure Larry had not gone up

-the secret trail.

-

-Rivers was not in evidence, though a weather-stained bag, flung

-hastily on the floor, was proof of his hurried call. He did not appear

-all day. As a matter of fact, he was at the mines. Failing to find his

-wife, he had availed himself of the opportunity of announcing his

-presence to his good friend Maclin, and getting from him much local

-gossip, and what approval Maclin vouchsafed.

-

-All day, with Jan-an's assistance, Mary-Clare prepared for the

-creature comforts of her husband; while Noreen made nervous trips to

-door and window. At night Jan-an departed--she seemed glad to go away,

-but not sure that she ought to go; Mary-Clare laughed her into good

-humour.

-

-"I jes don't like the feelings I have," the girl reiterated; "I'm

-creepy."

-

-Mary-Clare packed a bag of food for her and patted her shoulder.

-

-"Come to-morrow," she said, and then, after a moment's hesitation, she

-kissed the yearning, vacant face. "You're going to the Point, Jan-an?"

-she asked, and the girl nodded.

-

-Noreen, too, had to be petted into a calmer state--her old aversion to

-her father sprang into renewed life with each return after an absence.

-In a few days the child would grow accustomed to his presence and

-accept him with indifference, at least, but there was always this

-struggle.

-

-Mary-Clare herself wondered where Larry was; why he delayed, once

-having come back to the Forest; but she kept to her tasks of

-preparation and reassuring Noreen, and so the day passed.

-

-At eight o'clock, having eaten supper and undressed the child, she sat

-in the deep wooden rocker with Noreen in her arms. There was always

-one story that had power to claim attention when all others failed,

-and Mary-Clare resorted to it now. Swaying back and forth she told the

-story of the haunt-wind.

-

-"It was a wonderful wind, Noreen, quite magical. It came from between

-the south and the east--a wild little wind that ran away and did

-things on its own account; but it was a good little wind for all that

-foolish people said about it. It took hold of the bell rope in the

-belfry, and swung out and out; it swung far, and then it dropped and

-fluttered about quite dizzily."

-

-"Touching Jan-an?" Noreen suggested sleepily.

-

-"Jan-an, of course. Making her beautiful and laughing. Waking her from

-her sad dream, poor Jan-an, and giving her strength to do really

-splendid things."

-

-"I love the wild wind!" Noreen pressed closer. "I'm not afraid of it.

-And it found Aunt Polly and Uncle Peter?"

-

-"To be sure. It made Aunt Polly seem as grand and big as she really

-is--only blind folks cannot see--and it made all the blind folks _see

-her_ for a minute. And it made Uncle Peter--no; it left Uncle Peter as

-he is!"

-

-"I like that"--drowsily--"and it made us see the man that went to the

-inn?" Noreen lifted her head, suddenly alert.

-

-"What made you think of him, Noreen?" Mary-Clare stopped swaying to

-and fro.

-

-"I don't know, Motherly. Only it was funny how he just came and then

-the haunt-wind came and Jan-an says she thinks he _isn't_. Really we

-only think we see him."

-

-"Well, perhaps that's true, childie. He's something good, I hope. Now

-shut your eyes like a dearie, and Mother will rock and sing."

-

-Mary-Clare fixed her eyes on her child's face, but she was seeing

-another. The face of a man whose glance had held hers for a strange

-moment. She had been conscious, since, of this man's presence; his

-name was familiar--she could not forget him, though there was no

-reason for her to remember him except that he was new; a something

-different in her dull days.

-

-But Noreen, eyes obediently closed, was pleading in the strange,

-foolish jargon of her rare moments of relaxation:

-

-"You lit and lock, Motherly, and I'll luck my lum, just for to-night,

-and lall aleep."

-

-"All right, beloved; you may, just for to-night, suck the little

-thumb, and fall asleep while Mother rocks."

-

-After a few moments more Noreen was asleep and Mary-Clare carried her

-to an inner room and put her on her bed. She paused to look at the

-small sleeping face; she noted the baby outlines that always were so

-strongly marked when Noreen was unconscious; it hurt the mother to

-think how they hardened when the child awakened. The realization of

-this struck Mary-Clare anew and reinforced her to her purpose, for she

-knew her hour was at hand.

-

-A week before she had dismantled the room in which she now stood. It

-had once been Doctor Rivers's chamber; later it had been hers--and

-Larry's. The old furniture was now in the large upper room, only bare

-necessities were left here.

-

-Mary-Clare looked about and her face lost its smile; her head

-lowered--it was not easy, the task she had set for herself, and after

-Larry's visit to the mines it would be harder. She had hoped to see

-Larry first, for Maclin had a subtle power over him. Without ever

-referring to her, and she was sure he did not in an intimate sense, he

-always put Larry in an antagonistic frame of mind toward her. Well, it

-was too late now to avert Maclin's influence--she must do the best she

-could. She went back to the fire and sat down and waited.

-

-It was after ten o'clock when Larry came noisily in. Rivers took his

-colour from his associates and their attitude toward him. He was a bit

-hilarious now, for Maclin had been glad to see him; had approved of

-the results of his mission--though as for that Larry had had little to

-do, for he had only delivered, to certain men, some private papers and

-had received others in return; had been conscious that non-essentials

-had been talked over with him, but as that was part of the business of

-big inventions, he did not resent it. Maclin had paid him better than

-he had expected to be paid, shared a good dinner with him and a bottle

-of wine, and now Rivers felt important and aggressive. Wine's first

-effect upon him was to make him genial.

-

-He had meant to resent Mary-Clare's absence on his arrival, but he had

-forgotten all about that. He meant now to be very generous with her

-and let bygones be bygones--he had long since forgotten the words

-spoken just before he left for his trip. Words due, of course, to

-Mary-Clare just having had a baby. Almost Larry had forgotten that the

-baby had been born and had died.

-

-He strode across the room. He was tall, lithe, and good-looking, but

-his face betokened weakness. All the features that had promised

-strength and power seemed, somehow, to have missed fulfilment.

-

-Mary-Clare tried to respond; tried to do her full part--it would all

-help so much, if she only could. But this mood of Larry's was fraught

-with danger--did she not know? Success did not make him understanding

-and considerate; it made him boyishly dominant and demanding.

-

-"Well, old girl"--Rivers had slammed the door after him--"sitting up

-for me, eh? Sorry; but when I didn't find you here, I had to get over

-and see Maclin. Devilish important, big pull I've made this time.

-We'll have a spree--go to the city, if you like--have a real bat."

-

-Mary-Clare did not have time to move or speak; Larry was crushing her

-against him and kissing her face--not as a man kisses a woman he

-loves, but as he might kiss any woman. The silence and rigidity of

-Mary-Clare presently made themselves felt. Larry pushed her away

-almost angrily.

-

-"Mad, eh?" he asked with a suggestion of triumph in his voice. "Acting

-up because I ran off to Maclin? Well, I had to see him. I tried to get

-home sooner, but you know how Maclin is when he gets talking."

-

-How long Larry would have kept on it would have been hard to tell, but

-he suddenly looked full at Mary-Clare and--stopped!

-

-The expression on the face confronting his was puzzling: it looked

-amused, not angry. Now there is one thing a man of Larry's type cannot

-bear with equanimity and that is to have his high moments dashed. He

-saw that he was not impressing Mary-Clare; he saw that he was

-mistaking her attitude of mind concerning his treatment of her--in

-short, she did not care!

-

-"What are you laughing at?" he asked.

-

-"I'm not laughing, Larry."

-

-"What are you smiling at?"

-

-"My smile is my own, Larry; when I laugh it's different."

-

-"Trying to be smart, eh? I should think when your husband's been away

-months and has just got back, you'd meet him with something besides a

-grin."

-

-There was some justice in this and Mary-Clare said slowly: "I'm sorry,

-Larry. I really was only thinking."

-

-Now that she was face to face with her big moment, Mary-Clare realized

-anew how difficult her task was. Often, in the past, thinking of

-Larry when he was not with her, it had seemed possible to reason with

-him; to bring truth to him and implore his help. Always she had

-striven to cling to her image of Larry, but never to the real man. The

-man she had constructed with Larry off the scene was quite another

-creature from Larry in the flesh. This knowledge was humiliating now

-in the blazing light of reality grimly faced and it taxed all of

-Mary-Clare's courage. She was smiling sadly, smiling at her own

-inability in the past to deal with facts.

-

-Larry was brought to bay. He was disappointed, angry, and outraged. He

-was not a man to reflect upon causes; results, and very present ones,

-were all that concerned him. But he did, now, hark back to the scene

-soon after the birth and death of the last child. Such states of mind

-didn't last for ever, and there was no baby coming at the moment. He

-could not make things out.

-

-"See here," he said rather gropingly, "you are not holding a grouch,

-are you?"

-

-"No, Larry."

-

-"What then?"

-

-For a moment Mary-Clare shrank. She weakly wanted to put off the big

-moment; dared not face it.

-

-"It's late, Larry. You are tired." She got that far when she

-affrightedly remembered the bedroom upstairs and paused. She had

-arranged it for Larry--there must be an explanation of that.

-

-"Late be hanged!" Larry stretched his legs out and plunged his hands

-in his pockets. "I'm going to get at the bottom of this to-night. You

-understand?"

-

-"All right, Larry." Mary-Clare sank back in her chair--she had fallen

-on her adventurous way; she had no words with which to convey her

-burning thoughts. Already she had got so far from the man who had

-filled such a false position in her life that he seemed a stranger. To

-tell him that she did not love him, had never loved him, was all but

-impossible. Of course he could not be expected to comprehend. The

-situation became terrifying.

-

-"You've never been the same since the last baby came." Larry was

-speaking in an injured, harsh tone. "I've put up with a good deal,

-Mary-Clare; not many men would be so patient. The trouble with you, my

-girl, is this, you get your ideas from books. That mightn't matter if

-you had horse sense and knew when to slam the covers on the rot. But

-you try to live 'em and then the devil is to pay. Dad spoiled you. He

-let you run away with yourself. But the time's come----"

-

-The long speech in the face of Mary-Clare's wondering, amazed eyes,

-brought Larry to a panting pause.

-

-"What you got a husband for, anyway, that's what I am asking you?"

-

-Mary-Clare's hard-won philosophy of life stood her in poor stead now.

-She felt an insane desire to give way and laugh. It was a maddening

-thing to contemplate, but she seemed to see things so cruelly real and

-Larry seemed shouting to her from a distance that she could never

-retrace. For a moment he seemed to be physically out of sight--she

-only heard his words.

-

-"By God! Mary-Clare, what's up? Have you counted the cost of carrying

-on as you are doing? What am I up against?"

-

-"Yes, Larry, I've counted the cost to me and Noreen and you. I'm

-afraid this is what we are all up against."

-

-"Well, what's the sum total?" Larry leaned back more comfortably; he

-felt that Mary-Clare, once she began to talk, would say a good deal.

-She would talk like one of her books. He need not pay much heed and

-when she got out of breath he'd round her up. His interview with

-Maclin had not been all business; the gossip, interjected, was taking

-ugly and definite form now. Maclin had mentioned the man at the inn.

-Quite incidentally, of course, but repeatedly.

-

-"You see, Larry, I've got to tell you how it is, in my own way,"

-Mary-Clare was speaking. "I know my way makes you angry, but please be

-patient, for if I tried any other way it would hurt more."

-

-"Fire away!" Larry nobly suppressed a yawn. Had Mary-Clare said

-simply, "I don't love you any more," Larry would have got up from the

-blow and been able to handle the matter, but she proceeded after a

-fashion that utterly confused him and, instead of clearing the

-situation, managed to create a most unlooked-for result.

-

-"It's like this, Larry: I suppose life is a muddle for everyone and we

-all do have to learn as we go on--nothing can keep us from that, not

-even marriage, can it?"

-

-No reply came to this.

-

-"It's like light coming in spots, and then those spots can never be

-really dark again although all the rest may be. You think of those

-spots as bright and sure when all else is--is lost. That is the way it

-has been with me."

-

-"Gee!" Larry shrugged his shoulders.

-

-"Larry, you _must_ try to understand!" Mary-Clare was growing

-desperate.

-

-"Then, try to talk American."

-

-"I am, Larry. _My_ American. That's the trouble--there is more than

-_one_ kind, you know. Larry, it was all wrong, my marrying you even

-for dear Dad's sake. If he had been well and we could have talked it

-over, he would have understood. I should have understood for him that

-last night. Even the letters should not have mattered, they must not

-matter now!"

-

-This, at least, was comprehensible.

-

-"Well, you _did_ marry me, didn't you?" Larry flung out. "You're my

-wife, aren't you?" Correcting mistakes was not in Larry's plan of

-life.

-

-"I--why, yes, I am, Larry, but a wife means more than one thing,

-doesn't it?" This came hopelessly.

-

-"Not to me. What's your idea?" Larry was relieved at having the

-conversation run along lines that he could handle with some degree of

-common sense.

-

-"Well, Larry, marriage means a good many things to me. It means being

-kind and making a good home--a real home, not just a place to come to.

-It means standing by each other, even if you can't have everything!"

-

-Just for one moment Larry was inclined to end this shilly-shallying by

-brute determination. He was that type of man. What did not come

-within the zone of his own experience, did not exist for him except as

-obstacles to brush aside.

-

-It was a damned bad time, he thought, for Mary-Clare to act up her

-book stuff. A man, home after a three months' absence, tired and worn

-out, could not be expected, at close upon midnight, to enjoy this

-outrageous nonsense that had been sprung upon him.

-

-He must put an end to it at once. He discarded the cave method. Of

-course that impulse was purely primitive. It might simplify the whole

-situation but he discarded it. Mary-Clare's outbursts were like

-Noreen's "dressing up"--and bore about the same relation in Larry's

-mind.

-

-"See here," he said suddenly, fixing his eyes on Mary-Clare--when

-Larry asserted himself he always glared--"just what in thunder do you

-mean?"

-

-The simplicity of the question demanded a crude reply.

-

-"I'm not going to have any more children." Out of the maze of

-complicated ideals and gropings this question and answer emerged,

-devastating everything in their path. They meant one, and only one,

-thing to Larry Rivers.

-

-There were some things that could illume his dark stretches and level

-Mary-Clare's vague reachings to a common level. Both Larry and

-Mary-Clare were conscious now of being face to face with a grave human

-experience. They stood revealed, man and woman. The big significant

-things in life are startlingly simple.

-

-The man attacked the grim spectre with conventional and brutal

-weapons; the woman backed away with a dogged look growing in her

-eyes.

-

-"Oh! you aren't, eh?" Larry spoke slowly. "You've decided, have you?"

-

-"I know what children mean to you, Larry; I know what you mean

-by--love--yes: I've decided!"

-

-"You wedged your way into my father's good graces and crowded me out;

-you had enough decency, when you knew his wishes, to carry them out as

-long as you cared to, and now you're going to end the job in your own

-way, eh?

-

-"Name the one particular way in which you're not going to break your

-vows," Larry asked, and sneered. "What's your nice little plan?" He

-got up and walked about. "I suppose you have cut and dried some little

-compromise."

-

-"Oh! Larry, I wish you could be a little kind; a little understanding."

-

-"Wish I could think as you think; that's what you mean. Well, by God,

-I'm a man and your husband and I'm going to stand on my rights. You

-can't make a silly ass of me as you did of my father. Fathers and

-husbands are a shade different. Come, now, out with your plan."

-

-"I will not have any more children! I'll do everything I can, Larry;

-make the home a real home. Noreen and I will love you. We'll try to

-find some things we all want to do together; you and I can sort of

-plan for Noreen and there are all kinds of things to do around the

-Forest, Larry. Really, you and I ought to--ought to carry out your

-father's work. We could! There are other things in marriage, Larry,

-but just--the one." Breathlessly Mary-Clare came to a pause, but

-Larry's amused look drove her on. "I'm not the kind of a woman, Larry,

-that can live a lie!"

-

-A tone of horror shook Mary-Clare's voice; she choked and Larry came

-closer, his lips were smiling.

-

-"What in thunder!" he muttered. Then: "You plan to have us live on

-here in this house; you and I, a man and woman--and----!" Larry

-stopped short, then laughed. "A hell of a home that would be, all

-right!"

-

-Mary-Clare gazed dully at him.

-

-"Well, then," she whispered, and her lips grew deadly white, "I do not

-know what to do."

-

-"Do? You'll forget it!" thundered Larry. "And pretty damned quick,

-too!"

-

-But Mary-Clare did not answer. There was nothing more to say. She was

-thinking of the birth-night and death-night of her last child.

-

-On and on the burning thoughts rushed in Mary-Clare's brain while she

-sat near Larry without seeing him. As surely as if death had taken

-him, he, the husband, the father of Noreen, had gone from her life. It

-did not seem now as if anything she had said, or done, had had

-anything to do with it. It was like an accident that had overtaken

-them, killing Larry and leaving her to readjust her life alone.

-

-"Why don't you answer?" Larry laid a hand upon Mary-Clare's shoulder.

-"Getting sleepy? Come on, then, we'll have this out to-morrow." He

-looked toward the door behind which stood Noreen's cot and that other

-one beside it.

-

-"I've fixed the room upstairs for you, Larry."

-

-The simple statement had power to accomplish all that was left to be

-done. There was a finality about it, and the look on Mary-Clare's

-face, that convinced Larry he had come to the point of conquest or

-defeat.

-

-"The devil you have!" was what he said to gain time.

-

-For a moment he again contemplated force--the primitive male always

-hesitates to compromise where his codes are threatened. There was a

-dangerous gleam in his eyes; a ferocious curl of his lips--it would be

-such a simple matter and it would end for ever the nonsense that he

-could not tolerate.

-

-Mary-Clare leaned back in her chair. She was so absolutely unafraid

-that she quelled Larry's brute instinct and aroused in him a dread of

-the unknown. What would Mary-Clare do in the last struggle? Larry was

-not prepared to take what he recognized as a desperate chance. The

-familiar and obvious were deep-rooted in his nature--if, in the end,

-he lost with this calm, cool woman whom he could not frighten, where

-could he turn for certain things to which his weakness--or was it his

-strength--clung?

-

-A place to come to; someone peculiarly his own; his without effort to

-be worthy of. Larry resorted to new tactics with Mary-Clare at this

-critical moment. The smile faded from his sneering lips; he leaned

-forward and the manner that made him valuable to Maclin fell upon him

-like a disguise. So startling was the change, that Mary-Clare looked

-at him in surprise.

-

-"Mary-Clare, you've got me guessing"--there was almost surrender in

-the tone--"a woman like you doesn't take the stand you have without

-reason. I know that. Naturally, I was upset, I spoke too quick. Tell

-me now in your own way. I'll try to understand."

-

-Mary-Clare was taken off guard. Her desire and sore need rushed past

-caution and carried her to Larry.

-

-She, too, leaned forward, and her lovely eyes were shining. "Oh! I

-hoped you would try, Larry," she said. "I know I'm trying and put

-things in a way that you resent, but I have a great, a true reason, if

-I could only make you see it."

-

-"Now, you're talking sense, Mary-Clare," Larry spoke boyishly. "Just

-over-tired, I guess you were; seeing things in the dark. Men know the

-world better than women; that's why some things are _as_ they are. I'm

-not going to press you, Mary-Clare, I'm going to try and help you. You

-_are_ my wife, aren't you?"

-

-"Yes, oh! yes, Larry."

-

-"Well, I'm a man and you're a woman."

-

-"Yes, that's so, Larry."

-

-Step by step, ridiculous as it might seem, Mary-Clare meant, even now,

-to keep as close to Larry as she could. He misunderstood; he thought

-he was winning against her folly.

-

-"Marriage was meant for one thing between man and woman!"

-

-This came out triumphantly. Then Mary-Clare threw back her head and

-spiritually retreated to her vantage of safety.

-

-"No, it wasn't," she said, taking to her own hard-won trail

-desperately. "No, it wasn't! I cannot accept that Larry--why, I have

-seen where such reasoning would lead. I saw the night our last baby

-came--and went. I'd grow old and broken--you'd hate me; there would be

-children--many of them, poor, sad little things--looking at me with

-dreadful eyes, accusing me. If marriage means only one thing--it means

-that to me and you, and no woman has the right to--to become like

-that."

-

-"Wanting to defy the laws of God, eh?" Larry grew virtuous. "We all

-grow old, don't we? Men work for women; women do their share. Children

-are natural, ain't they? What's the institution of marriage for,

-anyway?" And now Larry's mouth was again hardening.

-

-"Larry, oh! Larry, please don't make me laugh! If I should laugh there

-would never be any hope of our getting together."

-

-For some reason this almost hysterical appeal roused the worst in

-Larry. The things Maclin had told him that day again took fire and

-spread where Maclin could never have dreamed of their spreading. The

-liquor was losing its sustaining effect--it was leaving Larry to

-flounder in his weak will, and he abandoned his futile tactics.

-

-"Who's that man at the inn?" he asked.

-

-The suddenness of the question, its irrelevancy, made Mary-Clare

-start. For a moment the words meant absolutely nothing to her and

-then because she was bared, nervously, to every attack, she

-flushed--recalling with absurd clearness Northrup's look and tone.

-

-"I don't know," she said.

-

-"That's a lie. How long has he been here, snooping around?"

-

-"I haven't the slightest idea, Larry." This was not true, and Larry

-caught the quiver in the tones.

-

-Again he got up and became the masterful male; the injured husband;

-the protector of his home. There were still tactics to be tested.

-

-"See here, Mary-Clare, I've caught on. You never cared for me. You

-married me from what you called duty; your sense of decency held until

-your own comfort and pleasure got in between--then you were ready to

-fling me off like an old mit and term it by high-sounding names. Now

-comes along this stranger, from God knows where, looking about for the

-devil knows what--and taking what lies about in order to pass the

-time. I haven't lived in the world for nothing, Mary-Clare. Now lay

-this along with the other woman-thoughts you're so fond of. I'm going

-upstairs, for I'm tired and all-fired disgusted, but remember, what I

-can't hold, no other man is going to get, not even for a little time

-while he hangs about. Folks are going to see just what is going on,

-believe me! I'm going to leave all the doors and windows open. I'm

-going to give you your head, but I'll keep hold of the reins."

-

-And then, because it was all so hideously wrong and twisted and

-comical, Mary-Clare laughed! She laughed noiselessly, until the tears

-dimmed her eyes. Larry watched her uneasily.

-

-"Oh, Larry," she managed her voice at last, "I never knew that

-anything so dreadfully wrong could be made of nothing. You've created

-a terrible something, and I wonder if you know it?"

-

-"That's enough!" Larry strode toward the stairway. "Your husband's no

-fool, my girl, and the cheap, little, old tricks are plain enough to

-him."

-

-Mary-Clare watched her husband pass from view; heard him tramp heavily

-in the room above. She sat by the dead fire and thought of him as she

-first knew him--knew him? Then her eyes widened. She had never known

-him; she had taken him as she had taken all that her doctor had left

-to her, and she had failed; failed because she had not thought her

-woman's thought until it was too late.

-

-After all her high aims and earnest endeavour to meet this critical

-moment in her life Mary-Clare acknowledged, as she sat by the

-ash-strewn hearth, that it had degenerated into a cheap and almost

-comic farce. To her narrow vision her problem seemed never to have

-been confronted before; her world of the Forest would have no sympathy

-for it, or her; Larry had reduced it to the ugliest aspect, and by so

-doing had turned her thoughts where they might never have turned and

-upon the stranger who might always have remained a stranger.

-

-Alone in the deadly quiet room, the girl of Mary-Clare passed from

-sight and the woman was supreme; a little hard, in order to combat the

-future: quickened to a futile sense of injustice, but young enough,

-even at that moment, to demand of life something vital; something

-better than the cruel thing that might evolve unless she bore herself

-courageously.

-

-Unconsciously she was planning her course. She would go her way with

-her old smile, her old outward bearing. A promise was a promise--she

-would never forget that, and as far as she could pay with that which

-was hers to give, she would pay, but outside of that she would not let

-life cheat her.

-

-Bending toward the dead fire on the hearth, Mary-Clare made her silent

-covenant.

-

-

-

-

-CHAPTER V

-

-

-The storm had kept Northrup indoors for many hours each day, but he

-had put those hours to good use.

-

-He outlined his plot; read and worked. He felt that he was becoming

-part of the quiet life of the inn and the Forest, but more and more he

-was becoming an object of intense but unspoken interest.

-

-"He's writing a book!" Aunt Polly confided to Peter. "But he doesn't

-want anything said about it."

-

-"He needn't get scared. I like him too well to let on and I reckon one

-thing's as good as another to tell _us_. I lay my last dollar, Polly,

-on this: he's after Maclin; not with him. I'm thinking the Forest will

-get a shake-up some day and I'm willing to bide my time. Writing a

-book! Him, a full-blooded young feller, writing a book. Gosh! Why

-don't he take to knitting?"

-

-Northrup also sent a letter to Manly. He realized that he might set

-his conscience at rest by keeping his end of the line open, but he

-wanted to have one steady hand, at least, at the other end.

-

-"Until further notice," he wrote to Manly, "I'm here, and let it go at

-that. Should there be any need, even the slightest, get in touch with

-me. As for the rest, I've found myself, Manly. I'm getting acquainted,

-and working like the devil."

-

-Manly read the letter, grinned, and put it in a box marked "Confidential,

-but unimportant."

-

-Then he leaned back in his chair, and before he relegated Northrup to

-"unimportant," gave him two or three thoughts.

-

-"The writing bug has got him, root and branch. He's burrowed in his

-hole and wants the earth to tumble in over him. Talk about letting

-sleeping dogs lie. Lord! they're nothing to the animals of Northrup's

-type. And some darn fools"--Manly was thinking of Kathryn--"go nosing

-around and yapping at the creatures' heels and feel hurt when they

-turn and snap."

-

-And Northrup, in his quiet room at the inn, slept at night like a

-tired boy and dreamed. Now when Northrup began to dream, he was always

-on the lookout. A few skirmishing, nonsensical dreams marked a state

-of mind peculiarly associated with his best working mood. They caught

-and held his attention; they were like signals of the real thing. The

-Real Thing was a certain dream that, in every detail, was familiar to

-Northrup and exact in its repetition.

-

-Northrup had not been long at the inn when the significant dream

-came.

-

-He was back in a big sunny room that he knew as well as his own in his

-mother's house. There he stood, like a glad, returned traveller,

-counting the pieces of furniture; deeply grateful that they were in

-their places and carefully preserved.

-

-The minutest articles were noted. A vase of flowers; the curtains

-swaying in the breeze; an elusive odour that often haunted Northrup's

-waking hours. The room was now as it always had been. That being

-assured, Northrup, still in deep sleep, turned to the corridor and

-expectantly viewed the closed doors. But right here a new note was

-interjected. Previously, the corridor and doors were things he had

-gazed upon, feeling as a stranger might; but now they were like the

-room; quite his own. He had trod the passage; had looked into the

-empty rooms--they were empty but had held a suggestion of things about

-to occur.

-

-And then waking suddenly, Northrup understood--he had come to the

-place of his dream. The Inn was the old setting. In a clairvoyant

-state, he had been in this place before!

-

-He went to the door of his room and glanced down the passage. All was

-quiet. The dream made an immediate impression on Northrup. Not only

-did it arouse his power of creation, strengthen and illumine it; but

-it evolved a sense of hurry that inspired him without worrying him. It

-was like the frenzy that seizes an artist when he wants to get a bit

-of beauty on canvas in a certain light that may change in the next

-minute. He felt that what he was about to do must be done rapidly and

-he knew that he would have strength to meet the demand.

-

-He was quickened to every slight thing that came his way: faces,

-voices, colour. He realized the unrest that his very innocent presence

-inspired. He wondered about it. What lay seething under the thick

-crust of King's Forest that was bubbling to the surface? Was his

-coming the one thing needed to--to----

-

-And then he thought of that figure of speech that Manly had used. The

-black lava flowing; oozing, silently. The whole world, in the big and

-in the little, was being awakened and aroused--it was that, not his

-presence, that confused the Forest.

-

-The habits of the house amused and moved him sympathetically. Little

-Aunt Polly, it appeared, was Judge and Final Court of Justice to

-the people. Through her he felt he must look for guidance and

-understanding.

-

-There were always two hours in the afternoons set aside for

-"hearings." Perched on the edge of the couch, pillows to right and

-left, eyeglasses aslant and knitting in hand, Aunt Polly was at the

-disposal of her neighbours. They could make appointments for private

-interviews or air their grievances before others, as the spirit urged

-them. Awful verdicts, clean-cut and simple, were arrived at; advice,

-grim and far-reaching, was generously given, but woe to the liar or

-sniveller.

-

-A curious sort of understanding grew up between Northrup and the

-little woman concerning these conclaves. Polly sensed his interest in

-all that went on and partly comprehended the real reason for it. She

-had been strangely impressed by the knowledge that her guest was a

-writer-man and therefore conscientious about the mental food she set

-before him. She did not share Peter's doubts. Some things she felt

-were not for Northrup and that fast-flying pen of his! But there were

-other glimpses behind the shields of King's Forest that did not

-matter. To these Northrup was welcome.

-

-When the hour came for _court_ to sit, it became Northrup's habit to

-seek the front porch for exercise and fresh air. Sometimes the window

-nearest to Aunt Polly's sofa would be left open! Sometimes it was

-closed.

-

-In the latter emergency Northrup sought his exercise and fresh air at

-a distance.

-

-One day Maclin called. Northrup had not seen him before and was

-interested. Indirectly he was concerned with the story in hand for he

-was the mysterious friend of Larry Rivers and the puller of many

-strings in King's Forest; strings that were manipulated in ways that

-aroused suspicion and would be great stuff in a book.

-

-Northrup had seen Maclin from his room window and, when all was safe,

-quietly took to the back stairs and silently reached the piazza.

-

-The window by Aunt Polly's couch was open a little higher than usual

-and the words that greeted Northrup were:

-

-"_I_ call it muggy, Mr. Maclin. That's what _I_ call it, and if the

-draught hits the nape of your neck, set the other side of the hearth

-where there ain't no draught."

-

-This, apparently, the caller proceeded to do. Outside Northrup took a

-chair and refrained from smoking. He wanted his presence to be

-unsuspected by the caller. He was confident that Aunt Polly knew of

-his proximity, and he felt sure that Maclin had come to find out more

-about him.

-

-From the first Northrup was aware of a subtle meaning for the call and

-he wondered if the woman, clicking her needles, fully comprehended it!

-The man, Maclin, he soon gathered, was no ordinary personage. He had a

-kind of superficial polish and culture that were evident in the tones

-of his voice. After having accounted for his presence by stating that

-he was looking about a bit and felt like being friendly, Maclin was

-rounded up by Aunt Polly asking what he was looking about at?

-

-Maclin laughed.

-

-"To tell the truth," he said, as if taking Aunt Polly into his

-intimate confidence, "I was looking at the Point. A darned dirty bit

-of ground with all those squatters on it."

-

-"We haven't ever called 'em that, Mr. Maclin. They're folks with

-nowhere else to live." Aunt Polly clicked her needles.

-

-"They're a dirty, lazy lot. I can't get 'em to work over at the mines,

-do what I will."

-

-"As to that, Mr. Maclin, folks as are mostly drunk on bad whiskey

-can't be expected to do good work, can they? Then again, if they are

-sober, I dare say they are too keen about those inventions of yours

-that must be so secret. Foreigners, for that purpose, I reckon are

-easier to manage."

-

-Maclin shifted his position and put the nape of his neck nearer the

-window again and Northrup lost any doubt he had about Aunt Polly's

-understanding of the situation.

-

-Maclin laughed. It was a trick of his to laugh while he got control of

-himself.

-

-"You're a real idealist, Miss Heathcote; most ladies are, some men

-are, too, until they have to handle the ugly facts of life."

-

-Peter was meant by "some men," Northrup suspected.

-

-"Now, speaking of the whiskey, Miss Heathcote, it's as good over at my

-place as the men can afford, and better, too. I don't make anything at

-the Cosey Bar, I can assure you, but I know that men have to have

-their drink, and I think it's better to keep it under control."

-

-"That's real human of you, Mr. Maclin, but I wish to goodness you'd

-keep the men under control after they've had their drink. They

-certainly do make a mess of the peace and happiness of others while

-they're indulging in their rights."

-

-A silence, then Maclin started again. "Truth is, Miss Heathcote, the

-men 'round here are shucks, and I'm keeping my eye open for the real

-interest of King's Forest, not the sentimental interest. Now, that

-Point--we ought to clean that up, build decent, comfortable cottages

-there and a wharf; keep the men as have ambition and can pay rents,

-and get others in, foreigners if you like, who know their business and

-can set a good example. We're all running to seed down here, Miss

-Heathcote, and that's a fact. I don't mind telling you, you're a

-woman of a thousand and can see what's what, I _am_ inventing some

-pretty clever things down at my place and it wouldn't be safe to let

-on until they're perfected, and I do want good workers, not loafers or

-snoopers, and I _do_ want that Point. It's nearer to the mines than

-any other spot on the Lake. I want to build a good road to it; the

-squatters could be utilized on that--the Pointers, I mean. You and

-your brother ought to be keen enough to work with me, not against me.

-Sentiment oughtn't to go too far where a lot of lazy beggars are

-concerned."

-

-The clicking of the needles was the only sound after Maclin's long

-speech; he was waiting and breathing quicker. Northrup could hear the

-deep breathing.

-

-"How do you feel about it, Miss Heathcote?"

-

-"Oh! I don't let my feelings get the better of me till I know what's

-stirring them."

-

-Northrup stifled a laugh, but Maclin, feeling secure, laughed loudly.

-

-"It's like asking me, Mr. Maclin, to get stirred up and set going by a

-pig in a poke." Aunt Polly's voice was thin and sharp. "I always _see_

-the pig before I get excited, maybe it would be best kept in the poke.

-Now, Peter and me have a real feeling about the Point--it belonged, as

-far as we know, to old Doctor Rivers, and all that he had he left to

-Mary-Clare and we feel sort of responsible to him and her. We would

-all shield anything that belonged to the old doctor."

-

-"Is her title clear to that land?" Maclin did not laugh now, Northrup

-noted that.

-

-"Land! Mr. Maclin, anything as high-sounding as a title tacked on to

-the Point is real ridiculous! But if the title ain't clear, I guess

-brother Peter can make it so. Peter being magistrate comes in handy."

-

-"Miss Heathcote"--from his tones Northrup judged that Maclin was

-coming into the open--"Miss Heathcote, the title of the Point isn't a

-clear one. I've made it my business to find out. Now I'm going to

-prove my friendliness--I'm not going to push what I know, I'll take

-all the risks myself. I'll give Mrs. Rivers a fair price for that land

-and everything will be peaceful and happy if you will use your

-influence with her and the squatters. Will you?"

-

-Aunt Polly slipped from the sofa. Northrup heard her, and imagined the

-look on her face.

-

-"No, Mr. Maclin, I won't! When the occasion rises up, I'll advise

-Mary-Clare against pigs in pokes and I'll advise the squatters to

-squat on!"

-

-Northrup again had difficulty in smothering his laugh, but Maclin's

-next move surprised and sobered him.

-

-"Isn't that place under the stairs, Miss Heathcote, where the bar of

-the old inn used to be?"

-

-"Yes, sir, yes!" It was an ominous sign when Aunt Polly addressed any

-one as "sir." "But that was before our time. Peter and I cleaned the

-place out as best we could, but there are times now, even, while I sit

-here alone in the dark, when I seem to see shadows of poor wives and

-mothers and children stealing in that door a-looking for their men.

-Don't that thought ever haunt you, Mr. Maclin, over at the Cosey

-Bar?"

-

-They were sparring, these two.

-

-"No, it never does. I take things as they are, Miss Heathcote, and let

-them go at that. Now, if _I_ were to run this place, do you know, I'd

-do it right and proper and have a what's what and make money."

-

-"But you're not running this inn, sir."

-

-"Certainly I'm not _now_, that's plain enough, or I'd make King's

-Forest sit up and take notice. Well, well, Miss Heathcote, just talk

-over with your brother what I've said to you. A man looks at some

-things different from a woman. Good-bye, ma'am, good-bye. Looks as if

-it were clearing."

-

-As Maclin came upon the piazza he stopped short at the sight of

-Northrup by the open window. He wasn't often betrayed into showing

-surprise, but he was now. He had come hoping to get a glimpse of the

-stranger; had come to get in an early warning of his power, but he

-wanted to control conditions.

-

-"Good afternoon," he muttered. "Looks more like clearing, doesn't it?

-Stranger in these parts? I've heard of you; haven't had the pleasure

-of meeting you."

-

-Northrup regarded Maclin coolly as one man does another when there is

-no apparent reason why he should not.

-

-"The clouds _do_ seem lifting. No, I'm not what you might call a

-stranger in King's Forest. Some lake, isn't it, and good woodland?"

-

-"One of the family, eh? Happy to meet you." Maclin offered a broad,

-heavy hand. Northrup took it and smiled cordially without speaking.

-"Staying on some time?"

-

-"I haven't decided exactly."

-

-"Come over to the mines and look around. Nothing there as yet but a

-dump heap, so to speak, but I'm working out a big proposition and

-while I have to go slow and keep somewhat under cover for a time--I

-don't mind showing what _can_ be shown."

-

-"Thanks," Northrup nodded, "I'll get over if I find time. I'm here on

-business myself and am rather busy in a slow, lazy fashion, but I'll

-not forget."

-

-Maclin put on his hat and turned away. Northrup got an unpleasant

-impression of the man's head in the back. It was flat and his neck met

-it in flabby folds that wrinkled under certain emotions as other men's

-foreheads did. The expressive neck was wrinkling now.

-

-Giving Aunt Polly time to recover her poise, Northrup went inside. He

-found the small woman hovering about the room, patting the furniture,

-dusting it here and there with her apron. Her glasses were quite

-misty.

-

-"I hope you kept your ears open," she exclaimed when she turned to

-Northrup.

-

-"I did, Aunt Polly! Come, sit down and let's talk it over."

-

-Polly obeyed at once and let restraint drop.

-

-"That man has a real terrible effect on me, son. He's like acid sorter

-creeping in. I don't suppose he could do what he hints--but his hints

-just naturally make me anxious."

-

-"He cannot get a hold on you, Aunt Polly. Surely your brother is more

-than a match for any one like Maclin."

-

-"When it comes to that, son, Peter can fight his own in the open, but

-he ain't any hand to sense danger in the dark till it's too late.

-Peter never can believe a fellow man is doing him a bad turn till he's

-bowled over. But then," she ran on plaintively, "it ain't just

-us--Peter, Mary-Clare, and me--it's them folks down on the Point," the

-old face quivered touchingly. "The old doctor used to say it was God's

-acre for the living; the old doctor would have his joke. The Point

-always was a mean piece of land for any regular use, but it reaches

-out a bit into the lake and the fishing's good round it, and you can

-fasten boats to it and it's a real safe place for old folks and

-children. There's always drifting creatures wherever you may be, son,

-and King's Forest has 'em, but the old doctor held as they ought to

-have some place to move in, if we let 'em be born. So he set aside the

-Point and never took anything from them, though he gave them a lot,

-what with doctoring and funerals. Dear, dear! there are real comical

-happenings at the Point. I often sit and shake over them. Real human

-nature down there! Mary-Clare goes down and reads the Bible to the

-Pointers--they just about adore her, and she wouldn't sell them out,

-not for bread and butter for her very own! It's the title as worries

-Peter and me, son. We've always known it was tricky, but, lands! we

-never thought it would come to arguing about and I put it to you: What

-does this Maclin man want of that Point?"

-

-Northrup looked interested.

-

-"I'm going to find out," he said presently, feeling strangely as if he

-had become part and parcel of the matter. "I'm going to find out and

-you mustn't worry any more, Aunt Polly. We'll try Maclin at his own

-game and go him one better. He cannot account for me, I'm making him

-uneasy. Now you help the thing along by just squatting--that's a good

-phrase of yours; one can accomplish much by just squatting on his

-holdings."

-

-And now that tricky imagination of Northrup's pictured Mary-Clare in

-the thick of it and carrying out the old doctor's whims; taking to the

-desolate bit of ground the sweetness and brightness of her

-loveliness. It was disconcerting, but at the same time gratifying,

-that pervasive quality of Mary-Clare. She was already as deep in the

-plot of Northrup's work as she was in the Forest. Whenever Northrup

-saw her, and he did often, on the road he was amused at the feeling he

-had of _knowing_ her. So might it be had he come across an old

-acquaintance who did not recognize him. It was a feeling wrought with

-excitement and danger; he might some day startle her by taking

-advantage of it.

-

-The weather, after the storm, took an unexpected turn. Instead of

-bringing frost it brought days almost as warm as late summer. The

-colour glistened; the leaves clung to the branches, but the nights

-were cool. The lake lay like an opal, flashing gorgeously in the sun,

-or like a moonstone, when the sun sank behind the hills.

-

-One afternoon Northrup went to the deserted chapel on the island. He

-walked around the building which was covered with a crimson vine; he

-looked up at the belfry, in which hung the bell so responsive to

-unseen hands.

-

-The place was like a haunted spot, but beautiful beyond words.

-Northrup tried the door--it swung in; it shared the peculiarities of

-all the other doors of the Forest.

-

-Inside, the light came ruddily through the scarlet creeper that

-covered the windows--no stained glass could have been more exquisite;

-the benches were dusty and uncushioned, the pulpit dark and reproving

-in its aloofness. By the most westerly window there was a space where,

-apparently, an organ had once stood. There was a table near by and a

-chair.

-

-An idea gripped Northrup--he would come to the chapel and write. There

-was a stove by the door. He could utilize that should necessity

-arise.

-

-He sat down and considered. Presently he was lost in the working out

-of his growing plot; already he was well on his way. Over night, as it

-were, his theme had become clear and connected. He meant to become

-part of his book, rather than its creator; he would be governed by

-events; not seek to govern them. In short, as far as in him lay, he

-would live, the next few weeks, as a man does who has lost his

-identity and moves among his fellows, intent on the present, but with

-the background a blank.

-

-Northrup felt that if, at the end of his self-ordained exile, he had

-regained his health, outlined a book, and ascertained what was the

-cause of the suspicious unrest of the Forest, he would have

-accomplished more than he had set out to do and would be in a position

-where he could decide definitely upon his course regarding the war,

-about which few, apparently, felt as he did.

-

-It was his spiritual and physical struggle, as he contemplated the

-matter now, that was his undoing. He was trying to drive the horror

-from his consciousness, as a thing apart from him and his. He was

-overwhelmed by the possessiveness of the awful thing. It caught and

-held him, threatened everything he held sacred. Well, this should be

-the test! He would abide by the outcome of his stay in the Forest.

-

-At that moment Maclin, oddly enough, came into Northrup's thoughts and

-the fat, ingratiating man became part, not of the plot of the book,

-but the grim struggle across the sea.

-

-"Good God!" Northrup spoke aloud; "could it be possible?" All along he

-had been able to ignore the suggestions of disloyalty and treachery

-that many of his friends held, but a glaring possibility of Maclin

-playing a hideous role alarmed him; made every fibre of his being

-stiffen. The man was undoubtedly German, though his name was not. What

-was he up to?

-

-There are moments in life when human beings are aware of being but

-puppets in a big game; they may tug at the strings that control them;

-may perform within certain limits, but must resign themselves to the

-fact that the strings are unbreakable. Such a feeling possessed

-Northrup now. He laughed. He was not inclined to struggle--he bowed to

-the inevitable with a keen desire for cooeperation.

-

-At this point something caused Northrup to look around.

-

-Upon a bench near by, hunched like a gargoyle, with her vague face

-nested in the palms of her thin hands, sat the girl he had noted in

-the yellow house the day of his arrival. One glance at her and she

-seemed to bring the scene back. The sunny room, the children, the

-dogs, and the girl on the table, who had soon become so familiar to

-him.

-

-"Good Lord!" he ejaculated. "And who are you?"

-

-"Jan-an."

-

-Another name become a person! Northrup smiled. They were all

-materializing; the names, the stories.

-

-"I see. Well?"

-

-There was a pause. The girl was studying him slowly, almost painfully,

-but she did not speak.

-

-"Where do you live, Jan-an?"

-

-This made talk and filled an uncomfortable pause.

-

-"One place and another. I was left."

-

-"Left?"

-

-"Yep. Left on the town. Folks take me in turn-about. I just jog along.

-I'm staying over to the Point now. Next I'm going to Aunt Polly. I

-chooses, I do. I likes to jog along."

-

-The girl was inclined to be friendly and she was amusing.

-

-"Did you hear the bell ring the night you came--the ha'nt bell?" she

-asked.

-

-"I certainly did."

-

-"'Twas a warning, and then here _you_ are! Generally warnings mean bad

-things, but Aunt Polly says you're right enough and generally they

-ain't when they're young."

-

-"Who are not, Jan-an?"

-

-"Men. When they get old, like Uncle Peter, they meller or----"

-

-"Or what?"

-

-"Naturally drop off."

-

-Northrup laughed. The sound disturbed the girl and she scowled.

-

-"It's terrible to have folks think you're a fool to be laughed at,"

-she muttered. "I can't get things over."

-

-"What do you want to get over, Jan-an?"

-

-Northrup was becoming interested. If straws show the wind's quarter,

-then a bit of driftwood may be depended upon to indicate the course of

-a stream. Northrup was again both amused and surprised to find how his

-very ordinary presence in King's Forest was, apparently, affecting

-the natives. Jan-an took on new proportions as she was regarded in the

-light of a straw or a bit of driftwood.

-

-"Yer feelin's," the girl answered simply. "When you don' understand

-like most do, yer feelin's count, they do!"

-

-"They certainly do, Jan-an."

-

-The girl considered this and struggled, evidently, to adjust her

-companion to suit her needs, but at last she shook her head.

-

-"I ain't going to take no chances with yer!" she muttered at length.

-"'Tain't natural. Aunt Polly and Uncle Peter ain't risking so much

-as--her----"

-

-"You mean----" Northrup felt guilty. He knew whom the girl meant--he

-felt as if he were taking advantage; eavesdropping or reading someone

-else's letter.

-

-Jan-an sunk her face deeper into the cup of her hands--this pressed

-her features up and made her look laughably ugly. She was not taking

-much heed of the man near by; she was seeking to collect all the

-shreds of evidence she had gathered from listening, in her rapt, tense

-way, and making some definite case for, or against, the stranger who,

-Aunt Polly had assured her, was "good and proper."

-

-"Now, everything was running on same as common," Jan-an muttered--"same

-as common. Then that old ha'nt bell took to ringing, like all

-possessed. I just naturally thought 'bout you dropping out of a clear

-sky and asking us the way to the inn when it was plain as the nose on

-yer face how yer should go. What do you suppose folks paint

-sign-boards for, eh?" The twisted ideas sprang into a question.

-

-"That's one on me, Jan-an!" Northrup laughed. "I was afraid I'd be

-found out."

-

-"Can't yer read?" Jan-an could not utterly distrust this person who

-was puzzling her.

-

-"Yes, I can read and write, Jan-an."

-

-"Then what in tarnation made yer plump in that way?"

-

-"The Lord knows, Jan-an!" Almost the tone was reverent.

-

-"Then _he_ came ructioning in--Larry, I mean. An' everything is

-different from what it was. Just like a bubbling pot"--poor Jan-an

-grew picturesque--"with the top wobbling. I wish"--she turned pleading

-eyes on Northrup--"I wish ter God you'd clear out."

-

-For a moment Northrup felt again the weakening desire to follow this

-advice, but, as he thought on, his chin set in a fixed way that meant

-that he was not going to move on, but stay where he was. He meant,

-also, to get what he could from this strange creature who had sought

-him out. He convinced himself that it was legitimate, and since he

-meant to get at the bottom of what was going on, he must use what came

-to hand.

-

-"So Larry has come back?" he asked indifferently. Then: "I've caught

-sight of him from a distance. Good-looking fellow, this Larry of

-yours, Jan-an."

-

-"He ain't mine. If he was----" Jan-an looked mutinous and Northrup

-laughed.

-

-"See here, you!" The girl was irritated by the laugh. "Larry, he

-thinks that Mary-Clare has set eyes on yer before yer came that day.

-Larry is making ructions, and folks are talking."

-

-"Well, that's ridiculous." Northrup found his heart beating a bit

-quicker.

-

-"I know it is, but Maclin can make Larry think anything. Honest to

-God, yer ain't siding 'long of Maclin?"

-

-"Honest to God, Jan-an, I'm not."

-

-"Then why did yer stumble in on us that way?"

-

-"I don't know, Jan-an. That's honest to God, too!"

-

-"Then if nothing is mattering ter yer, and one place is as good as

-another, why don't you go along?"

-

-Northrup gave this due consideration. He was preparing to answer

-something in his own mind. The dull-faced girl was having a peculiar

-effect upon him. He was getting excited.

-

-"Well, Jan-an," he said at last, "it's this way. Things _are_

-mattering. Mattering like thunder! And one place isn't as good as

-another; this place is the only place on the map just now--catch on?"

-

-Jan-an was making strenuous efforts to "catch on"; her face appeared

-like a rubber mask that unseen fingers were pinching into comical

-expressions.

-

-Northrup began to wonder just how mentally lacking the girl was.

-

-"But tuck this away in your noddle, Jan-an. Your Uncle Peter and Aunt

-Polly have the right understanding. They trust me, and you will some

-day. I'm going to stay right here--pass that along to anyone who asks

-you, Jan-an. I'm going to stay here and see this thing out!"

-

-"What thing?"

-

-The elusive something that was puzzling the girl, the sense of

-something wrong that her blinded but sensitive nature suffered from,

-loomed close. This man might make it plain.

-

-"What thing?" she asked huskily. Then Northrup laughed that disturbing

-laugh of his.

-

-"I don't know, Jan-an. 'Pon my soul, girl, I'd give a good deal to

-know, but I don't. I'm like you, just feeling things."

-

-Jan-an rose stiffly as if she were strung on wires. Her joints cracked

-as they fell into place, but once the long body stood upright,

-Northrup noticed that it was not without a certain rough grace and it

-looked strong and capable of great endurance.

-

-"I've been following you since the first day when you landed," Jan-an

-spoke calmly. There was no warning or distrust in the voice, merely a

-statement of fact. "And I'm going to keep on following and watching,

-so long as you stay."

-

-"Good! I'll never be really lonely then, and you'll sooner get to

-trusting me."

-

-"I ain't much for trusting till I knows."

-

-The girl turned and strode away. "Well, if you ever need me, try me

-out, Jan-an. Good-bye."

-

-Northrup felt ill at ease after Jan-an passed from sight.

-

-"Of all the messes!" he thought. "It makes me superstitious. What's

-the matter with this Forest?"

-

-And then Maclin again came into focus. Around Maclin, apparently, the

-public thought revolved.

-

-"They don't trust Maclin." Northrup began to reduce things to normal.

-"He's got them guessing with his damned inventions and secrecy. Then

-every outsider means a possible accomplice of Maclin. They hate the

-foreigners he brings here. They have got their eyes on me. All right,

-Maclin, my ready-to-wear villain, here's to you! And before we're

-through with each other some interesting things will occur, or I'll

-miss my guess."

-

-In much the same mood of excitement, Northrup had entered upon the

-adventure of writing his former book, with this difference: He had

-gone to the East Side of his home city with all his anchors cast in a

-familiar harbour; he was on the open sea now. There had been his

-mother and Kathryn before; the reliefs of home comforts, "fumigations"

-Kathryn termed them; now he was part of his environment, determined to

-cast no backward look until his appointed task was finished in failure

-or--success.

-

-The chapel and the day had soothed and comforted him: he was ready to

-abandon the hold on every string. This space of time, of unfettered

-thought and work, was like existence in a preparation camp. This

-became a fixed idea presently--he was being prepared for service;

-fitted for his place in a new Scheme. That was the only safe way to

-regard life, at the best. Here, there, it mattered not, but the

-preparation counted.

-

-

-

-

-CHAPTER VI

-

-

-When Mary-Clare awoke the next morning she heard Larry still moving

-about overhead as if he had been doing it all night. He was opening

-drawers; going to and fro between closet and bed; pausing, rustling

-papers, and giving the impression, generally, that he was bent upon a

-definite plan.

-

-Noreen was sleeping deeply, one little arm stretched over her pillow

-and toward her mother as if feeling for the dear presence. Somehow the

-picture comforted Mary-Clare. She was strangely at peace. After her

-bungling--and she knew she had bungled with Larry--she _had_ secured

-safety for Noreen and herself. It was right: the other way would have

-bent and cowed her and ended as so many women's lives ended. Larry

-never could understand, but God could! Mary-Clare had a simple faith

-and it helped her now.

-

-While she lay thinking and looking at Noreen she became conscious of

-Larry tiptoeing downstairs. She started up hoping to begin the new era

-as right as might be. She wanted to get breakfast and start whatever

-might follow as sanely as possible.

-

-But Larry had gone so swiftly, once he reached the lower floor, that

-only by running after him in her light apparel could she attract his

-attention. He was out of the house and on the road toward the mines!

-

-Then Mary-Clare, seized by one of those presentiments that often light

-a dark moment, closed the door, shivering slightly, and went

-upstairs.

-

-The carefully prepared bedchamber was in great disorder. The

-bedclothes were pulled from the bed and lay in a heap near by; towels,

-the soiled linen that Larry had discarded for the fresh, that had

-been placed in the bureau drawers, was rolled in a bundle and flung on

-the hearth.

-

-This aspect of the room did not surprise Mary-Clare. Larry generally

-dropped what he was for the moment through with, but there was more

-here than heedless carelessness. Drawers were pulled out and empty.

-The closet was open and empty. There was a finality about the scene

-that could not be misunderstood. Larry was gone in a definite and

-sweeping manner.

-

-Dazed and perplexed, Mary-Clare went to the closet and suddenly was

-made aware, by the sight of an empty box upon the floor, that in her

-preparation of the room she had left that box, containing the old

-letters of her doctor, on a shelf and that now they had been taken

-away!

-

-What this loss signified could hardly be estimated at first. So long

-had those letters been guide-posts and reinforcements, so long had

-they comforted and soothed her like a touch or look of her old friend,

-that now she raised the empty box with a sharp sense of pain. So might

-she gaze at Noreen's empty crib had the child been taken from her.

-

-Then, intuitively, Mary-Clare tried to be just, she thought that Larry

-must have taken the letters because of old and now severed connections

-They _were_ his letters, but----

-

-Here Mary-Clare, also because she was just, considered the other

-possible cause. Larry might use the letters against her in the days to

-come. Show them to others to prove her falseness and ingratitude. This

-possibility, however, was only transitory. What she had done was

-inevitable, Mary-Clare knew that, and it seemed to her right--oh! _so_

-right. There was only one real fact to face. Larry was gone; the

-letters were gone.

-

-Mary-Clare began to tremble. The cold room, all that had so deeply

-moved her was shaking her nerves. Then she thought that in his hurry

-Larry might have overturned the box--the letters might be on the shelf

-still. Quickly she went into the closet and felt carefully every

-corner. The letters were not there.

-

-Then with white face and chattering teeth she turned and faced

-Jan-an. The girl had come noiselessly to the house and found her way

-to the room where she had heard sounds--she had seen Larry fleeing on

-the lake road as she came over the fields from the Point.

-

-"What's up?" she asked in her dull, even tones, while in her vacant

-eyes the groping, tender look grew.

-

-"Oh! Jan-an," Mary-Clare was off her guard, "the letters; my dear old

-doctor's letters--they are gone; gone." Her feeling seemed out of all

-proportion to the loss.

-

-"Who took 'em?" And then Jan-an did one of those quick, intelligent

-things that sometimes shamed sharper wits--she went to the hearth.

-"There ain't been no fire," she muttered. "He ain't burned 'em. What

-did he take them for?"

-

-This question steadied Mary-Clare. "I'm not _sure_, Jan-an, that any

-one has _taken_ the letters. You know how careless I am. I may have

-put them somewhere else."

-

-"If yer have there's no need fussing. I'll find 'em. I kin find

-anything if yer give me time. I have ter get on the scent."

-

-Mary-Clare gave a nervous laugh.

-

-"Just old letters," she murmured, "but they meant, oh! they meant so

-much. Come," she said suddenly, "come, I must dress and get

-breakfast."

-

-"I've et." Jan-an was gathering the bedclothes from the floor. She

-selected the coverlid and brought it to Mary-Clare. "There, now," she

-whispered, wrapping it about her, "you come along and get into bed

-downstairs till I make breakfast. You need looking after more than

-Noreen. God! what messes some folks can make by just living!"

-

-Things were reduced to the commonplace in an hour.

-

-The warmth of her bed, the sight of Noreen, the sound of Jan-an moving

-about, all contributed to the state of mind that made her panic almost

-laughable to Mary-Clare.

-

-Things had happened too suddenly for her; events had become congested

-in an environment that was antagonistic to change. A change had

-undoubtedly come but it must be met bravely and faithfully.

-

-The sun was flooding the big living-room when Mary-Clare, Noreen, and

-Jan-an sat down to the meal Jan-an had prepared. There was a feeling

-of safety prevailing at last. And then Jan-an, her elbows on the

-table, her face resting in her cupped hands, remarked slowly as if

-repeating a lesson:

-

-"He's dead, Philander Sniff. Went terrible sudden after taking all

-this time. I clean forgot--letters and doings. I can't think of more

-than one thing at a time."

-

-Mary-Clare set her cup down sharply while Noreen with one of those

-whimsical turns of hers drawled in a sing-song:

-

-"Old Philander Sniff, he died just like a whiff----"

-

-"Noreen!" Mary-Clare stared at the child while Jan-an chuckled in a

-rough, loose way as if her laugh were small stones rattling in her

-throat.

-

-"Well, Motherly, Philander was a cruel old man. Just being dead don't

-make him anything different but--dead."

-

-"Noreen, you must keep quiet. Jan-an, tell me about it."

-

-Mary-Clare's voice commanded the situation. Jan-an's stony gurgle

-ceased and she began relating what she had come to tell.

-

-"I took his supper over to him, same as usual, and set it down on the

-back steps, and when he opened the door I said, like I allas done,

-'Peneluna says good-night,' and he took in the food and slammed the

-door, same as usual."

-

-"Old Philander Sniff----" began Noreen's chant as she slipped from her

-chair intent upon a doll by the hearthside.

-

-Mary-Clare took no notice of her but nodded to Jan-an.

-

-"And then," the girl went on, "I went in to Peneluna and told her and

-then we et and went to bed. Long about midnight, I guess, there was a

-yell!" Jan-an lost her breath and paused, then rushed along: "He'd

-raised his winder and after all the keeping still, he called for

-Peneluna to come."

-

-Mary-Clare visualized the dramatic scene that poor Jan-an was mumbling

-monotonously.

-

-"And she went! I just lay there scared stiff hearing things an' seeing

-'em! Come morning, in walked Peneluna looking still and high and she

-didn't say nothing till she'd gone and fetched those togs of hers,

-black 'uns, you know, that Aunt Polly gave her long back. She put 'em

-on, bonnet and veil an' everything. Then she took an old red rose out

-of a box and pinned it on the front of her bonnet--God! but she did

-look skeery--and then said to me awful careful, 'Trot on to

-Mary-Clare, tell her to fotch the marriage service _and_ the funeral

-one, both!' Jes' like that she said it. Both!"

-

-"This is very strange," Mary-Clare said slowly and got up. "I'm going

-to the Point, Jan-an, and you will take Noreen to the inn, like a good

-girl. I'll call for her in the afternoon."

-

-"Take both!" Jan-an was nodding her willingness to obey. And

-Mary-Clare took her prayer-book with her.

-

-Mary-Clare had the quiet Forest to herself apparently, for on the way

-to the Point she met no one. On ahead she traced, she believed,

-Larry's footprints, but when she turned on the trail to the Point,

-they were not there.

-

-All along her way Mary-Clare went over in her thought the story of

-Philander Sniff and Peneluna. It was the romance and mystery of the

-sordid Point.

-

-Years before, when Mary-Clare was a little child, Philander had

-drifted, from no one knew where, to the mines and the Point. He lived

-in one of the ramshackle huts; gave promise of paying for it, did, in

-fact, pay a few dollars to old Doctor Rivers, and then became a

-squatter. He was injured at the mines and could do no more work and at

-that juncture Peneluna had arrived upon the scene from the same

-unknown quarter apparently whence Philander had hailed. She took the

-empty cottage next Philander's and paid for it by service in Doctor

-Rivers's home. She was clean, thrifty, and strangely silent. When

-Philander first beheld her he was shaken, for a moment, out of his

-glum silence. "God Almighty!" he confided to Twombly who had worked in

-the mines with him and had looked after him in his illness; "yer can't

-shake some women even when it's for their good."

-

-That was all. Through the following years the two shacks became the

-only clean and orderly ones on the Point. When Philander hobbled from

-his quarters, Peneluna went in and scrubbed and scoured. After a time

-she cooked for the old man and left the food on his back steps. He

-took it in, ate it, and had the grace to wash the dishes before

-setting them back.

-

-"Some mightn't," poor Peneluna had said to Aunt Polly in defence of

-Sniff.

-

-As far as any one knew the crabbed old man never spoke to his devoted

-neighbour, but she had never complained.

-

-"I wonder what happened before they came here?" After all the years of

-taking the strange condition for granted, it sprang into quickened

-life. Mary-Clare was soon to know and it had a bearing upon her own

-highly sensitive state.

-

-She made her way to the far end of the Point, passing wide-eyed

-children at play and curious women in doorways.

-

-"Philander's dead!" The words were like an accompaniment, passing from

-lip to lip. "An' she won't let a soul in." This was added.

-

-"She will presently," Mary-Clare reassured them. "She'll need you all,

-later."

-

-There was a little plot of grass between Peneluna's shack and

-Philander's and a few scraggy autumn flowers edged a well-worn path

-from one back door to the other!

-

-At Philander's front door Mary-Clare knocked and Peneluna responded at

-once. She was dressed as Jan-an had described, and for a moment

-Mary-Clare had difficulty in stifling her inclination to laugh.

-

-The gaunt old woman was in the rusty black she had kept in readiness

-for years; she wore gloves and bonnet; the long crepe veil and the

-absurd red rose wobbled dejectedly as Peneluna moved about.

-

-"Come in, child, and shut the world out." Then, leading the way to an

-inner room, "Have yer got _both_ services?"

-

-"Yes, Peneluna." Then Mary-Clare started back.

-

-She was in the presence of the dead. He lay rigid and carefully

-prepared for burial on the narrow bed. He looked decent, at peace, and

-with that unearthly dignity that death often offers as its first

-gift.

-

-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 she _might_ the 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 from her 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 dances

-and sings gets like whiskey in the head, and Philander didn't

-rightfully know what he was about."

-

-Peneluna drew the end of her crepe 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 own spirit 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 Lord wants 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--

-

-that's the way, Noreen, scuffle your feet in the leaves--

-

-    "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. "_He_ isn'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.

-

-

-

-

-CHAPTER 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 miss _my_ guess." 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 fairly crooned 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 my _using_

-you 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. When the public _is_ taken 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 I _am_ your

-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 be _shown_!"

-

-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 coming out 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

-to _get_ it 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 the Point 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 what I 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. "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 did not 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 it rest 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.

-

-"Seven and then three dollars a week more if I cook and serve for

-you."

-

-Larry had overlooked this very important item.

-

-"All right!" he agreed. "When can I come?"

-

-"Right off." Peneluna felt that she must get him under her eye as soon

-as possible. She moved to the door.

-

-"You'll make it straight with Mary-Clare?"

-

-Larry was following the rigid form out into the gathering dark--a

-storm was rising; the bell on the distant island was ringing gleefully

-like a wicked little imp set free.

-

-"I'll tell her that you're here and that she best let you stay on, if

-that's what you mean." Peneluna led the way over the well-worn path

-she had often trod before. "And, Larry Rivers, I don't rightly know as

-I'm doing fair and square, but look at it as you will, it's better me

-than another if anything is wrong. I served yer good father and I set

-a store by yer wife and child--and I want to hang hold of you all.

-I've let you have yer way down here, but I don't want any ructions and

-I ain't going to have Maclin's crowd hinting and defiling anybody."

-

-"I'll never forget this, Mrs. Sniff." In the gathering gloom, behind

-Peneluna's striding form, Larry's voice almost broke again and

-undoubtedly the tears were on his cheeks. "Some day, when you know

-all, you'll understand."

-

-"I'm a good setter and waiter, Larry Rivers, and as to understanding,

-that is as it may be. I can only see just so far! I can't turn my back

-on the old doctor's son nor Mary-Clare's husband but I don't want any

-tricks. You better not forget that! There's a bed in yonder." The two

-had entered the house next door. Jan-an had done good work. The place

-was in order and a fire burned in the stove. "I'll fetch food later."

-With this Peneluna, followed by Jan-an, a trifle more vague than

-usual, left the house.

-

-The rain was already falling and the wind rising--it was the haunted

-wind; the bell sounded in the distance sharply. Jan-an paused in the

-gathering darkness and spoke tremblingly:

-

-"What's a-going on?" she asked. Peneluna turned and laid her hand on

-the girl's shoulder; her face softened--but Jan-an could not see

-that.

-

-"Child"--the old voice fell to a whisper--"I ain't going to expect too

-much of yer--God Almighty made yer out of a skimpy pattern, I know,

-but what He did give yer can be helped along by using it for them yer

-love. Child, watch there!"

-

-A long crooked forefinger pointed to the shack, the windows of which

-were already darkened--for Larry had drawn the shades!

-

-"Watch early and late there! Keep your mouth shut, except to me.

-Jan-an, I can trust yer?"

-

-The girl was growing nervous.

-

-"Yes'm," she blurted suddenly and then fell to weeping. "I keep

-feelin' things like wings a-touching of me," she muttered. "I hate the

-feelin'. When nothing ain't happened ever, what's the reason it has

-ter begin now?"

-

-It was nearly midnight when Peneluna sat down by her fireside to

-think. She had cooked a meal for Larry and carried it to him; she had

-soothed and fed Jan-an and put her to bed on a cot near the bed upon

-which old Philander Sniff had once rested, and now Peneluna, with

-Sniff's old Bible on her knees, felt safe to think and read, and it

-seemed as if the wings Jan-an had sensed were touching her! The book

-was marked at passages that had appealed to the old man. Often, after

-Mary-Clare had read to him and left, thinking that she had made no

-impression, the trembling, gnarled hand had pencilled the words to be

-reread in lonely moments.

-

-Peneluna had never read the Bible from choice; indeed, her education

-had been so limited as to be negligible, but lately these pencilled

-marks had become tremendously significant to her. She was able,

-somehow, to follow Philander Sniff closely, catching sight of him, now

-and again, in an illumined way guided by the Bible verses. It was like

-the blind leading the blind, to be sure, and often it seemed a blind

-trail, but occasionally Peneluna could pause and take a long breath

-while she beheld the vision that must have helped her friend upon his

-isolated way.

-

-To-night, however, she was tired and puzzled and worried. She kept

-reverting to Larry: her eyes only lighted on the printed words before

-her; her thoughts drifted.

-

-What had been going on in the Forest? Why was the storm breaking?

-

-But suddenly a verse more heavily marked than the others stayed her:

-

-  And a highway shall be there, and a way and it shall be called the

-  way of holiness. The wayfaring men, though fools, shall not err

-  therein.

-

-Over and over Peneluna read and pondered; more and more she puzzled.

-

-"Land o' love!" she muttered at last. "Now these here words mean

-something particular. Seems like they must get into me with their

-meaning if I hold to 'em long enough. Lord! I don't see how folks can

-enjoy religion when you have to swallow it without tasting it."

-

-But so powerful is suggestion through words, that presently the old

-woman became hypnotized by them. They sprang out at her like

-flashes--one by one. "Highway"--she could grasp that. "A way and it

-shall be called"--these words ran into each other but--the "way" held.

-"The wayfarer"--well! that was easy; all folks taking to the highway

-were wayfarers--"though fools shall not err therein."

-

-Peneluna, without realizing it, was on The Highway over which all

-pass, living, seeing, feeling, and storing up experience. In old

-Philander's quiet memory-haunted room she was pausing and looking

-back; groping forward--understanding as she had never understood

-before!

-

-At times, catching the meaning of what the present held, her old face

-quivered as a child's does that is lost, and she would _think back_,

-holding to some word or look that gave her courage again to fix her

-eyes ahead.

-

-"So! so!" she would nod and mutter. "So! so!" It was like meeting

-others on The Highway, greeting them, and then going on alone!

-

-That was the hurt of it all--she was alone. If only there had been

-someone to hold her hand, to help her when she stumbled, but no! she

-was like a creature in a land of shadowy ghosts. Ghosts whom she knew;

-who knew her, but they could not linger long with her.

-

-More than the others, Philander persisted, but perhaps that was

-because of the pencilled words. They were guide-posts he had left for

-her. And strangest of all, this passing to and fro on The Highway

-seemed to concern Larry Rivers most of all. Larry, who, during all the

-years, had meant nothing more to King's Forest than that he was the

-old doctor's son, Mary-Clare's husband, and Maclin's secret employee.

-

-Larry, asleep in the shack next door, had taken on new proportions. He

-meant, for the first time, to Peneluna, a person to whom she owed

-something by virtue of knowledge. Knowledge! What really did she know?

-How did she know it? She did not question--she accepted and became

-responsible in a deep and grateful manner. She must remember about

-Larry. Remember all she could--it would help her now.

-

-The trouble, Peneluna knew, began with Larry's mother. Larry's mother

-had wrecked the old doctor's life; had driven him to King's Forest. No

-one had ever told Peneluna this--but she knew it. It did not matter

-what that woman had done, she had hurt a man cruelly. Once the old

-doctor had said to Peneluna--it came sharply back, now, like a call

-from a wayfarer:

-

-"Miss Pen, it is because of such women as you and Aunt Polly that men

-_can_ keep their faith."

-

-That was when Larry was desperately ill and Polly Heathcote and

-Peneluna were nursing him--he was a little boy then, home on a

-vacation. It was because of the woman that neither of them had ever

-known that they tried to mother the boy--but Larry was difficult, he

-had queer streaks. Again Peneluna looked back, back to some of the

-difficult streaks.

-

-Once Larry had stolen! He had gone, too, when quite a child, to the

-tavern! He had tasted the liquor, made the men laugh! The old doctor

-had been in a sad state at that time and Larry had been sent to

-school.

-

-After that, well, Peneluna could not recall Larry distinctly for many

-years. She knew the old doctor clung to him passionately; went

-occasionally to see him, came back troubled; came back looking older

-each time and depending more upon Mary-Clare, whose love and devotion

-could smooth the sadness from his face.

-

-Then that night, the marriage night of Mary-Clare! Peneluna had been

-near the old doctor when Larry bent to catch the distorted words that

-were but whispered. She knew, she seemed always to have known, that

-Larry had lied; he had _not_ understood anything.

-

-Peneluna had tried to interfere, but she was always fumbling; she

-could patiently wait, but action, with her, was slow.

-

-And then Maclin! Since Maclin came and bought the mines _and_

-Larry--oh! what did it all mean? Had things been slumbering, needing

-only a touch?

-

-And who was this man at the inn? Was he the Touch? What was going to

-happen in this dull, sluggish life of King's Forest?

-

-The night was growing old, old! Peneluna, too, was old and tired. The

-Highway was fraught with terrors for her; the ghosts frightened her.

-They were trying to make her understand what she must _do_, now that

-they had shown her The Way. She must keep the old doctor's son from

-Maclin if she could and from the stranger at the inn, if she had need.

-If trouble came she must defend her own.

-

-The weary woman nodded; her eyes closed; the Book slipped from her lap

-and lay like a "light unto her feet." She had, somehow, got an

-understanding of Larry Rivers: she believed that through his

-"difficult streaks" Maclin had got a hold upon him; was using him now

-for evil ends. It was for her, for all who loved the old doctor, to

-shield, at any cost, the doctor's son. That Larry was unworthy did not

-weigh with Peneluna. Where she gave, she gave with abandon.

-

-

-

-

-CHAPTER VIII

-

-

-Aunt Polly came into the living-room of the inn noiselessly, but

-Peter, at the fireside, opened his eyes. Nothing could have driven him

-to bed earlier, but he appeared to have been sleeping for hours.

-

-Polly's glasses adorned the top of her head. This was significant.

-When she had arrived at any definite conclusion she pushed her

-spectacles away as though her physical vision and her spiritual were

-one and the same.

-

-"Time, Polly?" Peter yawned.

-

-"Going on to 'leven."

-

-"He come in?"

-

-Full well Peter knew that he had not!

-

-"No, Peter, and his evening meal is drying up in the oven--I had

-creamed oysters, too. Creamed oysters are his specials."

-

-"Scandalous, your goings on with this young man!" Peter sat up and

-stretched. Then he smiled at his sister.

-

-"Well, Peter, all my life I've had to take snatches and scraps out of

-other folks' lives when I could get them; and I declare I've managed

-to patch together a real Lady's Delight-pattern sort of quilt to

-huddle under when I'm cold and tired."

-

-"Tired now, Polly?"

-

-"Not exactly tired, brother, but sort of rigid. Feel as if I was

-braced for something. I've often had that feeling."

-

-"Women! women!" muttered Peter, and threw on another log.

-

-"What you suppose has happened to keep our young feller from the--the

-oysters, eh?"

-

-"I'm not accounting for folks or things these days, Peter. I'm just

-keeping my eyes and ears open. Jan-an makes me uneasy!" This came like

-a mild explosion.

-

-"What's she up to?" Peter sniffed.

-

-"Land! the poor soul is like the barometer you set such store by.

-Everything looking clear and peaceful and then suddenlike up she gets,

-as she did an hour ago, and grabs her truck and sets out for

-Mary-Clare's like she was summoned. Just saying she had to! These are

-queer times, brother. I ain't easy in my mind."

-

-"If Jan-an doesn't calm down," Peter muttered, "she may have to be put

-somewhere, as Larry Rivers once suggested. Larry hasn't many earmarks

-of his pa--but he may have a sense about human ailments."

-

-"Think shame of yourself, Peter Heathcote, to let anything Larry

-Rivers says disturb your natural good feelings. Where could we send

-Jan-an if we wanted to?" Peter declined to reply and Aunt Polly went

-on: "Larry isn't living with Mary-Clare, Peter!" she added. This was a

-more significant explosion. Peter turned and his hair seemed to spring

-an inch higher around his red, puffy face.

-

-"Where is he living?" he asked. When deeply stirred, Peter went slow

-and warily.

-

-"He's hired Peneluna's old shack."

-

-Peter digested this; but found it chaff.

-

-"You got this from Jan-an?"

-

-"I got it from her and from Peneluna. Peter, Peneluna looks and acts

-like one of them queer sort of ancient bodies what used to sit on

-altars or something, and make remarks that no one was expected to

-differ from. She just dropped in this morning and said that Larry

-Rivers had taken her shack; was paying for it, too."

-

-"Has, or is going to?" Peter was giving himself time to think.

-

-"Has!" Aunt Polly was pulling her cushions into the cavities of her

-tired little body.

-

-"Damn funny!" muttered Peter and added another log. The heat was

-growing ferocious. Then, as he eyed his sister: "Better turn in,

-Polly. You look scrunched." To look "scrunched" was to look

-desperately exhausted. "No use wearing yourself out for--for folks,"

-he added with a tenderness in his voice that always brought a peculiar

-smile to Polly's eyes.

-

-"I don't see as there is anything else much, brother, to wear one's

-self out for."

-

-"Why frazzle yourself for anything?"

-

-"Why shouldn't I? What should I be keeping myself for, Peter? Surely

-not for my own satisfaction. No. I always hold if folks want me, then

-I'm particularly pleased to be had. As to frazzling, seems like we

-only frazzle just _so_ far, then a stitch holds and we get our

-breath."

-

-In this mood Polly worried Peter deeply. He could not keep from

-looking ahead--he avoided that usually--to a time when the little nest

-at the far end of the sofa would be empty; when the click of knitting

-needles would sound no more in the beautiful old room.

-

-"There's me!" he whispered at length like a half-ashamed but

-frightened boy.

-

-Polly drew her glasses down and gave him a long, straight look full of

-a deep and abiding love.

-

-"You're the stitch, Peter my man," she whispered back as if fearing

-someone might hear, "always the saving stitch. And take this to bed

-with you, brother: the frazzling isn't half so dangerous as dry rot,

-or moth eating holes in you. Queer, but I was getting to think of

-myself as laid on the shelf before Brace drifted in, and when I do

-that I get old-acting and stiff-jointed. But I've noticed that it's

-the same with folks as it is with the world, when they begin to

-flatten down, then the good Lord drops something into them to make 'em

-sorter rise. No need to flatten down until you're dead. Feeling tired

-is healthy and proper--not feeling at all is being finished. So now,

-Peter, you just go along to bed. I always have felt that a man hates

-to be set up for, but he can overlook a woman doing it; he sets it

-down to her general foolishness, but Brace would just naturally get

-edgy if he found us both up."

-

-Peter came clumsily across the room and stood over the small creature

-on the sofa. He wanted to kiss her. Instead, he said gruffly:

-

-"See that the fire's banked, Polly. Looks as if I'd laid on a powerful

-lot of wood without thinking." Then he laughed and went on: "You're

-durned comical, Polly. What you said about the Lord putting yeast into

-folks and the world _is_ comical."

-

-"I didn't say yeast, Peter Heathcote."

-

-"Well, yer meant yeast."

-

-"No, I didn't mean yeast. I just meant something like Brace was

-talking about to-day."

-

-"What was it?" Peter stood round and solid with the firelight ruddily

-upon him.

-

-"He said that the fighting overseas ain't properly a war, but a

-general upheaval of things that have got to come to the top and be

-skimmed off. We ain't ever looked at it that way." Polly resorted to

-familiar similes when deeply affected.

-

-"I guess all wars is that." Peter looked serious. He rarely spoke of

-the trouble that seemed far, far from his quiet, detached life, but

-lately he had shaken his head over it in a new way. "But God ain't

-meaning for us to take sides, Polly. It's like family troubles. You

-don't understand them, and you better keep out. Just think of our good

-German friends and neighbours. We can't go back on them just 'cause

-their kin across the seas have taken to fighting. Our Germans have, so

-to speak, married in our family, and we must stand by 'em." Peter was

-voicing his unrest. Polly saw the trouble in his face.

-

-"Of course, brother, and I only meant that lately so many things are

-stirring in the Forest that it seems more like the Forest wasn't a

-scrap set off by itself. I seem to have lots of scraps floating in my

-mind lately--things I've heard, and all are taking on meaning now. I

-remember someone saying, I guess it was the Bishop, that in a drop of

-ocean water, there was all that went into the ocean's making, except

-size. That didn't mean anything until Brace set me to--to turning over

-in my mind, and, Peter, it seems terrible sensible now. All the big,

-big world is just little scraps of King's Forests welded all together

-and every King's Forest is a drop of the world."

-

-Peter looked gravely troubled as men often do when their women take to

-thinking on their own lines. Usually the heedless man dismisses the

-matter with but small respect, but Peter was not that kind. All his

-life he had depended upon his sister's "vision" as he called it. He

-might laugh and tease her, but he never took a definite step without

-reaching out to her.

-

-"A man must plant his foot solid on the path he knows," he often said,

-"but that don't hinder him from lifting his eyes to the sky." And it

-was through Aunt Polly's eyes that Peter caught his view of skies.

-

-"I don't exactly like Brace digging down into things so much." Peter

-gave a troubled sigh. "Some things ain't any use when they are dug

-up."

-

-"But some things _are_, brother. We must know."

-

-"Well, by gosh!" Peter began to sway toward the door like a heavily

-freighted side-wheeler. "I get to feeling sometimes as if I'd kicked

-over a hornet's nest and wasn't certain whether it was a last year's

-one or this year's. In one case you can hold your ground, in the other

-you best take to your heels. Well, I'm going to leave you, Polly, for

-your date with your young man. Don't forget the fire and don't set up

-too long."

-

-Left to herself, Polly neatly folded her knitting and stuck the

-glistening needles through it. She folded her small, shrivelled hands

-and a radiant smile touched her old face.

-

-Oh! the luxury of _daring_ to sit up for a man. The excitement of the

-adventure! And while she waited and brooded, Polly was thinking as she

-had never done until recently. All her life she believed that she had

-thought, and to suddenly find, as she had lately, that her conclusions

-were either wrong or confused made her humble.

-

-Now there was Mary-Clare! Why, from her birth, Mary-Clare had been an

-open book! Poor Polly shook her head. An open book? Well, if so she

-did not know the language in which that book was written, for

-Mary-Clare was troubling her now deeply.

-

-And Larry? Larry had suddenly come into focus, and Maclin, and

-Northrup. They all seemed reeling around her; all united, but in

-deadly peril of being flung apart.

-

-It was all too much for Aunt Polly and she unrolled her knitting and

-set the needles to their accustomed task. Eventually Mary-Clare would

-come to the inn and simply tell her story--full well Polly knew that.

-It was Mary-Clare's way to keep silent until necessity for silence was

-past and then calmly take those she loved into her confidence. But

-there were disturbing things going on. Aunt Polly could not blind

-herself to them.

-

-At this moment Northrup's step sounded outside. He came hastily, but

-making little noise.

-

-"What's up?" he asked, starting back at the sight of Aunt Polly.

-

-"Just me, son. Your dinner is scorched to nothing, but I wanted to

-tell you where the cookie jar is."

-

-Northrup came over to the sofa and sat down.

-

-"You deep and opaque female," he said, throwing his arm over the

-little bent shoulders. "Own up. It isn't cookies, it's a switch. What

-have I done? Out with it."

-

-Aunt Polly laughed softly.

-

-"It's neither cookies nor switches when you come down to it," she

-chuckled. "It's just waiting and not knowing why."

-

-Northrup leaned back against the sofa and said quietly:

-

-"Guessing about me, Aunt Polly?"

-

-"Guessing about everything, son. Just when I thought I was nearing

-port, where I ought to be at my age, I find myself all at sea."

-

-"Same with me, Aunt Polly. We're part of the whole upheaval, and take

-it from me, some of us are going to find ourselves high and dry by and

-by and some of us will go under. We don't understand it; we can't; but

-we've got to try to--and that's the very devil. Aunt Polly, I've been

-on the Point, talking to some of the folks down there--there is a

-fellow called Twombley, odd cuss. He told me he's tried to earn his

-living, but found people too particular."

-

-"Earn his living, huh!" Polly tried to look indignant. "He's a scamp,

-and old Doctor Rivers was the ruination of him. The old doctor used to

-quote Scripture in a scandalous way. He said since we have the poor

-always with us, it is up to us to have a place for them where they can

-be comfortable. Terrible doctrine, I say, but that was what the old

-doctor kept the Point for and it was after Twombley tried to earn his

-living--the scamp!" Northrup saw that he had diverted Aunt Polly and

-gladly let her talk on.

-

-"Doctor had an old horse as was just pleading to be put an end to, but

-the doctor couldn't make his mind up to it and Twombley finally

-undertook to settle the matter with a shot-gun, up back in the hills.

-Twombley never missed the bull's-eye--a terrible hand with a gun he

-was. The doctor gave him two dollars for the job and looked real sick

-the day he heard that shot. Well, less than a week after Twombley came

-to the doctor and says as how he heard that a horse has to be buried

-and that if it isn't the owner gets fined twenty-five dollars, and he

-says he'll bury the carcass for five dollars. He explained how the

-horse, lying flat, was powerful sizable, and it would be a stern job

-to get it under ground. Well, old doctor gave the five dollars and

-Twombley took to the woods.

-

-"It was a matter of a month, maybe, when Twombley came back, and soon

-after old Philander Sniff appeared with a horse and cart, and Doctor

-Rivers, as soon as he set his eyes on the horse, sent for Twombley. Do

-you know, son, that scamp actually figured it out with the doctor as

-to the cost of food and care he'd been put to in order to get that

-shot-and-buried-horse into shape for selling! He'd sold him for ten

-dollars and expenses were twelve."

-

-Northrup leaned back and laughed until the quiet house reechoed with

-his mirth.

-

-"Son, son!" cautioned Polly, shaking and dim-eyed, "it's going on to

-midnight. We can't carouse like this. But land! it is uplifting to

-have a talk when you ought to be sleeping. Well, the old doctor

-bought the Point just then and bought Twombley a new gun. Folks as

-couldn't earn their keep proper naturally drifted to the Point--God's

-living acre, as the doctor called it."

-

-Northrup rose and stretched his arms and then bent, as Peter had done,

-to Aunt Polly. But unlike Peter he kissed the small yearning face

-upraised to his.

-

-"It must be pleasant--being your mother," Polly whispered.

-

-"It's pleasant having you acting as substitute," Northrup replied.

-"Shall I bank the fire, Aunt Polly?"

-

-"No, son, there's something else I must see to before I turn in.

-Aren't you going for the cookies?"

-

-"Yes'm. Going to munch them in bed." And tiptoeing away in the most

-orthodox manner Northrup left Aunt Polly alone.

-

-Why was she staying up? She had no clear idea but she was restless,

-sleepless, and bed, to her, was no comfort under such conditions.

-However, since she had stated that she had something to do, she must

-find it. She went to a desk in the farther end of the room, and took

-from it her house-keeping book. She would balance that and surprise

-Peter! Peter always _was_ so surprised when she did. She bought the

-book to her nest on the sofa and set to work.

-

-Debit and credit. Figures, figures, figures. And then, mistily, words

-took their places. Names.

-

-Mary-Clare: Larry.

-

-Larry: Northrup.

-

-Mary-Clare! It was funny. The columns danced and giddily wobbled--and

-at the foot there was only--Mary-Clare! Mary-Clare was troubling the

-dear old soul.

-

-Then, startled by the falling of the book to the floor, Aunt Polly

-opened her eyes and gazed into the face of Mary-Clare standing before

-her!

-

-The girl had a wind-swept look, physically and spiritually. Her hair

-was loose about her face, her eyes like stars, and she was smiling.

-

-"Oh! you dear thing," she whispered, bending to recover the book,

-"adding and subtracting when the whole world sleeps. Isn't it a

-wonderful feeling to have the night to yourself?"

-

-Mary-Clare crouched down before the red blazing logs; her coat and hat

-fell from her and she stretched her hands out to the heat with a

-little shiver of luxurious content.

-

-Aunt Polly knew the girl's mood and left her to herself. She had come

-to tell something but must tell it in her own way. To question, to

-intrude a thought, would only tend to confuse and distract her, so

-Polly took up her knitting and nodded cheerfully. She had a feeling

-that all along she had been waiting for Mary-Clare.

-

-"I suppose big things like being born and dying are very simple when

-they come. It is the mistaking the big and little things that makes us

-all so uncertain. Aunt Polly, Larry has left me." The start had been

-made!

-

-"Yes; Peneluna told us. He hasn't gone far." Aunt Polly knitted on

-while Mary-Clare gave a little laugh.

-

-"Oh! dearie, he was far, far away before he started for the Point.

-Land doesn't count--it's more than that, only I did not know. Isn't it

-queer, Aunt Polly, now that I understand things, I find that marrying

-Larry and having the babies haven't touched me at all--I never

-belonged to them or they to me--except Noreen. And it's queer about

-Noreen, too, she will never seem part of all that."

-

-Mary-Clare, her eyes fixed on the fire, was thinking aloud; her breath

-came short and quick as if she had been running.

-

-"My dear child!" Aunt Polly was shocked in spite of herself. "No woman

-can shake off her responsibilities in that way. Larry is your husband

-and you have been a mother."

-

-"You are talking _words_, Aunt Polly, not things." Aunt Polly knew

-that she _was_ and it made her wince.

-

-"That's the trouble with us all, Aunt Polly. Saying words over and

-over and calling them things--as if you could take God in!"

-

-There was no bitterness in the tones, but there was the weary

-impatience of a child that had been too often denied the truth.

-

-"No matter what people say and say, underneath there is _truth_, Aunt

-Polly, and it's up to us to find it."

-

-"And you think you are competent"--Aunt Polly, reflecting that she was

-using _words_, used them doubtfully--"you think you are competent to

-know what _is_ truth and to act upon it--to the extent of sending your

-husband out of his home?"

-

-If a small love-bird could look and sound fierce it would resemble

-Aunt Polly at that moment. Mary-Clare turned from the contemplation of

-the fire and fixed her deep eyes upon the troubled old face.

-

-"You dear!" she whispered and then laughed.

-

-Presently, the fire again holding her, Mary-Clare went on:

-

-"I think I must try to find truth with my woman-brain, Aunt Polly.

-That was what my doctor-daddy always insisted upon. He wouldn't even

-let me take _his_ word when it came to anything that meant a lot to

-me."

-

-"He wanted you to marry Larry!"

-

-This was a telling stroke and a long silence followed. Then:

-

-"I wonder, Aunt Polly, I wonder."

-

-"Do you doubt, child?"

-

-"I don't know, but even if he did he was sick and so--so tired, and

-Larry always worried him. I know very surely that if my doctor were

-here, and knew everything, he'd say harder than ever: 'Use your

-woman-mind.' And I'm going to! Why, Aunt Polly, I haven't driven Larry

-away from his home. I meant to make it a better place, once I set the

-wrong aside. But you see, he wanted it just _his_ way and nothing else

-would do."

-

-The dear old face that had confronted life vicariously flushed gently;

-but the young face that had set itself to the stern facts of life

-showed neither weakness nor doubt.

-

-"It has come to me, dear"--Mary-Clare now turned and came close to

-Aunt Polly, resting her folded arms on the thin little knees--"It has

-come to me, dear, that things are not fixed right and when they are

-not, it won't do any good to keep on acting as if they were. Being

-married to Larry could never make it right for me to do what seems to

-me wrong. And oh! Aunt Polly, I wish that I could make you understand.

-Do try to understand, dear, there is a sacred place in my soul, and I

-just do believe it is in all women's souls if they dared to say

-so--that no one, not even a husband, has a right to claim. It is hers

-and--God's. But men don't know, and some don't care--and they just

-rush along and take and take, never counting what it may cost--and

-they make laws to help them when they might fail without, and--well,

-Aunt Polly, it is hard to stand all alone in the world. I think the

-really happy women are those who don't know what I mean, or those that

-have loved enough, loved a man true enough--to share that sacred place

-with him--the place he ought not ask for or have a law for. I know you

-do not understand, Aunt Polly. I did not myself until Peneluna told

-me."

-

-At this Aunt Polly braced against the pillows as if they were rocks.

-

-"Peneluna!" she gasped.

-

-"Let me tell you, Aunt Polly. It is such a wonderful thing."

-

-As she might have spoken to Noreen, so Mary-Clare spoke now to the

-woman who had only viewed life as Moses had the Promised Land, from

-her high mount.

-

-"And so, can you not see, dear Aunt Polly, it isn't a thing that laws

-can touch; it isn't being good or bad--it is too big a Thing to call

-by name. Peneluna could starve and still keep it. She could be lonely

-and serve, but she _knew_. I don't love Larry, I cannot help it. All

-my life I am going to keep all of the promise I can, Aunt Polly, but

-I'm going to--to keep myself, too! A woman can give a man a good

-deal--but she can't give him some things if she tries to! Look at the

-women; some of them in the Forest. Aunt Polly, if marriage means what

-they look like----" Mary-Clare shuddered.

-

-Aunt Polly had suddenly grown tender and far-seeing. She let go the

-sounding words that Church and State had taught her.

-

-"Little girl," she said, and all her motherhood rushed forward to

-seize, as it had ever done, those "scraps" of others' lives, "suppose

-the time should come when there would be in your life another--someone

-besides Larry? Why has all this come so sudden to you?"

-

-Northrup seemed to loom in the room, just beyond the fire's glow. Her

-fear was taking shape.

-

-"Oh! dearie, I might then ask Larry to release me from my promise. My

-doctor used to say one could do that, but if he would not, why,

-then--I'd keep my bargain as far as I could. But----" and here

-Mary-Clare rose and flung her arms above her head. The action was

-jubilant, majestic. "Oh! the wonder of it all; to be free to be myself

-and prove what I _think_ is right without having to take another's

-idea of it. I'll listen; I'll try to understand and be patient--but it

-cannot be wrong, Aunt Polly, the thing I've done--since this great

-feeling of wings has come to me instead of heavy feet! Why, dear, I

-want something more than--than the things women _think_ are theirs. We

-don't know what is ours until we try."

-

-"And fail, my child?" Aunt Polly was crying.

-

-"Yes; and fail sometimes and be hurt--but paying and going on."

-

-"And leaving your man behind you?"

-

-"Aunt Polly"--Mary-Clare looked down upon the kind, quivering face--"a

-woman's man cannot be left behind. He'll be beside her somehow. If she

-stays back, as I've tried to do, she wouldn't be his woman! That's the

-dreadful trouble with Larry and me. But, dearie, it isn't always a man

-in a woman's life."

-

-"But the long, lonely way, child!" Polly was retracing her own denied

-womanhood.

-

-"It need not be lonely, dear, when we women find--other things. They

-will count. They must."

-

-"What other things, Mary-Clare?"

-

-"That's what we must be finding out, dear. Love; the man: some day

-they will be the glory, making everything more splendid, but not--the

-all. I think I should have died, Aunt Polly, had I kept on."

-

-Like an inspired young oracle, Mary-Clare spoke and then dropped again

-by the fire.

-

-"I've somehow learned all this," she whispered, "in my Place up on the

-hill. It just came to me, little by little, until it convinced me. I

-had to tell Larry the truth."

-

-"Mary-Clare, I do not know; I don't feel able to put it into words,

-but I do believe you're going to make sad trouble for yourself, child.

-Such a thing as this you have done has never been done before in the

-Forest."

-

-"Maybe."

-

-A door upstairs slammed loudly and both women started nervously.

-

-"I must tell Peter to fix the latch of the attic door to-morrow," Aunt

-Polly said, relieved to be back on good, plain, solid ground. "The

-attic winders are raised and the wind's rising. It will be slam, slam

-all night, unless----" she rose quickly.

-

-"Just a minute, Aunt Polly, I'm so tired. Please let me lie here on

-the couch and rest for an hour and then I'll slip home."

-

-"Let me put you to bed properly, child. You look suddenly beat flat.

-That's the way with women. They get to thinking they've got wings when

-they ain't, child, they ain't. You're making a terrible break in your

-life, child. Terrible."

-

-Mary-Clare was arranging the couch.

-

-"Come, dear," she wheedled, "you tuck me up--so! I'll bank the fire

-when I go and leave everything safe. A little rest and then

-to-morrow!--well, you'll see that I have wings, Aunt Polly; they are

-only tired now--for they are new wings! I know that it must seem all

-madness, but it had to come."

-

-Aunt Polly pulled the soft covering over the huddled form--only the

-pale, wistful face was presently to be seen; the great, haunting eyes

-made Aunt Polly catch her breath. She bent and kissed the forehead.

-

-"Poor, reaching-out child!" she whispered.

-

-"For something that is _there_, Aunt Polly."

-

-"God knows!"

-

-"Of course He does. That's why He gave us the--reach. Good-night. Oh!

-how I love you, Aunt Polly. Good-night!"

-

-It was Northrup's door that had slammed shut. Aunt Polly went above,

-secured the innocent attic door, and then pattered down to her bedroom

-near Peter's, feeling that her house, at least, was safe.

-

-It was silent at last. Northrup, in his dark chamber, lay awake

-and--ashamed, though heaven was his witness that his sin was not one

-he had planned. Aunt Polly had been on his mind. He hated to have her

-down there alone. Her sitting up for him had touched and--disturbed

-him; he had left his door ajar.

-

-"I'll listen for a few minutes and if she doesn't go to bed, I'll go

-down and shake her," he concluded, and then promptly went to sleep and

-was awakened by voices. Low, earnest voices, but he heard no words and

-was sleepily confused. If he thought anything, he thought Peter had

-been doing what was needed to be done--driving Polly to bed!

-

-And then Northrup _did_ hear words. A word here; a word there. He

-_knew_ things he had no right to know--he was awake at last,

-conscientiously, as well as physically. He got up and slammed the

-door!

-

-But he could not go to sleep. He felt hot and cold; mean and

-indignant--but above all else, tremendously excited. He lay still a

-little longer and then opened his door in time to hear that

-"good-night, good-night"; and presently Aunt Polly's raid on the

-unoffending attic door at the other end of the corridor and her

-pattering feet on their way, at last, to her bedchamber.

-

-"She's forgot to bank the fire." Northrup could see the glow from his

-post and remembered Uncle Peter's carefulness. "I'll run down and make

-things safe and lock the door." Northrup still held his respect for

-doors.

-

-In heavy gown and soft slippers he noiselessly descended. The

-living-room at the far end was dark; the fire glowed at the other,

-dangerously, and one threatening log had rolled menacingly to the

-fore.

-

-Bent upon quick action Northrup silently crossed the floor, grasped

-the long poker and pushed the blazing wood back past the safety line

-and held it there.

-

-His face burned, but there was a hypnotic lure in that bed of red

-coals. All that he had just heard--a disjointed and rather dramatic

-revealment--was having a peculiar effect upon him. He had become aware

-of some important facts that accounted for things, such as Rivers's

-appearance on the Point. He had attributed that advent to Maclin's

-secret business; but it was, evidently, quite different.

-

-What had occurred in the yellow house before the final break?

-Northrup's imagination came to the fore fully equipped. Northrup was a

-man of the herd--at least he had been, until lately. He knew the

-tracks of the herd and its laws and codes.

-

-"The brute!" he muttered under his breath; "and that kind of a girl,

-too. Nothing is too fine for some devils to appropriate and--smirch.

-Poor little girl!"

-

-And then Northrup recalled Mary-Clare as he had seen her that day as

-she emerged from the woods to meet him and her child. The glory of

-Peneluna's story was in her soul, the autumn sunlight on her face.

-That lovely, smiling, untouched face of hers! Again and again that

-memory of her held his fancy.

-

-"The cursed brute--hasn't _got_ her, thank God. She's out of the

-trap."

-

-And, all unconsciously, while this moral indignation had its way,

-Northrup was drawing nearer to Mary-Clare; understanding her,

-appropriating her! God knew he meant no wrong. After all she had

-suffered he wasn't going to mess her life more--but he'd somehow make

-up to her what she'd a perfect right to. All men were not low and

-bestial. He had a duty--he would be above the touch of idle chatter;

-he would take a hand in the game!

-

-And just then Northrup, controlled by the force of attraction, turned

-his head and looked at the face of Mary-Clare upon the couch near

-him!

-

-In all his life Northrup had never looked upon the face of a sleeping

-woman, and it stirred him deeply. He became as rigid as marble; the

-heat beat upon him as it might have upon stone. And then--as such wild

-things do occur, his old, familiar dream came to him; he seemed _in_

-the dream. He had at last opened one of those closed doors and was

-seeing what the secret room held! He was part of the dream as he was

-of his book in the making.

-

-He breathed lightly; he did not move--but he was overcome by waves of

-emotion that had never before even lapped his feet.

-

-At that instant Mary-Clare's eyes opened. For a moment they held his;

-then she turned, sighed, and he believed that she had not really

-awakened.

-

-Northrup rose stiffly and made his way to his room.

-

-"She was asleep!" he fiercely thought until he was safe behind his

-locked door!

-

-"Was she?" He had to face that in the silence of the hours after.

-"I'll know when I next meet her." This was almost a groan.

-

-

-

-

-CHAPTER IX

-

-

-Kathryn Morris, as the days of Northrup's absence stretched into

-weeks, grew more and more restless. She began to do some serious

-thinking, and while this developed her mentally, the growing pains

-hurt and she became twisted.

-

-Heretofore she had been borne along on a peaceful current. She was

-young and pretty and believed that everyone saw her as she wanted them

-to see her--a charming, an unusually charming girl.

-

-People had always responded to her slightest whim, but suddenly her

-own particular quarry had eluded her; did not even pine for her; was

-able to keep silent while he left her and his mother to think what

-they chose.

-

-At this moment Kathryn placed herself beside Helen Northrup as a timid

-debutante shrinks beside her chaperon.

-

-"And that old beast"--Kathryn in the privacy of her bedchamber could

-speak quite openly to herself--"that old beast, Doctor Manly,

-suggested that at forty I might be fat if----" Well, it didn't matter

-about the "if." Kathryn did a bit of mental arithmetic, using her

-fingers to aid her. What was the difference between twenty-four and

-forty? The difference seemed terrifyingly _little_. "A fat forty! Oh,

-good Lord!"

-

-Kathryn was in bed and it was nine-thirty in the morning! She sprang

-out and looked at herself in the mirror.

-

-"Well, my body hasn't found it out yet!" she whispered, and her pretty

-white teeth showed complacently.

-

-Then she sat down in a deep chair and took account of stock. That

-"fat-forty" was a mere panic. She would not think of it--but it

-loomed, nevertheless.

-

-Of course, for the time being, there was Sandy Arnold on the crest of

-one of his financial waves.

-

-Kathryn was level-headed enough not to lose sight of receding waves

-but then, on the other hand, the crest of a receding wave was better

-than to be left on the sands--fat and forty! And Northrup was

-displaying dangerous traits. A distinct chill shook Kathryn.

-

-She turned her thought to Northrup. Northrup had seemed safe. He

-belonged to all that was familiar to her. He would be famous some

-day--that she might interfere with this never occurred to the girl.

-She simply saw herself in a gorgeous studio pouring tea or dancing,

-and all the people paying court to her while knowing that they ought

-to be paying it to Northrup.

-

-"But he always gets a grubby hole to work in." Kathryn fidgeted. "I

-daresay he is working now in some smudgy old place."

-

-But this thought did not last. She could insist upon the studio. A man

-owes his wife _something_ if he will have his way about his job.

-

-Just at this point a tap on the door brought a frown to Kathryn's

-smooth forehead.

-

-"Oh! come in," she called peevishly.

-

-A drab-coloured woman of middle age entered. She was one of the

-individuals so grateful for being noticed at all that her cheerfulness

-was a constant reproach. She had been selected by Kathryn's father to

-act as housekeeper and chaperon. As the former she was a gratifying

-success; as the latter, a joke and one to be eliminated as much as

-possible.

-

-For the first time in years Kathryn regarded her aunt now with

-interest.

-

-"Aunt Anna"--Kathryn never indulged in graceful tact with her

-relations--"Aunt Anna, how old _are_ you?"

-

-Anna Morris coloured, flinched, but smiled coyly.

-

-"Forty-two, dear, but it was only yesterday that my dressmaker said

-that I should not tell that. It is not necessary, you know."

-

-"I suppose not!" Kathryn was regarding the fatness of the woman who

-was calmly setting the disorderly room to rights. "Aunt Anna, why

-didn't you marry?"

-

-The dull, fat face was turned away. Anna Morris never lost sight of

-the fact that when Kathryn married she would face a stern situation

-unless Kathryn proved kinder than any one had any reason to expect her

-to be. So her remarks were guarded.

-

-"Oh! my dear, my dear, _what_ a question. Well, to be quite frank, I

-discovered at eighteen that some men could stir my senses"--Anna

-Morris tittered--"and some couldn't. At twenty-two the only man who

-could stir me was horribly poor; the other stirring ones had been

-snapped up. You see, there was no one to help me with my affairs.

-Your father never _did_ understand. The only thing he was keen about

-was making money enough to marry your mother. Then you were born and

-your mother died and--well, there was nothing for me to do but come

-here and help him out. One has plain duties. I always had sense

-enough"--Anna Morris moved about heavily--"to realize that senses do

-not stir when poverty pinches, and this house _was_ comfortable; and

-duty _can_ fill in chinks. I always contend"--the dull eyes now

-confronted Kathryn--"that there _is_ a dangerous age for men and

-women. If they get through that alive and alone--well, there is a

-kind of calm that comes."

-

-"I suppose so." Kathryn felt a sinking in the region of the heart.

-"Are you ever lonely?" she asked suddenly. "Ever feel that you let

-your own life slip when you helped Father and me?"

-

-Anna Morris's lips trembled as they always did when any one was kind

-to her; but she got control of herself at once--she could not afford

-the comfort of letting herself go!

-

-"Oh, I don't know. Yes; sometimes. But who isn't lonely at times?

-Marriage can't prevent that and even your own private life, quite your

-own, is bound to have some lonely spells. There are all kinds of

-husbands. Some float about, heaven knows where; their wives must be

-lonely; and then the settled sort--dear me! I've often seen women

-terribly lonely right in the rooms with their husbands. I have come

-to the conclusion that once you pass the dangerous age you're as well

-placed one way as another. That is, if you are a woman."

-

-Kathryn was looking unusually serious. While she was in this mood she

-clutched at seeming trifles and held them curiously.

-

-"What was Brace's father like?" she suddenly asked.

-

-Anna Morris started.

-

-"Why, what ails you, Kathie?" she asked suspiciously. "You've never

-taken any interest before. Why should you? A young girl and all

-that--why should you?"

-

-"Tell me, Aunt Anna. I've often wondered."

-

-Anna Morris sat down heavily in a chair. The older Northrup had once

-had power to stir her; was one of the men too poor for her to

-consider.

-

-"Well," she began slowly, tremblingly, "he wasn't companionable at

-the last, but I shall always see _his_ side. Helen Northrup is a

-fine woman--I can understand how many take her part, but being

-married to her kind must seem like mental Mormonism. _She_ calls

-it developing--but a man like Thomas Northrup married a woman

-because she was the kind he wanted and he couldn't be expected to

-keep trace of all the kinds of women Helen Northrup ran into

-and--out of!"

-

-"I don't know what you mean, Aunt Anna. Do talk sense."

-

-Kathryn was almost excited. It was like reading what wasn't intended

-for innocent young girls to know.

-

-"Well, first, Helen Northrup was just like all loving young girls, I

-guess--but when she didn't find _all_ she wanted, she took to

-developing, as she called it. For _my_ part I believe when a woman

-finds her husband isn't _all_ she expected, she ought to accept her

-lot and make the best of it."

-

-"And Brace's mother started out to make her own lot? I see."

-

-Kathryn nodded her head.

-

-"Well, something like that. She took to writing. Thomas Northrup

-didn't know what ailed her and I don't wonder. She should have spent

-herself on _his_ career, not making one for herself. But I must say

-when Brace was born she stopped that nonsense but she evolved then

-into a mother!" Anna sniffed. "A man can share with his children, but

-when it comes to giving up everything, well!"

-

-"What did he do, Aunt Anna?"

-

-"He went away."

-

-"With a woman?"

-

-"Yes."

-

-"One he just met when Mrs. Northrup became a mother?"

-

-"He knew her before, but if Helen Northrup had been all she should

-have been to him----"

-

-"I begin to see. And then?"

-

-"Well, then he died and proved how noble he was at heart. When he went

-off, Helen Northrup wouldn't take a cent. She had a little of her own

-and she went to work and Brace helped when he grew older--and then

-when Thomas Northrup died he left almost all his fortune to his wife.

-He never considered her anything else. I call his a really great

-nature." Poor Anna was in a trembling and ecstatic state.

-

-"I call him a--just what he was!" Kathryn was weary of the subject. "I

-think Brace's mother was a fool to let him off so easy. I would have

-bled him well rather than to let the other woman put it all over me."

-

-"My dear, that's not a proper way for you to talk!" Aunt Anna became

-the chaperon. "Come, get dressed now, dearie. There's the luncheon,

-you know."

-

-"What luncheon?"

-

-"Why, with Mr. Arnold, my dear, and he included me, too! Such a sweet

-fellow he is, and so wise and thoughtful."

-

-"Oh!"

-

-There had been a time when she and Sandy Arnold met clandestinely--it

-was such fun! He included Aunt Anna now. Why?

-

-And just then, as if it were a live and demanding thing, her eyes fell

-on Northrup's last book. She scowled at it. It was a horrible book.

-All about dirty, smudgy people that you couldn't forget and who kept

-springing out on you in the most unexpected places. At dinners and

-luncheons they often wedged in with their awful eyes fixed on your

-plate and made you choke. They probably were not true. And those

-things Brace said! Besides, if they were true, people like that were

-used to them--they had never known anything else!

-

-And then Brace had said some terrible things about war; that war going

-on over the sea. Of course, no one expected to have a war, but it was

-unpatriotic for any one to say what Brace had about those perfectly

-dear officers at West Point and--what was it he said?--oh, yes--having

-the blood of the young on one's soul and settling horrid things, like

-money and land, with lives.

-

-At this Kathryn tossed the book aside and it fell at Anna's feet. She

-picked it up and handled it as if it were a tender baby that had

-bumped its nose.

-

-"It must be perfectly wonderful," she said, smoothing the book, "to

-have an autographed copy of a novel. It's like having a lock of

-someone's hair. Where _is_ Brace, Kathryn?"

-

-This was unfortunate.

-

-"That is my business and his!" Kathryn spoke slowly. Her eyes slanted

-and her lips hardened.

-

-"My darling, I beg your pardon!" And once more Anna Morris was shoved

-into the groove where she belonged.

-

-Later that day, after the luncheon with Sandy--Anna had been

-eliminated by a master stroke that reduced her to tears and left Sandy

-a victim to Kathryn's wiles--Kathryn called upon Helen Northrup.

-

-She was told by the smiling little maid to go up into the Workshop.

-This room was a pitiful attempt to lure Brace to work at home; in his

-absence Helen sat there and scribbled. She wrote feeble little verses

-with a suggestion of the real thing in them. Sometimes they got

-published because the suggestion caught the attention of a sympathetic

-publisher, and these small recognitions kept alive a spark that was

-all but extinguished when Helen Northrup chose, as women of her time

-did, a profession or--the woman's legitimate sphere!

-

-There had been no regret in Helen's soul for whatever part she played

-in her own life--her son was her recompense for any disappointment she

-might have met, and he was, she devoutly believed, her interpreter.

-She loved to think in her quiet hours that her longings and

-aspirations had found expression in her child; she had sought, always,

-to consider his interests wisely--unselfishly, of course--and leave

-him as free to live his own life as though she were not the lonely,

-disillusioned woman that she was.

-

-She had never known how early Brace had understood the conditions in

-his home--mothers and fathers rarely do. Only once during his boyhood

-had Brace ventured upon the subject over which he spent many confused

-and silent hours.

-

-When he was fourteen he remarked, in that strained voice that he

-believed hid any emotion:

-

-"I say, Mother, a lot of fellows at our school have fathers and

-mothers who live apart--most of the fellows side with their mothers!"

-

-These words nearly made Helen ill. She could make no reply. She looked

-dumbly at the boy facing her with a new and awful revealment. She

-understood that he wanted her to _know_, wanted to comfort her; and

-she knew, with terrifying certainty, that she could not deceive

-him--she was at his mercy!

-

-She was wise enough to say nothing. But after that she felt his

-suddenly acquired strength. It was shown in his tenderness, his

-cheerfulness, his companionship, and, thank God! in his silence.

-

-But while Helen gloried in her boy she still was loyal to the

-traditions of marriage, and her little world never got behind her

-screen. She had divorced her husband because he desired it--then she

-went on alone. When her husband died away from home, his body was

-brought to her. It had been his last request and she paid all respect

-to it with her boy close beside her. And then she forgot--really, in

-most cases--the things that she had been remembering. She erected over

-her dead husband, not a stone, but a living _unreality_. It answered

-the purpose for which it was designed; it made it possible for her to

-live rather a full life, be a comrade to her son--a friend indeed--and

-to share all his joys and many of his confidences, and to impress upon

-him, so she trusted, that he must not sacrifice anything for her.

-

-Why should he, indeed? Had she not interests enough to occupy her? The

-sight of a widowed mother draining the life-blood from her children

-had always been a dreadful thing to Helen Northrup, and so well had

-she succeeded in her determination to leave Brace free that the

-subject rarely came into the minds of either.

-

-But Brace's latest move had disturbed Helen not a little. It startled

-her, made her afraid, as that remark of his in his school days had

-done. Did he chafe under ties that he loved but found that he must

-flee from for awhile? Why did he and Kathryn not marry? Were they

-considering her? Was she blinded?

-

-Helen had been going over all this for days before the visit of

-Kathryn, and during the night preceding the call she had awakened in

-great pain; she had had the pain before and it had power to reduce her

-to cowardice. It seemed to dare her, while she lay and suffered, to

-confide in a physician!

-

-There was an old memory of one who had suffered and died from----"Find

-out the truth about me!" each dart of fire in the nerves cried, and

-when the pain was over Helen Northrup had not dared to meet the

-challenge and go to Manly or another! At first she tried to reason

-with herself; then she compromised.

-

-"After all, it is so fleeting. I'll rest, take better care of myself.

-I'm not so young as I was--Nature is warning me; it may not be the

-other."

-

-Well, rest and care helped and the attacks were less frequent. That

-gave a certain amount of hope.

-

-When Kathryn entered the Workshop she found Helen on the couch instead

-of at the flat-topped desk. She looked very white and blue-lipped but

-she was smiling and happily glad to see her visitor. She was extremely

-fond of Kathryn. Early in life she had prepared herself to accept and

-love any woman her son might choose--she would never question the gift

-he offered! But when Kathryn was offered, she was overjoyed. Kathryn

-was part of the dear, familiar life; the daughter of old friends.

-Helen Northrup felt that she was blessed beyond all mothers. The

-thing, to her, seemed so exactly right. That the marriage did not take

-place had hardly disturbed her. Kathryn was young, Brace was winning,

-not only a home for the girl, but honour, and there was always time.

-_Time_ is such a splendid heritage of youth and such a rare relic of

-age.

-

-"Why, my dearie-dear!" exclaimed Kathryn, kneeling beside the couch.

-"What _is_ it?"

-

-"Nothing, dear child; nothing more than a vicious touch of neuralgia."

-

-"Have you seen Doctor Manly?" Kathryn patted the pillows and soothed,

-by her touch, the hot forehead. Kathryn had the gift of healing in her

-small, smooth hands, but not in her soul.

-

-She had always been jealous of the love between Brace and his mother.

-It was so unusual, so binding, so beyond her conception; but she could

-hide her feelings until by and by.

-

-"Now, dearie-dear, we _must_ send for Doctor Manly. Of course Brace

-ought to know. He would never forgive us if he did not know. I hate to

-trouble you but, my dear, you look simply terrifyingly ill." Like a

-lightning flash Kathryn's nimble wits caught a possibility.

-

-Helen smiled. Then spoke slowly:

-

-"Now, my dear, when Brace comes home, I promise to see Doctor Manly.

-These attacks are severe--but they pass quickly and there are long

-periods when I am absolutely free from them."

-

-"You mean, you have attacks?" Kathryn looked appalled.

-

-"Oh, yes; off and on. That fact proves how unimportant they are."

-

-Kathryn was again taking stock.

-

-She believed that Brace was still at that place from which the letter

-came! She was fiendishly subject to impressions and suspicions.

-

-"Now if he is still there"--thoughts ran like liquid fire in Kathryn's

-brain--"_why_ does he stay? It isn't far." She had made sure of that

-by road maps when the letter first came. "I could motor out there and

-see!" The liquid fire brought colour to the girl's face.

-

-She was dramatic, too, she could always see herself playing the

-leading parts in emotional situations. Just now, like more flashes of

-lightning, disclosing vivid scenes, she saw herself, prostrated by

-fear and anxiety for Helen Northrup, finding Brace, confiding in him

-because she dared not take the chances of silence and dared not

-disobey and go to Doctor Manly.

-

-Brace would be fear-filled and remorseful, would see at last how she,

-Kathryn, had his interests in mind. He would cling to her. Sitting

-close by the couch, her face pressed to Helen Northrup's shoulder,

-Kathryn contemplated the alluring and passionate scenes. Brace had

-always lacked passion. She had always to hold Arnold virtuously in

-check, but Brace was able to control himself. But--and here the vivid

-pictures reeled on, familiarity had dulled things, long engagements

-were flattening--Brace would at last see her as she was. She'd forgive

-anything that might have happened--of course, anything _might_ have

-happened--she, a woman of the world, understood.

-

-And--Kathryn was brought to a sudden halt--the reel spun on but there

-was no picture!

-

-Suppose, after all, there was nothing really to be frightened about in

-these attacks? Well, that would be found out after Brace had been

-brought home and might enhance rather than detract from--her divine

-devotion.

-

-Presently Kathryn became aware of the fact that Helen Northrup had

-been speaking while the reel reeled!

-

-"And then that escapade of his when he was only seven." Helen patted

-the golden head beside her while her thoughts were back with her boy.

-"He was walking with me when suddenly he looked up; his poor little

-face was all twisted! He just said rather impishly, 'I'm going! I am

-really!' and he went! I was, naturally, frightened, and ran after

-him--then, when I caught sight of him, a long way ahead, I stopped and

-waited. When he thought I was not following, he waded right out into a

-puddle; he even had a scrappy fight with a bigger boy who contested

-his right to invade the puddle. It was so absurd. Kathryn, I actually

-went home; I felt sure Brace would find his way back and he did. I was

-nearly wild with anxiety, but I waited. He came back disgustingly

-dirty, but hilariously happy. He expected punishment. When none was

-meted out to him--he told me all about it--it seemed flat enough when

-he saw how I took it. Why, I never even mentioned the mud on him. He

-was disappointed, but I think he understood more than I realized. When

-he went to bed that night, he begged my pardon!"

-

-Kathryn got up and walked about the room. She was staging another

-drama. Brace was now playing in puddles--not such simple ones as those

-of his childhood. He was having his little fight, too, possibly; with

-whom?

-

-Well, how perfectly thrilling to save him!

-

-Such a girl as Kathryn has as cheap an imagination as any lurid

-factory girl, but it is kept as safely from sight as the contents of

-her vanity bag.

-

-"Kathryn, have you heard from Brace?"

-

-The girl started almost guiltily. Helen hated to ask this, she feared

-Kathryn might think her envious; but Kathryn rose and drew a chair to

-the couch.

-

-"No, dearie-dear," she said sweetly.

-

-"So you don't know just where he is?"

-

-"How could I know, dearie thing?"

-

-So they were not keeping things from her; shutting her out! Helen

-Northrup raised her head from the pillow.

-

-"We're in the same boat, darling," she said, so glad to be in the same

-boat. "Lately I've had a few whim-whams." Helen felt she could be

-confidential. "I suppose I am touching the outer circle of old age,

-and before it blinds me, I'm going to have my say. It would be just

-like you and Brace to forget yourselves and think of me. And if I do

-not look out, I'll be taking your sacrifice and calling it by its

-wrong name. You and Brace must marry. I half believe you've been

-waiting for me to push you out of the nest. Well, here you go! Your

-own nest will be sacred to me, another place for me to go to, another

-interest. I'll be having you both closer. Now, don't cry, little girl.

-I've found you out and found myself, too!"

-

-Kathryn was shedding tears--tears of gratitude for the material Helen

-was putting at her disposal.

-

-"My dear little Kathryn! It is going to be all right, all right. Why,

-childie, when he comes home I am going to insist upon the wedding. I

-am not a young woman, really, though I put up a bit of a bluff--and

-the time isn't very long, no matter how you look at it--so, darling,

-you and Brace must humour me, do the one big thing to make me

-happy--you must be married!"

-

-Kathryn looked up. The tears hung to her long lashes.

-

-"You want this?" she faltered with quivering lips.

-

-Helen believed she understood at last.

-

-"My darling!" she said tenderly, "it is the one great longing of my

-heart."

-

-Then she dropped back on her pillow and closed her eyes while the pain

-gripped her. But the pain, for a moment, seemed a friend, not a foe.

-It might be the thing that would open the door--out.

-

-Helen had spoken truth as truth should be but never quite is, to a

-mother. She had taken her place in the march, her colours flying. But

-her place was the mother's place, lagging in the rear.

-

-Such an effort as she had just made caused angels to weep over her.

-

-

-

-

-CHAPTER X

-

-

-By a kind of self-hypnotism Northrup had gained his ends so far as

-drifting with the slow current of King's Forest was concerned, and in

-his relation toward his book. The unrest, as to his duty in a

-world-wide sense, was lulled. Whatever of that sentiment moved him was

-focussed on Maclin who, in a persistent, vague way became a haunting

-possibility of danger almost too preposterous to be considered

-seriously. Still the possibility was worth watching. Maclin's attitude

-toward Northrup was interesting. He seemed unable to ignore him, while

-earnestly desiring to do so. The fact was this: Maclin looked upon

-Northrup as he might have upon a slow-burning fuse. That he could not

-estimate the length of the fuse, nor to what it was attached, did not

-mend matters. One cannot ignore a trail of fire, and a guilty

-conscience is never a sleeping one.

-

-The people on the Point had long since come to the conclusion that

-Northrup was a trailer of Maclin, not their enemy. The opinion was

-divided as to his relations with Mary-Clare, but that was a different

-matter.

-

-"I'll bet my last dollar," Twombley muttered, forgetting that his last

-dollar was a thing of the past, "that this young feller will find out

-about those inventions. Inventions be damned! That's what I say.

-There's something going on at the mines that don't spell inventions."

-

-This was said to Peneluna who was aging under the strain of

-unaccustomed excitement.

-

-"When he lands Maclin," she said savagely, "I'll grab Larry. Larry is

-a fool, but from way back, Maclin is the sinner. Queer"--she gave a

-deep sigh--"how a stick muddling up a biling brings the scum to the

-surface! I declare! I wish we had something to grip hold of.

-Suspicioning your neighbours ain't healthy."

-

-Jan-an, untroubled by moral codes, was unconditionally on Northrup's

-side. She patched her gleanings into a vivid conclusion and announced,

-much to Peneluna's horror:

-

-"Supposin' we are goin' ter hell 'long of not knowin' where we are

-goin', ain't it a lot pleasanter than the way we was traipsin' before

-things began to happen?"

-

-Poor Jan-an was getting her first taste of romance and tragedy and she

-was thriving on the excitement. When she was not watching the romance

-in the woods with Mary-Clare and Noreen, she was actively engaged in

-tragedy. She was searching for the lost letters and she did not mince

-matters in her own thoughts.

-

-"Larry stole 'em!" she had concluded from the first. "What's old

-letters, anyway? But I'll get those letters if I die for it!"

-

-She shamelessly ransacked Larry's possessions while she cleaned his

-disorderly shack, but no letters did she find. She became irritable

-and unmoral.

-

-"Lordy!" she confided to Peneluna one day while they were preparing

-Larry's food, "don't yer wish, Peneluna, that it wasn't evil to poison

-some folks' grub?"

-

-Peneluna paused and looked at the girl with startled eyes.

-

-"If you talk like that," she replied, "I'll hustle you into the

-almshouse." Then: "Who would you like to do that to?" she asked.

-

-"Oh! folks as just clutter up life for decent folks. Maclin and

-Larry."

-

-"Now, see here, Jan-an, that kind of talk is downright creepy and

-terrible wicked. Listen to me. Are you listening?"

-

-Jan-an nodded sullenly.

-

-"I'm your best friend, child. I mean to stand by yer, so you just

-heed. There are folks as can use language like that and others will

-laugh it off, but you can't do it. The best thing for you to do is to

-slip along out of sight and sound as much as yer can. If you attract

-attention--the Lord above knows what will happen; I don't."

-

-Jan-an was impressed.

-

-"I ain't making them notice me," she mumbled, "but yer just can't take

-a joke."

-

-Noreen and Jan-an, in those warm autumn days--and what an autumn it

-was!--often came to the little chapel where Northrup wrote.

-

-They knew this was forbidden; they knew that the mornings were to be

-undisturbed, but what could a man who loved children say to the two

-patient creatures crouching at the foot of the stone steps leading up

-to the church?

-

-Northrup could hear them whisper--it blended with the twittering

-of the birds--he heard Noreen's chuckle and Jan-an's warning.

-Occasionally a flaming maple branch would fall through the window

-on to his table; once Ginger was propelled through the door with a

-note, badly printed by Noreen, tied to his collar.

-

-"We're here," the strangely scrawled words informed him; "me and

-Jan-an. We've got something for you."

-

-But Northrup held rigidly to his working hours and finally made an

-offer to his most persistent foes.

-

-"See here, you little beggars," he said, including the gaunt Jan-an in

-this, "if you keep to the other side of the bridge, I'll tell you a

-story, once a day."

-

-This had been the beginning of romance to Jan-an.

-

-The story-telling, thus agreed upon, opened a new opportunity for

-meeting Mary-Clare. Quite naturally she shared with Noreen and Jan-an

-the hours of the late afternoon walks in the woods or, occasionally,

-by the fireside of her own home when the chilly gloaming fell early.

-

-Often Northrup, casting a hurried thought to his past, and then

-forward to the time when all this pleasure must end, looked

-thoughtful. How circumscribed those old days had been; how uneventful

-at the best! How strange the old ways would seem by and by, touched by

-the glamour of what he was passing through now!

-

-And, as was often the case, Manly's words came out like guiding and

-warning flashes. The future could only be made safe by the present;

-the past--well! Northrup would not dwell upon that. He would keep the

-compact with himself.

-

-He went boldly to the yellow house when the mood seized him. His first

-encounters with Mary-Clare, after that night at the inn when he had

-watched her sleeping, had reassured him.

-

-"She was not awake!" he concluded. The belief made it possible for him

-to act with assurance.

-

-Peter and Polly preserved a discreet silence concerning affairs in the

-Forest. "You never can tell when a favouring wind will right things

-again," Polly remarked. She cared more for Mary-Clare than anything

-else.

-

-"Or upset 'em," Peter added. He had his mind fixed upon Maclin.

-

-"Well, brother, sailing safe, or struggling in the water, it won't

-help matters to stir up the mud."

-

-"No; and just having Brace hanging around like a threat is something.

-I allas did hold to them referendum and recall notions. Once a feller

-knows he ain't the only shirt in the laundry, he keeps decenter. So

-long as Maclin scents Brace, he keeps to his holdings. Did yer hear

-how he's cleaning up the Cosey Bar? He thinks maybe he's going to be

-attacked from that quarter. Then, again, he's been offering work to

-the men around here--and he's letting out that he never understood our

-side of things rightly and that he's listening to Larry--get that,

-Polly?--listening to Larry and letting _him_ make the folks on the

-Point get on to the fact that he's their friend. Gosh! Maclin their

-friend."

-

-And Mary-Clare all this time mystified her friends and her foes. She

-had foes. Men, and women, too, who looked askance at her. The less

-they knew, the more they had to invent. The proprieties of the Forest

-were being outraged. The women who envied Mary-Clare her daring fell

-upon her first. From their own misery and disillusionment, they sought

-to defend their position; create an atmosphere of virtue around their

-barren lives, by attacking the woman who refused to be a martyr.

-

-"You can't tell me," said a downtrodden wife of one of Maclin's men,

-"that she turned her husband out of doors after wheedling him out of

-all he should have had from his father, unless she meant to leave the

-door open for another! A woman only acts as she has for some man."

-

-The women, the happy ones, drove down upon Mary-Clare from another

-quarter. The happy women are always first to lay down the laws for the

-unhappy ones. Not knowing, they are irresponsible. The men of the

-Forest did some laughing and side talking, but on the whole they

-denounced Mary-Clare because she was a menace to the Established

-Code.

-

-"God!" said the speaker of the Cosey Bar, "what's coming to the world,

-anyhow? There ain't any rest and peace nowheres, and when it comes to

-women taking to naming terms, I say it's time for us to stand for our

-rights fierce."

-

-Maclin had delicately and indirectly set forth Mary-Clare's "terms"

-and the Forest was staggered.

-

-But Mary-Clare either did not hear, or the turmoil was so insistent

-that she had become used to it. She suddenly displayed an energy that

-made her former activities seem tame.

-

-She brought from the attic an old loom and got Aunt Polly to teach her

-to weave; she presently designed quaint patterns and delighted in her

-work. She invited several children, neglected little souls, to come to

-the yellow house and she taught them with Noreen. She resorted largely

-to the method the old doctor had used with her. Adapting, as she saw

-possible, her knowledge to her little group, she gave generously but

-held her peace.

-

-Northrup often had a hearty laugh after attending one of the "school"

-sessions.

-

-"It's like tossing all kinds of feed to a flock of birds," he told

-Aunt Polly, "and letting the little devils pick as they can."

-

-"I reckon they pick only as much as their little stomachs can hold,"

-Aunt Polly replied, "and it makes _me_ smile to notice how folks as

-ain't above saying lies about Mary-Clare can trust their children to

-her teaching."

-

-"Oh! well, lies are soon killed," Northrup returned, but his smile

-vanished.

-

-Mary-Clare was often troubled by Larry's persistence at the Point. She

-could not account for it, but she did not alter her own way of life.

-She went, occasionally, to the desolate Point; she rarely saw Larry,

-but if she did, she greeted him pleasantly. It was amazing to find how

-naturally she could do this. Indeed the whole situation was at the

-snapping point.

-

-"I do say," Twombley confided to Peneluna, "it don't seem nater for a

-woman not to grieve and fuss at such goings on."

-

-Peneluna tossed her head and sneezed.

-

-"I ain't ever understood," she broke in, "why a woman should fuss and

-break herself on account of a man doing what he oughtn't ter do. Let

-_him_ do the fussing and breaking."

-

-"She might try and save him." Twombley, like all the male Forest, was

-stirred at what he could not understand.

-

-"Women have got their hands full of other things"--Peneluna sneezed

-again as if the dust of ages was stifling her--"and I do say that

-after a woman does save a man, she's often too worn out to enjoy her

-savings."

-

-And Larry, carefully dressed, living alone and to all appearances

-brave and steady, simply, according to Maclin's ordering, "let out

-more sheet rope" in order that Mary-Clare might sail on to the rocks

-and smash herself to atoms before the eyes of her fellow creatures.

-

-Surely the Forest had much to cogitate upon.

-

-"There is just one ledge of rocks for her kind," said Maclin. "You

-keep yourself clear and safe, Rivers, and watch the wreck."

-

-Maclin could be most impressive at times and his conversation had a

-nautical twist that was quite effective.

-

-Northrup at this time would have been shocked beyond measure had any

-one suggested that his own attitude of mind resembled in the

-slightest degree that of Maclin, Twombley, and Rivers. He was too sane

-and decent a man to consider for a moment that Mary-Clare's actions

-were based in the slightest degree upon his presence in the Forest. He

-knew that he had had nothing to do with the matter, but that was no

-reason for thinking that he might not have. Suggestion was enmeshing

-him in the disturbance.

-

-He felt that Larry was a brute. That he had the outer covering of

-respectability counted against him. Larry always kept his best manners

-for public exhibition; his inheritance of refinement could be tapped

-at any convenient hour. Northrup knew his type. He had not recalled

-his father in years as he did now! A man legally sustained by his

-interpretation of marriage could make a hell or a heaven of any

-woman's life. This truism took on new significance in the primitive

-Forest.

-

-But in that Mary-Clare had had courage to escape from hell--and

-Northrup had pictured it all from memories of his boyhood--roused him

-to admiration.

-

-She was of the mettle of his mother. She might be bent but never

-broken. She was treading a path that none of her little world had ever

-trod before. Alone in the Forest she had taken a stand that she could

-not hope would be understood, and how superbly she was holding it!

-

-Knowing what he did, Northrup compared Mary-Clare with the women of

-his acquaintance; what one of them could defy their conventions as she

-was doing, instinctively, courageously?

-

-"But she ought not to be permitted to think all men are like Rivers!"

-

-This thought grew upon Northrup, and it was the first step, generously

-taken, to establish higher ideals for his sex. With the knowledge he

-had, he was in a position of safety. Not to be seen with Mary-Clare

-while the silly gossip muttered or whispered would be to acknowledge a

-reason for not meeting her--so he flung caution to the winds.

-

-There were nutting parties for the children--innocent enough, heaven

-knew! There were thrilling camping suppers on the flat ridge of the

-hills in order to watch the miracle of sunset and moonrise.

-

-No wonder Jan-an cast her lot in with those headed, so the whisper

-ran, for perdition. She had never been so nearly happy in her life;

-neither had Mary-Clare nor Noreen nor--though he did not own

-it--Northrup, himself.

-

-No wonder Maclin, and the outraged Larry, saw distinctly the ridge on

-which the wreck was to occur.

-

-But no one was taking into account that idealism in Mary-Clare that

-the old doctor had devoutly hoped would save her, not destroy her.

-Northrup began to comprehend it during the more intimate conversations

-that took place when the children, playing apart, left him and

-Mary-Clare alone. The wonder grew upon him and humbled him. It was

-something he had never encountered before. A philosophy and code built

-entirely upon knowledge gained from books and interpreted by a

-singular strength and purity of mind. It piqued Northrup; he began to

-test it, never estimating danger for himself.

-

-"Books are like people," Mary-Clare said one day--she was watching

-Northrup build a campfire and the last bit of sunlight fell full upon

-her--"the words are the costumes." She had marked the surprised look

-in Northrup's eyes as she quoted rather a bald sentiment from an old

-book.

-

-"Yes, of course, and that's sound reasoning." For a moment Northrup

-felt as though a clear north wind were blowing away the dust in an

-overlooked corner of his mind. "But it's rather staggering to find

-that you read French," he added, for the quotation had been literally

-translated. "You do, don't you?"

-

-"I do, a little. I'm taking it up again for Noreen."

-

-Noreen's name was continually being brought into focus. It had the

-effect of pushing Northrup, metaphorically, into a safe zone. He

-resented this.

-

-"She is afraid!" he thought. "Rivers has left his mark upon her mind,

-damn him!"

-

-This sentiment should have given warning, but it did not.

-

-"I study nights"--Mary-Clare was speaking quite as if fear had no part

-in her thought--"French, mathematics--all the hard things that went in

-and--stuck."

-

-"Hard things do stick, don't they?" Northrup hated the pushed-aside

-feeling.

-

-"Terribly. But my doctor was adamant about hard things. He used to say

-that I'd learn to love chipping off the rough corners." Here

-Mary-Clare laughed, and the sound set Northrup's nerves a-tingle as

-the clear notes of music did.

-

-"I can see myself now, Mr. Northrup, sitting behind my doctor on his

-horse, my book flattened out against his back. I'd ask questions; he'd

-fling the answers to me. Once I drew the map of Italy on his blessed

-old shoulders with crayon and often French verbs ran crookedly up the

-seam of his coat, for the horse changed his gait now and then."

-

-Northrup laughed aloud. He edged away from his isolation and said:

-

-"Your doctor was a remarkable man. His memory lives in the Forest;

-it's about the most vital thing here. It and all that preserves it."

-His eyes rested upon Mary-Clare.

-

-"Yes. He was wonderful. Lately he seems more alive than ever. He had

-such simple rules of life--but they work. He told me so often that

-when a trouble or anything like that came, there were but two ways to

-meet it. If it was going to kill you, die at your best. If it wasn't,

-get over it at once; never waste time--live as soon as possible." Was

-there a note of warning in the words?

-

-"And you're doing it?"

-

-An understanding look passed between them.

-

-"Yes, Mr. Northrup, for Noreen."

-

-Back went Northrup to his place with a dull thud! Then Mary-Clare

-hurried to a safer subject.

-

-"I wish you would tell me about your book, Mr. Northrup. I have the

-strangest feeling about it. It seems like a new kind of flower growing

-in the Forest. I love flowers."

-

-Northrup looked down at his companion. Her bared head, her musing,

-radiant face excited and moved him. He had forgotten his book.

-

-"You're rather like a strange growth yourself," he said daringly.

-

-Mary-Clare smiled gaily.

-

-"You'll have to blame my old doctor for that," she said.

-

-"Or bless him," Northrup broke in.

-

-"Yes, that's better, if it is true."

-

-"It's tremendously true."

-

-"A book"--again that elusive push--"must be a great responsibility.

-Once you put your thoughts and words down and send them out--there you

-are!"

-

-"Yes. Good Lord! There you are."

-

-"I knew that you would feel that way about it and that is why I would

-like to hear you talk of it. It's a story, isn't it?"

-

-"Yes, a story."

-

-"You can reach further with a story."

-

-"I suppose so. You do not have to knuckle down to rules. You can let

-your vision have a say, and your feelings." Northrup, seeing that his

-book must play a part, accepted that fact.

-

-"I suppose"--Mary-Clare was looking wistfully up at Northrup--"all the

-people in your books work out what you believe is truth. I can always

-_feel_ truth in a book--or the lack of it."

-

-In the near distance Noreen and Jan-an were gathering wood. They were

-singing and shouting lustily.

-

-"May I sit on your log?" Northrup spoke hurriedly.

-

-"Of course," and Mary-Clare moved a little. "The sun's gone," she went

-on. "It's quite dark in the valley."

-

-"It's still light here--and there's the fire." Northrup was watching

-the face beside him.

-

-"Yes, the fire, and presently the moon rising, just over there."

-

-Restraint lay between the two on the mossy log. They both resented

-it.

-

-"You know, you must know, that I'd rather have you share my book than

-any one else." Northrup spoke almost roughly.

-

-He had meant to say something quite different, but anything would do

-so long as he controlled the situation.

-

-"I wonder why?" Mary-Clare kept her face turned away.

-

-"Well, you are so phenomenally keen. You know such a lot."

-

-"I used to snap up everything like a hungry puppy, Uncle Peter often

-said. I suppose I do now, Mr. Northrup, but I only know life as a

-blind person does: I feel."

-

-"That's just it. You _feel_ life. It isn't coloured for you by others.

-You get its form, its hardness or softness, its fragrance or the

-reverse, but you fix your own colour. That's why you'd be such a

-ripping critic. Will you let me read some of my book to you?"

-

-"Oh! of course. I'd be so glad and proud."

-

-"Come, now, you're not joking?"

-

-The large golden eyes turned slowly and rested upon Northrup.

-

-"I do not think I ever joke"--Mary-Clare's words fell softly--"about

-such things. Why, it would seem like seeing a soul get into a body.

-You do not joke about that."

-

-"You make me horribly afraid about my book. People do not usually take

-the writing of a book in just that way."

-

-"I wish they did. You see, my doctor often said that books would live

-if they only held truth. He loved these words, 'And above all

-else--Truth taketh away the victory!' I can see him now waving his

-arms and singing that defiantly, as if he were challenging the whole

-world. He said that truth was the soul of things."

-

-"But who knows Truth?"

-

-"There is something in us that knows it. Don't you think so?"

-

-"But we see it so differently."

-

-"That does not matter, if we know it! Truth is fixed and sure. Isn't

-that so?"

-

-"I do not know. Sometimes I think so: then--good Lord! that is what

-I'm trying to find out."

-

-Northrup's face grew tense.

-

-"And so am I."

-

-"All right, then, let's go on the quest together!" Northrup stood up

-and offered his hand to Mary-Clare as if actually they were to start

-on the pilgrimage. "Where and when may I begin to read to you?"

-

-The children were coming nearer.

-

-"While this weather lasts, I'd love the open. Wouldn't you? Logs, like

-this, are such perfect places."

-

-"I thought perhaps"--Northrup looked what he dared not voice--"I

-thought perhaps in that cabin of yours we might be more comfortable,

-more undisturbed."

-

-Mary-Clare smiled and shook her head.

-

-"No, I think it would be impossible. That cabin is too full--well, I'm

-sure I could not listen as I should, to you, in that cabin."

-

-And so it was that the book became the medium of expression to

-Northrup and Mary-Clare. It justified that which might otherwise have

-been impossible. It drugged them both to any sense of actual danger.

-It was like a shield behind which they might advance and retreat

-unseen and unharmed. And if the shield ever fell for an unguarded

-moment, Northrup believed that he alone was vouchsafed clear vision.

-

-He grew to marvel at the simplicity and purity of Mary-Clare's point

-of view. He knew that she must have gone through some gross

-experiences with a man like Rivers, but they had left her singularly

-untouched.

-

-But, while Northrup, believing himself shielded from the woman near

-him, permitted his imagination full play, Mary-Clare drew her own

-conclusions. She accepted Northrup without question as far as he

-personally was concerned. He was making her life rich and full, but he

-would soon pass; become a memory to brighten the cold, dark years

-ahead, just as the memory of the old doctor had done: would always

-do.

-

-Desperately Mary-Clare clung to this thought, and reinforced by it

-referred constantly to her own position as if to convince Northrup of

-perfect understanding of their relations.

-

-But the book! That was another matter. In that she felt she dared

-contemplate the real nature of Northrup. She believed he was

-unconsciously revealing himself, and with that keenness of perception

-that Northrup had detected, she threshed the false notes from the true

-and, while hesitating to express herself--for she was timid and

-naturally distrustful of herself--she was being prepared for an hour

-when her best would be demanded of her.

-

-Silently Mary-Clare would sit and listen while Northrup read. Without

-explanation, the children had been eliminated and, if the day was too

-cool to sit by the trail side, they would walk side by side, the

-crushed leaves making a soft carpet for their feet; the falling leaves

-touching them gently as they were brushed from their slight holdings.

-

-Mary-Clare had suddenly abandoned her rough boyish garb. She was sweet

-and womanly in her plain little gown--and a long coat whose high

-collar rose around her grave face. She wore no hat and the light and

-shade did marvellous things to her hair. There were times when

-Northrup could not take his eyes from that shining head.

-

-"Why are you stopping?" Mary-Clare would ask at such lapses.

-

-"My writing is diabolical!" Northrup lied.

-

-"Oh! I'm sorry. The stops give me a jog. Go on."

-

-And Northrup would go on!

-

-Without fully being aware of it, until the thing was done, Mary-Clare

-got vividly into the story.

-

-And Northrup was doing some good, some daring work. His man, born from

-his own doubts, aspirations, and cravings, was a live and often a

-blundering creature who could not be disregarded. He was safe enough,

-but it was the woman who now gave trouble.

-

-Northrup saw, with fear and trembling, that he had drawn her, so he

-devoutly believed, so close to reality that he felt that Mary-Clare

-would discover her at once and resent the impertinence. But he need

-not have held any such thought. Mary-Clare was far too impersonal; far

-too absorbed a nature to be largely concerned with herself, and

-Northrup had failed absolutely in his deductions, as he was soon to

-learn.

-

-What Mary-Clare did see in Northrup's heroine was a maddening

-possibility that he was letting slip through his fingers. At first

-this puzzled her; pained her. She was still timid about expressing her

-feeling. But so strong was Northrup's touch in most of his work that

-at last he drove his quiet, silent critic from her moorings. She asked

-that she might have a copy of a certain part of the book.

-

-"I want to think it out with my woman-brain," she laughingly

-explained. "When you read right at this spot--well, you see, it

-doesn't seem clear. When I have thought it out alone, then I will tell

-you and be--oh! very bold."

-

-And Northrup had complied.

-

-He had blazed for himself, some time before, a roundabout trail

-through the briery underbrush from the inn to within a few hundred

-feet of the cabin. Often he watched from this hidden limit. He saw the

-smoke rise from the chimney; once or twice he caught a glimpse of

-Mary-Clare sitting at the rough table, and, after she had taken those

-chapters away, he knew they were being read there.

-

-Alone, waiting, expecting he knew not what, Northrup became alarmingly

-aware that Mary-Clare had got a tremendous hold upon him. The

-knowledge was almost staggering. He had felt so sure; had risked so

-much.

-

-He could not deceive himself any longer. Like other men, he had played

-with fire and had been burnt. "But," he devoutly thought, "thank God,

-I have started no conflagration."

-

-

-

-

-CHAPTER XI

-

-

-There had been five days in which to face a rather ugly and bald fact

-before Northrup again saw Mary-Clare. He had employed the time, he

-tried to make himself believe, wisely, sanely.

-

-He had spent a good portion of it at the Point. He had irritated Larry

-beyond endurance by friendly overtures. In an effort to be just, he

-tried to include Rivers in his reconstruction. The truth, he sternly

-believed, would never be known, but if it were, certainly Rivers might

-have something to say for himself, and with humiliation Northrup

-regarded himself "as other men." He had never, thank heaven! looked

-upon himself as better than other men, but he had thought his

-struggle, early in life, his unhappy parenthood, and later devotion to

-his work, had set him apart from the general temptations of many young

-men and had given him a distaste for follies that could hold no

-suggestion of mystery for him.

-

-Well, Fate had merely bided its time.

-

-With every reason for escaping a pitfall, he had floundered in. "Like

-other men?" Northrup sneered at himself. No other man could be such a

-consummate fool, knowing what he knew.

-

-Viewed from this position, Larry was not as contemptible as he had

-once appeared.

-

-But Rivers resented Northrup's advances, putting the lowest

-interpretation upon them. In this he was upheld by Maclin, who was

-growing restive under the tension that did not break, but stretched

-endlessly on.

-

-Northrup resolved to see Mary-Clare once more and then go home. He

-would make sure that the fire he himself was scorched by had not

-touched her. After that he would turn his back upon the golden selah

-in his life and return to his niche in the wall.

-

-This brought his mother and Kathryn into the line of vision. How

-utterly he had betrayed their confidence! His whole life, from now on,

-should be devoted to their service. Doubtless to other men, like

-himself, there were women who were never forgotten, but that must not

-blot out reality.

-

-And then Northrup considered the task of unearthing Maclin's secrets,

-and ridding the Forest of that subtle fear and distrust that the man

-created. That was, however, too big an undertaking now. He must get

-Twombley to watch and report. Northrup had a great respect for

-Twombley's powers of observation.

-

-And so the time on the Point had been put to some purpose, and it had

-occupied Northrup. Noreen and Jan-an had helped, too. It was rather

-tragic the way Northrup had grown to feel about Noreen. The child had

-developed his latent love for children--they had never figured in his

-life before. So much had been left out, now that he came to think of

-it!

-

-And Jan-an. Poor groping creature! To have gained her affection and

-trust meant a great deal.

-

-Then the Heathcotes! Polly and Peter! During those five distraught

-days they developed halos in Northrup's imagination.

-

-They had taken him in, a stranger. They had fathered and mothered him;

-staunchly and silently stood by him. What if they knew?

-

-They must never know! He would make sure of that.

-

-In this frame of mind, chastened and determined, Northrup on the fifth

-day took his place behind the laurel clump back of Mary-Clare's cabin,

-and to his relief saw her coming out of the door. His manuscript was

-not in her hands, but her face had an uplifted and luminous look that

-set his heart to a quicker pulsing.

-

-After a decent length of time, Northrup, whistling carelessly,

-scruffing the dead leaves noiselessly, followed on and overtook

-Mary-Clare near the log upon which they had sat at their last

-meeting.

-

-The quaint poise and dignity of the girl was the first impression

-Northrup always got. He had never quite grown accustomed to it; it was

-like a challenge--his impulse was to test it. It threatened his

-exalted state now.

-

-"It's quite mysterious, isn't it?"

-

-Mary-Clare sat down on her end of the log and looked up, her eyes

-twinkling.

-

-"What is mysterious?" Northrup took his place. The log was not a long

-one.

-

-"The way we manage to meet."

-

-She was setting him at a safe distance in that old way of hers that

-somehow made her seem so young.

-

-It irritated Northrup now as it never had before.

-

-He had prepared himself for an ordeal, was keyed to a high note, and

-the quiet, smiling girl near him made it all seem a farce.

-

-This was dangerous. Northrup relaxed.

-

-"It's been nearly a week since I saw you," he said, and let his eyes

-rest upon Mary-Clare's face.

-

-"Yes, nearly a week," she said softly, "but it took me all that time

-to make up my mind."

-

-"About what?"

-

-"Your book."

-

-Northrup had forgotten, for the moment, his book, and he resented its

-introduction.

-

-"Damn the book!" he thought. Aloud he said: "Of course! You were going

-to tell me where I have fallen down."

-

-"I hope you are not making a joke of it"--Mary-Clare's face

-flushed--"but even if you are, I am going to tell you what I think. I

-must, you know."

-

-"That's awfully good of you"--Northrup became earnest--"but it doesn't

-matter now, I am going away. Let us talk of something else."

-

-Mary-Clare took this in silence. The only evidence of her surprise

-showed in the higher touch of colour that rose, then died out, leaving

-her almost pale.

-

-"Then, there is all the more reason why I must tell you what I think,"

-she said at last.

-

-The words came like sharp detached particles; they hurt.

-

-"We must talk about the book!"

-

-And Northrup suddenly caught the truth. The book was their common

-language. Only through that could they reach each other, understandingly.

-

-"All right!" he murmured, and turned his face away.

-

-"It's your woman," Mary-Clare began with a sharp catching of her

-breath as if she had been running. "Your woman is not real."

-

-Northrup flushed. He was foolishly and suddenly angry. If the book

-must be brought in, he would defend it. It was all that was left to

-him of this detached interlude of his life. He meant to keep it. It

-was one thing to live along in his story and daringly see how close he

-could come to revealment with the keen-witted girl who had inspired

-him, but quite another, now that he was going, beaten from the field,

-to have the book, _as_ a book, assailed. As to books, he knew his

-business!

-

-"You put _your_ words in your woman's mouth," Mary-Clare was saying.

-

-"And whose words, pray, should I put there?" Northrup asked huskily.

-

-"You must let her speak for herself."

-

-"Good Lord!"

-

-Mary-Clare did not notice the interruption. She was doing battle for

-more than Northrup guessed. She hoped he would never know the truth,

-but the battle must be fought if all the beautiful weeks of joy were

-to be saved for the future. The idealism that the old doctor had

-desperately hoped might save, not destroy, Mary-Clare was to prove

-itself now.

-

-"There are so many endings in life, that it is hard, in a book, to

-choose just one. Why should there be an end to a book?" she asked.

-

-The question came falteringly and Northrup almost laughed.

-

-"Go on, please," he said quietly. "You think I've ended my woman by

-letting her do what any woman in real life would do?"

-

-"All women would not do what your woman does. Such women end men!"

-

-This was audacious, but it caught Northrup's imagination.

-

-"Go on," he muttered lamely.

-

-"Do you think love is everything to a woman?" Mary-Clare demanded

-ferociously.

-

-"It is the biggest thing!" Northrup was up in arms to defend his code

-and his work.

-

-"You think it could wipe out honour, all the things that meant honour

-to her?"

-

-"Love conquers everything for a woman."

-

-"Does it for a man?"

-

-Northrup tried to fling out the affirmative, but he hedged.

-

-"Largely, yes."

-

-"I do not think that. There are some things bigger to him. Maybe not

-bigger, but things that he would choose instead of love, if he had to.

-It is what you _do_ to love that matters. If you come and take it when

-you haven't a right to it; when you'd be stealing it; letting other

-sacred things go for it--then you would be killing love. But if you

-honour it, even if it is lonely and often sad, it lives and lives

-and----"

-

-The universe, at that momentous instant, seemed to rock and tremble.

-Everything was swept aside as by a Force that but bided its hour and

-had taken absolute control.

-

-Northrup was never able to connect the two edges of conscious thought

-that were riven apart by the blinding stroke that left him and

-Mary-Clare in that space where their souls met. But, thank God, the

-Force was not evil; it was but revealing.

-

-Northrup drew Mary-Clare to her feet and held her little work-worn

-hands close.

-

-"You are crying--suffering," he whispered.

-

-"Yes."

-

-"And----"

-

-"Oh! please wait"--the deep sobs shook the girl--"you must wait. I'll

-try to--to make you see. I was awake that night at the inn--that is

-why I--trust you now! Why I want you to--to understand."

-

-She seemed pleading with him--it made him wince; she was calling forth

-his best to help her weakest.

-

-"Your book"--Mary-Clare gripped that again--"your book is a beautiful,

-live thing--we must keep it so! Your man has grown and grown through

-every page until he quite naturally believed he was able to--to do

-more than any man can ever do! Why, this is your chance to be

-different, stronger." The quick, panting words ran into each other and

-then Mary-Clare controlled them while, unheeded, the tears rolled down

-her cheeks. "You must let your woman _act_ for herself! She, too, must

-learn and know. She made a horrible mistake from _not_ knowing and

-seeing the first man; no love can help her by taking the solution from

-her. She must be free--free and begin again. If it is right----"

-

-"Yes, Mary-Clare. If it is right, what then?"

-

-Everything seemed to wait upon the answer. The scurrying wood

-creatures and the dropping of dead leaves alone broke the silence.

-Slowly, like one coming into consciousness, Mary-Clare drew one hand

-from Northrup's, wiped her eyes, and then--let it fall again into

-his!

-

-"I can see clearer now," she faltered. "Please, please try to

-understand. It is because love means so much to some women, that when

-they think it out with their women-minds they will be very careful of

-it. They will feel about it as men do about their honour. There must

-be times when love must stand aside if they want to keep it! I know

-how queer and crooked all this must sound, but men do not stop loving

-if their honour makes them turn from it. We are all, men and women,

-too, _parts_--we cannot act as if--oh! you do understand, I know you

-do, and some day you will go on with your beautiful book."

-

-"And the end of my book, Mary-Clare? There must be an end."

-

-"I do not know. I do not think a great big book ever ends any more

-than life ends."

-

-Northrup was swept from his hard-wrought position at this. The next

-wave of emotion might carry him higher, but for the moment he was

-drifting, drifting.

-

-"You do not know life, nor men, nor women," he said huskily and

-clutched her hands in his. "If life cheats and injures you, you have a

-right to snatch what joy you can. It's not only what you do to love,

-but what you do to yourself, that counts. For real love can stand

-anything."

-

-"No, it cannot!" Mary-Clare tried to draw away, but she felt the hold

-tighten on her hands; "it cannot stand dishonour. That's what kills

-it."

-

-"Dishonour! What _is_ dishonour?" Northrup asked bitterly. "I'm going

-to prove as far as I can, in my book, that the right kind of man and

-woman with a big enough love can throttle life; cheat the cheater."

-This came defiantly.

-

-But the book no longer served its purpose; it seemed to fall at the

-feet of the man and woman, standing with clasped hands and hungry,

-desperate eyes.

-

-The words that might have changed their lives were never spoken, for,

-down the trail gaily, joyously, came the sound of Noreen's voice,

-shrilly singing one of the songs Northrup had taught her.

-

-"That's what I mean by honour," Mary-Clare whispered. "Noreen and all

-that she is! You, you _do_ understand about some women, don't you? You

-will help, not hurt, such women, won't you?"

-

-"For God's sake, Mary-Clare, don't!"

-

-Northrup bent and touched his lips to the small work-stained hands.

-The song down the trail rose joyously.

-

-"I have thought of you"--Mary-Clare was catching her breath

-sharply--"as Noreen has--a man brought by the haunted wind. It has all

-been like a wonderful play. I have not thought of the place where you

-belong, but I know there are those in that place who are like

-Noreen."

-

-"Yes!" Northrup shivered and flinched as a cold, wet leaf fell upon

-his hands and Mary-Clare's.

-

-"The wind is changing," said the woman. "The lovely autumn has been

-kind and has stayed long."

-

-"My dear, my dear--don't!" Northrup pleaded.

-

-"Oh! but I must. You see I want you to think back, as I shall--at all

-this as great happiness. Come, let us go down the trail. I want you to

-tell me about your city, the place where you belong! I must picture

-you there now."

-

-Northrup kept the small right hand in his as they turned. It was a

-cold hand and it trembled in his grasp, but there was a steel-like

-quality in it, too.

-

-It was tragic, this strength of the girl who had drawn her understanding

-of life from hidden sources. Northrup knew that she was seeking to

-smooth his way on ahead; to take the bitterness from a memory that,

-without her sacrifice, might hold him back from what had been, was,

-and must always be, inevitable. She was ignoring the weak, tempted

-moment and linking the past with all that the future must hold for

-them both.

-

-There was only the crude, simple course for him to follow--to accept

-the commonplace, turn and face life as one turns from a grave that

-hides a beautiful thing.

-

-"You have never been to the city?"

-

-There was nothing to do but resort to words. Superficial, foolish

-words.

-

-"Yes, once. On my wedding trip."

-

-This was unfortunate, but words without thought are wild things.

-

-Mary-Clare hurried along while visions of Larry's city rose like smiting

-rebukes to her heedlessness. Cheap theatres, noisy restaurants, gaudy

-lights.

-

-"My dear doctor and I always planned going together," she said

-brokenly. "I believe there are many cities in the city. One has to

-find his city for himself."

-

-"Yes, that's exactly what one does." Northrup closed his hand closer

-over the dead-cold one in his grasp.

-

-"Your city, it must be wonderful."

-

-"It will be a haunted city, Mary-Clare."

-

-"Tell me about it. And tell me a little, if you don't mind, about your

-people."

-

-The bravery was almost heart-breaking, it caused Northrup's lips to

-set grimly.

-

-"There is my mother," he replied.

-

-"I'm glad. You love her very much?"

-

-"Very much. She's wonderful. My father died long ago."

-

-Mary-Clare did not ask whether he loved his father or not, and she

-hurried on:

-

-"And now, when I try to think of you in your city, at your work, just

-how shall I think of you? Make it like a picture."

-

-Northrup struggled with himself. The girl beside him, in pushing him

-from her life, was so unutterably sweet and brave.

-

-"My dear, my dear!" he whispered, and remorse, pity, yearning rang in

-the words.

-

-"Make it like a picture!" Relentlessly the words were repeated. They

-demanded that he give his best.

-

-"Think of a high little room in a tall tower overlooking all cities,"

-he began slowly, "the cheap, the beautiful, the glad, and the sad. The

-steam and smoke roll up and seem to make a gauzy path upon which all

-that really matters comes and goes as one sits and watches."

-

-Mary-Clare's eyes were wide and vision-filled.

-

-"Oh! thank you," she whispered. "I shall always see it and you so. And

-sometimes, maybe when the sun is going down, as it is now, you will

-see me on that trail that is just yours, in your city coming to--to

-wish you well!"

-

-"Good God!" Northrup shook himself. "What's got us two? We've worked

-ourselves into a pretty state. Talking as, as if--Mary-Clare, I'm not

-going away. There will be other days. It's that book of mine. Hang it!

-We've got snarled in the book."

-

-The weak efforts to ignore everything failed pitifully.

-

-"No, it is life." Mary-Clare grew grim as Northrup relaxed. "But I

-want you always to remember my old doctor's rule. If a thing is going

-to kill you, die bravely; if it isn't, get over it at once and live

-the best you can."

-

-"God bless and keep you, Mary-Clare." Absolute surrender marked the

-tone.

-

-"He will!"

-

-"But this is not good-bye!"

-

-"No, it is not good-bye."

-

-

-

-

-CHAPTER XII

-

-

-While the days were passing and Mary-Clare and Northrup, with the book

-between them as a shield, fought their battle and won their victory,

-they had taken small heed of the undercurrent that was not merely

-carrying them on, but bearing others, also.

-

-Northrup was comfortably conscious of Aunt Polly and old Peter, at the

-days' ends. The sense of going home to them was distinctly a joy, a

-fitting and safe interlude.

-

-Noreen and Jan-an supplied the light-comedy touch, for the two were

-capable of supplying no end of fun when there were hours that could

-not be utilized in work or devoted to that thrilling occupation of

-walking the trails with Mary-Clare.

-

-The real, sordid tragedy element played small part in the autumn idyl,

-but it was developing none the less.

-

-Larry on the Point was showing more patient persistence than one could

-have expected. He went about Maclin's business with his usual

-reticence and devotion; occasionally he was away for a few days; when

-he was at home in Peneluna's shack he was a quiet, rather pathetic

-figure of a man at loose ends, but casting no slurs. It was that

-pacific attitude of his that got on the nerves of his doubters and

-those who believed they understood him.

-

-Peneluna, torn between her loyalty to Mary-Clare and the decency she

-felt called upon to show the old doctor's son, was becoming irritable

-and jerky. Jan-an shrank from her and whimpered:

-

-"What have I done? Ain't I fetching and carrying for him?"--she nodded

-heavily toward Larry's abiding place. "Ain't I watching and telling

-yer all that he does? Writing and tearing up what he writes! Ain't I

-showing you his scraps what don't get burned? Ain't I acting square?"

-

-Peneluna softened.

-

-"Yes, you are!" she admitted. "But I declare, after finding nothing

-agin him, one gets to wondering if there _is_ anything agin him. I

-don't like suspecting my feller creatures."

-

-"Suspectin' ain't like murdering!" Jan-an blurted out.

-

-"If you don't stop talking like that, Jan-an----" But Peneluna paused,

-for she saw the frightened look creeping into Jan-an's dull eyes.

-

-It was while the Point was agitated about Larry that Twombley brought

-forth his gun and took to cleaning it and fondling it by his doorway.

-This action of Twombley's fascinated Jan-an.

-

-"What yer going to shoot?" she asked.

-

-"Ducks, maybe." Twombley leered pleasantly.

-

-"I wish yer wouldn't."

-

-"Why, Jan-an?"

-

-"Ducks ain't so used to it as chickens. I hate to see flying things as

-_can_ fly popped over."

-

-At this Twombley laughed aloud.

-

-"All right, girl, I'll hunt up something else to aim at--something

-that's used to it. I ain't saying I'll hit anything, but aimin' and

-finding out how steady yer hand is ain't lacking in sport."

-

-So Twombley erected a target and enlivened and startled the Point by

-his practise. Maclin, after a few weeks of absence from the Point,

-called occasionally on his private agent and he was displeased by

-Twombley's new amusement.

-

-"What in thunder are you up to?" he asked.

-

-"Not much--yet!" Twombley admitted. "Don't hit the hole more than once

-out of four."

-

-"But the noise is bad for folks, Twombley."

-

-"They like it," Twombley broke in. "Makes 'em jump and know they're

-alive. It's like fleas on dogs."

-

-"When I'm talking business with Rivers," Twombley insisted, "I hate

-the racket."

-

-"All right, when I see you there, I'll hold off."

-

-But Maclin did not want always to be seen at the shack. It was one

-thing to stroll down to the Point, now and again, with that air of

-having made mistakes in the past and greeting the Pointers pleasantly,

-and quite another to find out, secretly, just what progress Larry was

-making in his interests and knowing what Larry was doing with his long

-days and nights.

-

-So, after a fortnight of consideration, Maclin walked with Rivers from

-the mines one night determined to spend several hours in the shack and

-"use his eyes." Larry did not seem particularly pleased with this

-intention and paused several times on the rough, dusky road, giving

-Maclin an opportunity to bid him good-night. But Maclin stuck like the

-little brown devil-pitchforks that decorated the trousers of both men

-as they strode on the woodside of the road.

-

-"I'm like a rat in a hole," Larry confided, despairing of shaking

-Maclin off. "I wish to God you'd send me away somewhere--overseas, if

-you can. You once promised that."

-

-Maclin's eyes contracted, but it was too dark for Rivers to notice.

-

-"Too late, just now, Rivers. That hell of a time they're having over

-there keeps peaceful folks to their own waters."

-

-"Sometimes"--Larry grew moody--"I've thought I'd like to tumble into

-that mess and either----"

-

-"What?" Abruptly Maclin caught Rivers up.

-

-"Oh! go under or--come to the top." This was to laugh--so both men

-laughed.

-

-Laughing and talking in undertones, they came to the dark shack and

-Larry, irritated at his inability to drop Maclin, unlocked the door

-and went in, followed by his unwelcome guest.

-

-"What in thunder do you lock this old rookery up for?" Maclin asked,

-stumbling over a chair.

-

-"I've got a notion lately that folks peep and pry. I've seen

-footprints around the house."

-

-"Well, why shouldn't they pry and tramp about? The Point's getting

-dippy. And that blasted gun of Twombley's! See here, Rivers!"

-

-By this time Larry had lighted the smelly lamp and closed the door and

-locked it.

-

-"You're getting nervous and twisted, Rivers."

-

-The two sat down by the paper-strewn table.

-

-"Well, who wouldn't?" snapped Rivers. "Hiding in this junk,

-knowing that your wife----" he paused abruptly, but Maclin nodded

-sympathetically. "It's hell, Maclin."

-

-"Sure! Got anything to drink?"

-

-Larry went to the closet and brought out a bottle and glasses.

-

-"This helps!" Maclin said, pouring out the best brand from the Cosey.

-

-The men drained their glasses and became, after a few minutes, more

-cheerful. Maclin stretched out his legs--he had to do this in order to

-adjust his fat and put his hands in his pockets.

-

-"Larry, I want to tell you that you won't have to hide in your hole

-much longer. I'm one too many for that fellow Northrup. I hold the

-cards now."

-

-"The devil you do!" Rivers's eyes brightened.

-

-"Yes, sir. He wants the Point, old man, and the Heathcotes gave him

-the knowledge that your wife owns it. He's getting her where he can

-handle her. Damn shame, I say--using a woman and taking advantage of

-her weak side. If we don't act spry he'll get what he wants."

-

-Larry's face flushed a purple-red.

-

-"What do you mean, Maclin? Talk out straight and clear."

-

-"Well, I weigh it this way and that. Northrup might--I hate to use

-brutal terms--he might compromise your wife and get her to sell and

-shut him up, or he might get her so bedazzled that she'd feel real set

-up to negotiate with him. A man like Northrup is pretty flattering to

-a woman like your wife, Rivers. You see, she's carrying such a big

-cargo of learning and fancy rot that she can't properly sail. That

-kind gets stranded _always_, Larry. They just naturally _make_ for

-rocks."

-

-Larry had a sensation of choking and loosened his collar, then he

-surprised Maclin by turning and lighting a fire in the stove before he

-further surprised him by asking, with dangerous calmness:

-

-"What in all that's holy do you--this Northrup--any one, want this

-damned Point for?"

-

-Maclin was rarely in a position to fence with Rivers, but he was now.

-

-"Larry, old man, did you ever have in your life an ideal, or what

-stands for it, that you would work for, and suffer for?"

-

-"No!" Rivers could not stand delay.

-

-"Well, I have, Larry. I'm an old sentimentalist, when you know me

-proper. I took a fancy to you, and while I can't show my feelings as

-many can, I have stood by you and you've been a proposition, off and

-on. I bought those mines because I saw the chance they offered, and I

-shared with you. I've got big men interested. I've let you carry

-results to them--but the results are slow, Rivers, and they're getting

-restive. I'm afraid some one of them has blabbed and this Northrup is

-the result. Why, man, I've got inventions over at the mines that will

-revolutionize this rotten, lazy Forest. I wanted to win the folks--but

-they wouldn't be won. I wanted to save them in spite of themselves,

-but damn 'em, they won't be saved. In a year I could make Heathcote a

-rich man, if he'd wake up and _keep_ an inn instead of a kennel. But

-I've got to have this Point. I want to build a bridge from here to the

-railroad property on the other shore--this is the narrowest part of

-the lake; I want to build cottages here, instead of--of rat holes.

-I've got to get this Point by hook or crook--and I can't shilly-shally

-with this Northrup on to the game."

-

-Suddenly, while he was talking, Maclin's eyes fell upon the untidy

-mass of papers on the table. He pulled his fat hands out of his tight

-pockets and let them fall like paperweights on the envelopes and

-sheets.

-

-"What are these?" he asked.

-

-Larry started guiltily.

-

-"Old letters," he said.

-

-"What you doing with them?" As he spoke Maclin was sorting and

-arranging the papers--the old he put to one side; the newer ones on

-the other. Some of the new ones were astonishingly good copies of the

-old!

-

-"Playing the old game, eh?" Maclin scowled. "I thought you'd had

-enough of that, after----"

-

-"For God's sake, Maclin, shut up."

-

-"Been carrying these mementos around with you all these years?"

-

-Maclin was reading a letter of Larry's father--an old one.

-

-"No, I brought them with me from the old house. Mary-Clare had them,

-but they were mine." Larry's face was white and set into hard lines.

-

-"Sure, so I see." And Maclin was seeing a great deal.

-

-He saw that Rivers had torn off, where it was possible, half pages

-from the old and yellowed letters; these were carefully banded

-together, while on fresh sheets of paper, the old letters in part, or

-in whole, were cleverly copied.

-

-There was one yellowed half sheet in the old doctor's handwriting

-bearing a new form of expression--there was no original of this.

-Maclin made sure of that. He read this new form once, twice, three

-times.

-

-"If the time should ever come, my girl, when you and Larry could not

-agree, he'll give you this letter. It is all I could do for him; it

-will prove that I trust you, at every turn, to do the right and just

-thing. Stand by Larry, as I have done."

-

-Maclin puffed out his cheeks. They looked like a child's red balloon.

-"What in hell!" he ejaculated.

-

-Larry's face was gray. Guilt is always quick to hold up its hands when

-it thinks the enemy has the drop on it.

-

-"Can't you understand?" he whispered through dry lips. "I want to

-outwit them. I'm as keen as you, Maclin, and I'm working for you, old

-man, working for you! I was going to take this to her--she'll do

-anything when she reads that--and I was going to tell her why the old

-man stood by me. That would shut her mouth and make her pay."

-

-There is in the shield of every man a weak spot. There was one in the

-shield of Maclin's brutal villainy. For a moment he felt positively

-virtuous; perhaps the sensation proved the embryo virtue in all.

-

-"Are any of these things real?" he asked with a rough catch in his

-voice; "and don't lie to me--it wouldn't be healthy."

-

-"No."

-

-"You got your wife by letting her think your old father wanted it,

-wrote about it?"

-

-"Yes. I had to outwit them some way. I was just free and couldn't

-choose. They had no right to cut me out."

-

-"Well, by God, you _are_ a rotter, Rivers." The lines at which

-criminals balk are confusing. "And she never guessed?"

-

-"No, she'd never seen Father's writing in letters."

-

-Then Maclin's outraged virtue took a curious turn.

-

-"And you never cared for her after you got her?"

-

-"I might have if she'd been the right sort--but she's as hard as flint,

-Maclin. A man can't stand her sort and keep his own self-respect."

-

-Maclin indulged in a weak laugh at this and Larry's face burned.

-

-"I might have gone straight if she'd been square, but she wasn't. A

-man can't put up with her type. And now--well! She ought to pay now."

-

-Maclin was gripping the loose sheets in his fat, greasy hands.

-

-"Hold on there." Larry pointed. "You're getting them creased and

-dirty!"

-

-Again Maclin laughed.

-

-"I'll leave enough copy," he muttered. Then he fixed his little eyes

-on his prey while his fat neck wrinkled in the back. His emotion of

-virtue flickered and died, he was the alert man of business once more.

-"I told you after you got out of prison, Rivers, that I'd never stand

-for any more of that counterfeiting stuff. It's too risky, and the

-talent can be put to better purpose. I've stood by you, I like you,

-and I need you. When we all pony up you'll get your share--I mean when

-we build up the Forest, you'll have a fat berth, but you've got to

-play a card now for me and play it damn quick. Here, take this gem of

-yours"--he tossed Larry's latest production to him--"and go to your

-wife to-morrow, and tell her why your old man stood by you; shut her

-mouth with that choice bit and then tell her--you want the Point!

-You've got her cornered, Rivers. She can't escape. If she tries to,

-hurl Northrup at her."

-

-Larry wiped his lips with his hot hand.

-

-"I haven't quite finished this," he muttered; "it will take a day or

-two."

-

-"Rivers, if you try any funny work on me----" Maclin looked dangerous.

-He felt the fear that comes from not trusting those he must use.

-

-"I'm not going to double-cross you, Maclin."

-

-"Here, take a nifter." Maclin pushed the bottle toward Rivers. "You

-look all in," he ventured.

-

-"I am, just about."

-

-"Well, after this piece of business, I'll send you off for as long as

-you want to stay. You need a change."

-

-Larry revived after a moment or two and some colour crept into his

-cheeks.

-

-"I'm going now," Maclin said, getting up and releasing the tools of

-Larry's trade. "Better get a good night's rest and be fresh for

-to-morrow. A day or so won't count, so long as we understand the game.

-Good-night!"

-

-Outside in the darkness Maclin stood still and listened. His iron

-nerves were shaken and he had his moment of far vision. If he

-succeeded--well! at that thought Maclin felt his blood run riotously

-in his veins. Glory! Glory! His name ringing out into fame.

-

-But!--the cold sweat broke over the fat man standing in the dark.

-Still, he would not have been the man he was if he permitted doubt to

-linger. He _must_ succeed. Right was back of him; with him. Unyielding

-Right. It must succeed.

-

-Maclin strode on, picking his way over the ash heaps and broken

-bottles. A pale moon was trying to make itself evident, but piles of

-black clouds defeated it at every attempt. The wind was changing.

-From afar the chapel bell struck its warning. It rang wildly,

-gleefully, then sank into silence only to begin once more. Seeking,

-seeking a quarter in which it might rest.

-

-Maclin, head down, plunged into the night and reached the road to the

-mines. He saw to it that the road was so bad that no one would use it

-except from necessity, but he cursed it now. He all but fell several

-times, he thanked God--God indeed!--when the lights of the Cosey Bar

-came in sight.

-

-He did not often drink of his public whiskey, or drink with his

-foreigners, but he chose to do so to-night. His men welcomed him

-thickly--they had been wallowing in beer for hours; the man at the bar

-drew forth a bottle of whiskey--he knew Maclin rarely drank beer.

-

-An hour later, Maclin, master of the place and the men, was talking

-slowly, encouragingly, in a tongue that they all understood. Their

-dull eyes brightened; their heavy faces twitched under excitement that

-amounted to inspiration. Now and again they raised their mugs aloft

-and muttered something that sounded strangely like prayer.

-

-Dominated by a man and an emotion they were, not the drudging machines

-of the mines, but a vital force ready for action.

-

-

-

-

-CHAPTER XIII

-

-

-Northrup decided to turn back at once to his own place in life after

-that revealing afternoon with Mary-Clare. He was not in any sense

-deceived by conditions. He had, after twenty-four hours, been able to

-classify the situation and reduce it to its proper proportions. As it

-stood, it had, he acknowledged, been saved by the rare and unusual

-qualities of Mary-Clare. But it could not bear the stress and strain

-of repeated tests. Unless he meant to be a fool and fill his future

-with remorse, for he was decent and sane, he could do nothing but go

-away and let the incidents of King's Forest bear sanctifying fruits,

-not draughts of wormwood.

-

-Something rather big had happened to him--he must not permit it to

-become small. He recalled Mary-Clare's words and face and a great

-tenderness swept over him.

-

-"Poor little girl," he thought, "part of a commonplace, dingy tragedy.

-What is there for her? But what could I have done for her, in God's

-name, to better her lot? She saw it clear enough."

-

-No, there was nothing to do but turn his back on the whole thing and

-go home! Shorn of the spiritual and uplifting qualities, the situation

-was bald and dangerous. He must be practical and wise, but deciding to

-leave and actually leaving were different matters.

-

-The weather jeered at him by its glorious warmth and colour. It _held_

-day after day with occasional sharp storms that ended in greater

-beauty. The thought of the city made Northrup shudder. He tried to

-work: it was still warm enough in the deserted chapel to write, but he

-knew that he was accomplishing nothing. There was a gap in the

-story--the woman part. Every time Northrup came to that he felt as if

-he were laying a wet cloth over the soft clay until he had time

-finally to mould it. And he kept from any chance of meeting

-Mary-Clare.

-

-"I'll wait until this marvellous spell of weather breaks," he

-compromised with his lesser--or better--self. "Then I'll beat it!"

-

-Looking to this he asked Uncle Peter what the chances were of a cold

-spell.

-

-"There was a time"--Peter sniffed the air. He was husking golden corn

-by the kitchen fire--"when I could calculate about the weather, but

-since the weather man has got to meddling he's messed things

-considerable. He's put in the Middle States, and what-not, until it's

-like doing subtraction and division--and by that time the change of

-weather is on you."

-

-Northrup laughed.

-

-"Well," he said, getting up and stretching, "I think I'll take a turn

-before I go to bed. Bank the fire, Uncle Peter; I may prowl late."

-

-Heathcote asked no questions, but those prowls of Northrup's were

-putting his simple faith to severe tests. Peter was above gossip, but

-when it swirled too near him he was bound to watch out.

-

-"All right, son," he muttered, and ran his hand through his bristling

-hair.

-

-The night was a dark one. A soft darkness it was, that held no wind

-and only a hint of frost. Stepping quickly along the edge of the lake,

-Northrup felt that he was being absorbed by the still shadows and the

-sensation pleased and comforted him. He was not aware of thought, but

-thought was taking him into control, as the night was. There would be

-moments of seeming blank and then a conclusion! A vivid, final

-conclusion. Of course Mary-Clare occupied these moments of seeming

-mental inaction. Northrup now wanted to set her free from--what?

-

-"That young beast of a husband!" So much for that conclusion. If the

-end had come between him and Mary-Clare, Northrup wondered if he could

-free her from Rivers.

-

-"What for?"

-

-This brought a hurtling mass of conclusions.

-

-"No man has a right to get a stranglehold on a woman. If she has, as

-the old darkey said, lost her taste for him, why in thunder should he

-want to cram himself down her throat?"

-

-This was more common sense than moral or legal, and Northrup bent his

-head and plunged along. He walked on, believing that he was master of

-his soul and his actions at last, while, in reality, he was but part

-of the Scheme of Things and was acting under orders.

-

-Presently, he imagined that he had decided all along to go to the

-Point and have a talk with Twombley. So he kept straight ahead.

-

-Twombley delighted his idle hours. The man, apparently, never went to

-bed until daylight, and his quaint unmorality was as diverting as that

-of an impish boy.

-

-"Now, sir," he had confided to Northrup at a recent meeting, "there's

-Peneluna Sniff. Good cook; good manager. I held off while she played

-up to old Sniff, women _are_ curious! But now that woman ought to be

-utilized legitimate-like. She's running to waste and throwing away her

-talents on that young Rivers as is giving this here Point the creeps.

-Peneluna and me together could find things out!"

-

-Northrup, hurrying on, believed there was no better way to drive off

-the blue devils that were torturing him than to pass the evening with

-Twombley.

-

-Just then he heard quick, light footsteps coming toward him. He hid

-behind some bushes by the path and waited.

-

-The oncomer was Larry Rivers on his way from the Point. His hat was

-pulled down over his face and his hands were plunged in his pockets. A

-lighted cigar in his mouth illumined his features--Larry rarely needed

-his hands to manipulate his cigar; a shift seemed to be all that was

-essential, until the ashes fell and the cigar was almost finished.

-

-Larry walked on, and when he was beyond sound Northrup proceeded on

-his way.

-

-The Point seemed wrapped in decent slumber. A light frankly burned in

-Twombley's hovel, but for the rest, darkness!

-

-Oddly enough, Northrup passed Twombley's place without halting, and

-presently found himself nearing Rivers's. This did not surprise him.

-He had quite forgotten his plan.

-

-It was seeing Larry that had suggested this new move, probably; at any

-rate, Northrup was curiously interested in the fact that Larry was

-headed away from the Point and toward the yellow house.

-

-The loose rubbish and garbage presently got into Northrup's

-consciousness and made him think, as they always did, of Maclin's

-determination to get possession of the ugly place.

-

-"It is the very devil!" he muttered, almost tumbling over a smelly

-pile. "What's that?" He crouched in the darkness. His eyes were so

-accustomed to the gloom now that he saw quite distinctly the door of

-Peneluna's shack open, close softly, and someone tiptoeing toward

-Rivers's shanty. Keeping at a distance, Northrup followed and when he

-was about twenty feet behind the other prowler, he saw that it was

-Jan-an and that she was cautiously going from window to window of

-Larry's empty house, peeping, listening, and then finally muttering

-and whimpering.

-

-"Well, what in thunder!" Northrup decided to investigate but keep

-silent as long as he could.

-

-A baby in the distance broke into a cry; a man's rough voice stilled

-it with a threat and then all was quiet once more.

-

-The next thing that occurred was the amazing sight of Jan-an nimbly

-climbing into the window of Larry's kitchen! Jan-an had either pried

-the sash up or Larry had been careless. Northrup went up to the house

-and listened. Jan-an was moving rapidly about inside and presently she

-lighted a lamp, and through the slit between the shade and the window

-ledge Northrup could watch the girl's movements.

-

-Jan-an wore an old coat, a man's, over a coarse nightgown; her hair

-straggled down her back; her vacant face was twitching and worried,

-but a decent kind of dignity touched it, too. She was bent upon a

-definite course, but was confused and uncertain as to details.

-

-Over the papers scattered on the table Jan-an bent like a hungry beast

-of prey. Her long fingers clutched the loose sheets; her devouring

-eyes scanned them, compared them with others, while over and again a

-muttered curse escaped the girl's lips.

-

-Northrup took a big chance. He went to the door and tapped.

-

-He heard a quick, frightened move toward the window--Jan-an was

-escaping as she had entered. As the sash was raised, Northrup was

-close to the window and the girl reeled back as she saw him.

-

-"Jan-an," he said quietly, controllingly, "let me in. You can trust

-me. Let me in."

-

-Poor Jan-an was in sore need of someone in whom she might trust and

-she could not afford to waste time. She raised the sash again, climbed

-in, and then opened the door. Northrup entered and locked the door

-after him.

-

-"Now, then," he said, sitting opposite to the girl who dropped, rather

-than seated herself, in her old place. "Jan-an, what are you up to?"

-

-To his surprise, the girl burst into tears.

-

-"My God," she moaned, "what did I have feelin's for--and no sense? I

-can't read!" she blurted. "I can't read."

-

-This was puzzling, but Northrup saw that the girl had confidence in

-him--a desperate, unknowing confidence that had grown slowly.

-

-"Why do you want to read, Jan-an?" he asked in a low, kindly tone.

-

-"I know you ain't his friend, are you?" The wet, pitiful face was

-lifted. Old fears and distrust rose grimly.

-

-"Whose?"

-

-"Maclin's, ole divil-man Maclin?"

-

-"Certainly not! You know better than to ask that, Jan-an."

-

-"Nor his--Larry Rivers?"

-

-"No, I am not his friend."

-

-Thus reassured once more, Jan-an ventured nearer:

-

-"You don't aim to hurt--her?"

-

-"Whom do you mean?" Northrup was perplexed by the growing intelligence

-in the face across the table. It was like a slow revealing of a

-groping power.

-

-"I mean them--Mary-Clare and Noreen."

-

-"Hurt them? Why, Jan-an, I'd do anything to help them, make them safe

-and happy." Northrup felt as if he and the girl opposite were rapidly

-becoming accomplices in a tense plot. "What does all this mean?"

-

-"As God seeing yer, yer mean that?" Jan-an leaned forward.

-

-"God seeing me! Yes, Jan-an."

-

-"Yer ain't hanging around her to do her--dirt?"

-

-"Good Lord, no!" Northrup recoiled. Apparently new anxiety was

-overcoming the girl.

-

-Then, by a sudden dash, Jan-an swept the untidy mass of papers over to

-him; she abdicated her last stronghold.

-

-"What's them?" she demanded huskily. Northrup brought the smelly

-kerosene lamp nearer and as he read he was conscious of Jan-an's

-mutterings.

-

-"Stealing her letters--what is letters, anyway? And I've counted and

-watched--he's took one to her to-night. Just one. One he has made.

-Writing day in and out--tearing up writing--sneaking and lying. God!

-And new letters looking like old ones, till I'm fair crazy."

-

-For a few moments Northrup lost the sound of Jan-an's guttural

-whimpers, then he caught the words:

-

-"And her crying and wanting the letters. Just letters!" Northrup again

-became absorbed.

-

-He placed certain old sheets on one side of the table; newer sheets on

-the other; some half sheets in the middle. It was like an intricate

-puzzle, and the same one that Maclin had recently tackled.

-

-That he was meddling with another's property and reading another's

-letters did not seem to occur to Northrup. He was held by a determined

-force that was driving him on and an intense interest that justified

-any means at his disposal.

-

-"Some day I will read my old doctor's letters to you--I have kept them

-all!"

-

-Northrup looked up. Almost he believed Jan-an had voiced the words,

-but they had been spoken days ago by Mary-Clare during one of those

-illuminating talks of theirs and here _were_ some old letters of the

-doctor's. Were these Mary-Clare's letters? Why were they here and in

-this state?

-

-Suddenly Northrup's face stiffened. The old, yellowed letters were,

-apparently, from Doctor Rivers to his son! But there were other

-letters on bits of fresh paper, the handwriting identical, or nearly

-so. Northrup's more intelligent eye saw differences. The more recent

-letters were, evidently, exercises; one improved on the other; in some

-cases parts of the letters were repeated. All these Northrup sorted

-and laid in neat piles.

-

-"She set a store by them old letters," Jan-an was rambling along. "I'd

-have taken them back to her, but I 'clar, 'fore God, I don't know

-which is which, I'm that cluttered. Why did he want to pest her by

-taking them and then making more and more?"

-

-"I'm trying to find out." Northrup spoke almost harshly. He wanted to

-quiet the girl.

-

-The last scrap of paper had been torn from an old, greasy bag and bore

-clever imitation. It was the last copy, Northrup believed, of what

-Jan-an said he had just carried away with him.

-

-Northrup grew hot and cold. He read the words and his brain reeled. It

-was an appeal, or supposed to be one, from a dead man to one whom he

-trusted in a last emergency.

-

-"So he's this kind of a scoundrel!" muttered Northrup, dazed by the

-blinding shock of the fear that became, moment by moment, more

-definite. "And he's taken the thing to her in order to get money."

-

-Northrup could grope along, but he could not see clearly. By

-temperament and training he had evolved a peculiar sensitiveness in

-relation to inanimate things. If he became receptive and passive,

-articles which he handled or fixed his eyes upon often transmitted

-messages for him.

-

-So, now, disregarding poor Jan-an, who rambled on, Northrup gazed at

-the letters near him, and held close the brown-paper scrap which was,

-he believed, the final copy before the finished production which was

-undoubtedly being borne to Mary-Clare now. Rivers would have a scene

-with his wife in the yellow house. With no one to interfere! Northrup

-started affrightedly, then realized that before he could get to the

-crossroads whatever was to occur would have occurred.

-

-Larry would return to the shack. There was every evidence that he had

-not departed finally. Believing that no one would disturb his place so

-late at night he had taken a chance and--been caught by the last

-person in the world one would have suspected.

-

-As an unconscious sleuth Jan-an was dramatic. Northrup let his eyes

-fall upon the girl with new significance. She had given him the power

-to set Mary-Clare free!

-

-Her dull, tear-stained face was turned hopefully to him; her straight,

-coarse hair hung limply on her shoulders--the old coat had slipped

-away and the ugly nightgown but partly hid the thin, scraggy body.

-Lost to all self-consciousness, the poor creature was but an evidence

-of faith and devotion to them who had been kind to her. Something of

-nobility crowned the girl. Northrup went around to her and pulled the

-old coat close under her chin.

-

-"It's all right, Jan-an," he comforted, patting the unkempt head.

-

-"Are them the letters he stole?"

-

-"Some of them, yes, Jan-an."

-

-"Kin I take 'em back to her?"

-

-"Not to-night. I think Rivers will take them back."

-

-"S'pose he won't."

-

-"He will."

-

-"You, you're going to fetch him one?" The instinct of the savage rose

-in the girl.

-

-"If necessary, yes!" Northrup shared the primitive instinct at that

-moment. "And now you trot along home, my girl, and don't open your

-lips to any one."

-

-"And you?"

-

-"I'll wait for Mr. Larry Rivers here!"

-

-"My God!" Jan-an burst forth. Then: "There's a sizable log back of

-the stove. Yer can fetch a good one with that."

-

-"Thanks, Jan-an. Go now."

-

-Jan-an rose stiffly and shuffled to the door, unlocked it, and went

-into the blackness outside.

-

-Then Northrup sat down and prepared to wait.

-

-The stove was rusty and cold, but Rivers had evidently had a huge fire

-on the hearth during the day. Now that he noticed, Northrup saw that

-there were scraps of burned paper fluttering like wings of evil omens

-stricken in their flight.

-

-He went over to the hearth, poked the ashes, and discovered life. He

-laid on wood, slowly feeding the hungry sparks, then he took his old

-place by the table, blew out the light of the lamp and in the dark

-room, shot by the flares of the igniting logs, he resigned himself to

-what lay before.

-

-Rivers might return with Maclin. This was a new possibility and

-disconcerting; still it must be met.

-

-"I may kill a flock of birds by one interview," Northrup grimly

-thought and then drifted off on Maclin's trail. The ever-recurring

-wonder about the Point was intensified; he must leave that still in

-doubt.

-

-"I'll get the damned thing in my own control, if I can," he concluded

-at length. "Buy it up for safety; keep still about it and watch how

-Maclin reacts when he knocks against the fact, eventually. That will

-make things safe for the present."

-

-But to own the Point meant to hold on to King's Forest just when he

-had decided to turn from it forever--after setting Mary-Clare free.

-

-The sense of a spiritual overlord for an instant daunted Northrup. It

-was humiliating to realize how he had been treading, all along, one

-course while believing he was going another. And then--it was close

-upon midnight and vitality ran sluggish--Northrup became part of one

-of those curious mental experiences that go far to prove how narrow

-the boundary is that lies between the things we understand and those

-that are yet to be understood.

-

-For some moments--or was it hours?--Northrup was not conscious of time

-or place; not even conscious of himself as a body; he seemed to be a

-condition, over which a contest of emotions swept. He was not asleep.

-He recalled later, that he had kept his eyes on the fire; had once

-attended to it, casting on a heavy log that dimmed its ferocious

-ardour.

-

-Where Jan-an had recently sat, struggling with her doubts and fears,

-Mary-Clare seemed to be. And yet it was not so much Mary-Clare,

-visually imagined, as that which had gone into the making of the

-woman.

-

-The black, fierce night of her birth; her isolated up-bringing with a

-man whose mentality had overpowered his wisdom; the contact with Larry

-Rivers; the forced marriage and the determined effort to live up to a

-bargain made in the dark, endured in the dark. It came to Northrup,

-drifting as he was, that a man or woman can go through slime and

-torment and really escape harm. The old, fiery furnace legend was

-based on an eternal truth; that and the lions' den! It put a new light

-on that peculiar quality of Mary-Clare. She had never been burnt or

-wounded--not the real woman of her. That explained the maddening thing

-about her--her aloofness. What would she be now when she stood alone?

-For she was going to stand alone! Then Northrup felt new sensations

-driving across that state which really was himself shorn of prejudice

-and limitations. His relation to Mary-Clare was changed!

-

-There were primitive forces battling for expression in his lax hour.

-Setting the woman free from bondage--what for?

-

-That was the world-old call. Not free for herself, but free that

-another might claim her. He, sitting there, wanted her. She had not

-altered that by her heroism. Who would help her free herself, for

-herself? Who would cut her loose and make no claims? Would it be

-possible to help her and not put her under obligation? Could any one

-trust a higher Power and go one's way unasking, refusing everything?

-Was there such a thing as freedom for a woman when two men were so

-welded into her life?

-

-Northrup set his teeth hard together. In the stillness he had his

-fight! And just then a shuffling outside brought him back to reality.

-

-Rivers came in, not noticing the unlocked door; he had been drinking.

-Northrup's eyes, accustomed to the gloom, marked his unsteady gait;

-smiled as Larry, unconscious of his presence, sank into a chair--the

-one in which Jan-an had sat--reached out toward the lamp, struck a

-match, lighted the wick and then, appalled, fixed his eyes upon

-Northrup!

-

-

-

-

-CHAPTER XIV

-

-

-"Hello, Rivers! I'm something of a surprise, eh?"

-

-"Hell!" The word escaped Rivers as might a cry that followed a

-stunning blow.

-

-A guilty person, taken by surprise, always imagines the worst. Rivers

-knew what he believed the man before him knew, he also believed much

-that Maclin had insinuated, or stated as fact, and he was thoroughly

-frightened and at a disadvantage.

-

-His nerve was shattered by the recent interview with Mary-Clare; the

-earlier one with Maclin. Drink was befuddling him. It was like being

-in quicksand. He dared not move, but he felt himself sinking.

-

-"Oh! don't take it too seriously, Rivers." Northrup felt a decent

-sympathy for the fellow across the table; his fear was agonizing. "We

-might as well get to an understanding without a preamble. I reckon

-there are a lot of things we can pass over while we tackle the main

-job."

-

-"You damned----" Larry spluttered the words, but Northrup raised his

-hand as if staying further waste of time. He hated to take too great

-an advantage of a caged man.

-

-"Of course, Rivers," he said, "I wouldn't have broken into your house

-and read your letters if there wasn't something rather big-sized at

-stake. So do not switch off on a siding--let's get through with

-this."

-

-The tone and words were like a dash of icy water; Rivers moistened his

-lips and sank, mentally, into that position he loathed and yet could

-not escape. Someone was again getting control of him. He might writhe

-and strain, but he was caught once more--caught! caught!

-

-"In God's name," he whispered, "who are you, anyway? What are you

-after?"

-

-"That's what I'm here to tell you, Rivers."

-

-"Go ahead then, go ahead!" Larry again moistened his dry lips--he felt

-that he was choking. He was ready to turn state's evidence as soon as

-he saw an opportunity. Debonair and clever, crafty and unfaithful,

-Larry had but one clear thought--he would not go behind bars again if

-one avenue of escape remained open!

-

-Maclin--Maclin's secret business, loomed high, but at that moment

-Mary-Clare held no part in his desperate fear.

-

-"What do you want?"

-

-Then, as if falling into his mood, Northrup said calmly:

-

-"First, I want the Point."

-

-Larry's jaw dropped; but he felt convinced that it was Maclin or he

-who faced destruction and he meant to let Maclin suffer now as Maclin

-had once permitted him to suffer. If there was dirty work at the mines

-Maclin should pay. That was justice--Maclin had made a tool of him.

-

-"I don't own the Point." Rivers heard his own voice as if from a

-distance. He had Mary-Clare's word that she would help him; the letter

-had done its overpowering work, but he had left confession and detail

-until later. Mary-Clare had pleaded for time, and he had come from her

-with his business unsettled.

-

-"I think after we've finished with our talk you can prevail upon your

-wife to sell the Point to me and say nothing about it."

-

-Rivers clutched the edge of the table. To his inflamed brain Northrup

-seemed to know all and everything--he dared not haggle.

-

-"Who are you?" he repeated stammeringly. "What right have you to break

-into my place and read my papers? All I want to know is, what right

-have you? I cannot be expected to--to come to terms unless I know

-that. I should think you might see that." The bravado was so pitiful

-and weak that Northrup barely repressed a laugh.

-

-"I don't want to turn the screws, Rivers," he said; "and of course you

-have a right to an answer to your question. I want the Point because I

-don't want Maclin to have it. Why he wants it, I'll find out after.

-I'm illegally demanding things from you, but there are times when I

-believe such a course is justifiable in order to save everybody

-trouble. You could kick me out, or try to, but you won't. You could

-have the law on me--but I don't believe you will want it. Of course

-you know that _I_ know pretty well what I am about or I would not put

-myself in your power. So let's cut out the theatricals. Rivers, this

-Maclin isn't any good. Just how rotten he is can be decided later.

-He's making a fool of you and you'll get a fool's pay. You know this.

-I'm going to help you, Rivers, if I can. You need all the time there

-is for--getting away!"

-

-Larry's face was livid. He was prepared to betray Maclin, but the old

-power held him captive.

-

-"I dare not!" he groaned.

-

-"Oh! yes, you dare. Brace up, Rivers. There is more than one way to

-tackle a bad job." Then, so suddenly that it took Rivers's breath,

-Northrup swept everything from sight by asking calmly: "What did you

-do with that letter you manufactured?"

-

-So utterly unexpected was this attack, so completely aside from what

-seemed to be at stake, that Rivers concluded everything was known;

-that the very secrets of his innermost thoughts were in this man's

-knowledge. The quicksands all but engulfed him. With unblinking eyes

-he regarded Northrup as though hypnotized.

-

-"I took it to her," he gasped.

-

-"Your wife?"

-

-"Yes."

-

-"She does not suspect?"

-

-"No."

-

-"What did your wife say when she read the letter?"

-

-"She's going to help me out."

-

-"I see. All right, you're going to tell her that you want the Point

-and then you're going to sell it to me. Heathcote can fix this up in a

-few days--the money I pay you will get you out of Maclin's reach. If

-he makes a break for you, I'll grab him. I guess he's susceptible to

-scare, too, if the truth were known."

-

-"My God! I want a drink." Larry looked as if he did; he rose and

-reeled over to the closet.

-

-Northrup regarded his man closely and his fingers reached out and drew

-the scattered papers nearer.

-

-"Take only enough to stiffen you up, a swallow or two, Rivers."

-

-Larry obeyed mechanically and when he returned to his chair he was

-firmer.

-

-"Rivers, I'm going to give you a chance by way of the only decent

-course open to you--or to me. God knows, it's smudgy enough at the

-best and crooked, but it's all I can muster. I don't expect you to

-understand me, or my motives--I'm going to talk as man to man,

-stripped bare. In the future you can work it out any way you're able

-to. What I want at the present is to clear the rubbish away that's

-cluttering the soul of a woman. That's enough and you can draw what

-damned conclusions you want to."

-

-There was an ugly gleam in Larry's eyes. Men stripped bare show

-brutish traits, but he felt the straps that were binding him close.

-

-"Go on!" he growled.

-

-"You are to get your wife to give you this Point, Rivers. She may not

-want to, but you must force her a bit there by confessing to her the

-whole damned truth from start to finish about--these!"

-

-Both men looked at the mass of papers.

-

-"What all these things represent, you know." Larry did not move; he

-believed that Northrup knew, too. Knew of that year back in the past

-when his trick had been his ruin. "And your simply getting out of

-sight won't do. Your wife has got to be free--free, do you understand?

-So long as she doesn't know the truth she'd have pity for you--women

-are like that--she's going to know all there is to know, and then

-she'll fling you off!"

-

-In the hidden depths of Rivers's nature there heaved and roared

-something that, had Northrup not held the reins, would have meant

-battle to the death. It was not outraged honour, love, or justice that

-blinded and deafened Larry; it was simply the brutish resentment of

-the savage who, bound and gagged, watches a strong foe take all that

-he had believed was his by right of conquest. At that moment he hated

-Mary-Clare as he hated Northrup.

-

-"You damned scoundrel!" he gasped. "And if I do what you suggest, what

-then?" He meant to force Northrup as far as he dared.

-

-A look that Rivers was never to forget spread over Northrup's face; it

-was the look of one who had lived through experiences he knew he could

-not make clear. The impossibility of making Rivers comprehend him

-presently overcame Northrup. He spread his hands wide and said

-hopelessly:

-

-"Nothing!"

-

-"Like hell, nothing!" Larry was desperate and brutal. Under all his

-bravado rang the note of defeat; terror, and a barren hope of escape

-that he loathed while he clung to it. "I don't know what Maclin's game

-is--I've played fair. Whatever you've got on him can't touch me, when

-the truth's out." Rivers was breathing hard; the sweat stood on his

-forehead. "But when it comes to selling your wife for hush money----"

-

-"Stop that!" Northrup's face was livid. He wanted to throttle Rivers

-but he could not shake off the feeling of pity for the man he had so

-tragically in his grip.

-

-There was a heavy pause. It seemed weighted with tangible things.

-Hate; pity; distrust; helpless truth. They became alive and

-fluttering. Then truth alone was supreme.

-

-"I told you, Rivers, that I knew you couldn't believe me--you

-cannot. Partly this is due to life, as we men know it; partly to

-your interpretation of it, but at least I owe it to you and myself to

-speak the truth and let truth take care of itself. By the code that

-is current in the world, I might claim all that you believe I am

-after, for I think your wife might learn to love me--I know I love

-her. If I set her free from you, permit her to see you as you are, in

-her shock and relief she might turn to me and I might take her and,

-God helping me, make a safe place for her; give her what her

-hungry soul craves, and still feel myself a good sort. That would

-be the common story--the thing that might once have happened. But,

-Rivers, you don't know me and you don't know--your wife. I've only

-caught the glimmer of her, but that has caused me to grow--humble.

-She's got to be free, because that is justice, and you and I must

-give it to her. When you free her--it's up to me not to cage her!"

-Northrup found expression difficult--it all sounded so utterly

-hopeless with that doubting, sneering face confronting him; and

-his late distrust of himself--menacing.

-

-"Besides, your wife has her own ideals. That's hard for us men to

-understand. Ideals quite detached from us; from all that we might like

-to believe is good for us. I have my own life, Rivers. Frankly, I was

-tempted to turn my back on it and with courage set sail for a new

-port. I had contemplated that, but I'm going back to it and, by God's

-help, live it!"

-

-And now Northrup's face twitched. He waited a moment and then went

-hopelessly on:

-

-"What the future holds--who knows? Life is a thundering big thing,

-Rivers, if we play it square, and I'm going to play it square as it's

-given me to see it. You don't believe me?" Almost a wistfulness rang

-in the words. Larry leaned back and laughed a hollow, ugly laugh.

-

-"Believe you?" he said. "Hell, no!"

-

-"I thought you couldn't." Northrup got up.

-

-Around the edges of the lowered shades, a gray, drear light gave

-warning of coming day. The effect of Larry's last drink was wearing

-off--he looked near the breaking point.

-

-"Rivers, I'll make a pact with you. Set your wife free--in my way. If

-you do that, I'll leave the place; never see her again unless a higher

-power than yours or mine decrees otherwise in the years on ahead. Take

-your last chance, man, to do the only decent thing left you to do:

-start afresh somewhere else. Forget it all. I know this sounds

-devilish easy and I know it's devilish hard, but"--and here the iron

-was driven into Rivers's consciousness--"either you or I set

-Mary-Clare free before"--he hesitated; he wanted to give all that he

-humanly could--"before another forty-eight hours."

-

-Larry felt the cold perspiration start on his forehead; his stomach

-grew sick.

-

-Faint and fear-filled, he seemed to feel Maclin after him; Mary-Clare

-confronting him, smileless, terrifying. On the other hand he saw

-freedom; money; a place in which he could breathe, once more, with

-Maclin's hands off his throat and Mary-Clare's coldness forgotten.

-

-"I'll go to her; I'll do your hell-work, but give me another day." He

-gritted his teeth.

-

-"Rivers, this is Tuesday. On Friday you must be gone, and remember

-this: I've got it in my power to set your wife free and imprison you

-and I'll not hesitate to do it if you try any tricks. I'd advise you

-to keep clear of Maclin and leave whiskey alone. You'll need all the

-power of concentration you can summon." Then Northrup turned to the

-table and gathered up the scattered papers.

-

-"What----" Larry put out a trembling hand.

-

-"I'll take charge of these," Northrup said. "I am going to give them

-to the Heathcotes. They'll keep them with the other papers belonging

-to your wife."

-

-"Curse you!"

-

-"Good morning, Rivers! I mean it, good morning! You won't believe this

-either, but it's so. For the sake of your wife and your little girl, I

-wish you well. When you send word to the inn that you are ready for

-the business deal I'll have the money for you."

-

-Then Northrup opened the door and stepped out into the chill light of

-the coming day. He shivered and stumbled over a mass of rubbish. A

-clock struck in a quiet house.

-

-"Five o'clock," counted Northrup, and plunging his hands in his

-pockets he made his way to Twombley's shack.

-

-

-

-

-CHAPTER XV

-

-

-Kathryn Morris had her plans completed, and if the truth were known

-she had never felt better pleased with herself--and she was not

-utterly depraved, either.

-

-She was far more the primitive female than was Mary-Clare. She was

-simply claiming what she devoutly believed was her own; reclaiming it,

-rather, for she sagely concluded that on this runaway trip Northrup

-was in great danger and only the faith and love of a good woman could

-save him! Kathryn believed herself good and noble.

-

-Mary-Clare had her Place in which she had been fed through many

-lonely, yearning years, but Kathryn had no such sanctuary. The

-dwelling-places of her fellow creatures were good enough for her and

-she never questioned the codes that governed them--though sometimes

-she evaded them!

-

-After her talk with Helen Northrup, Kathryn did a deal of thinking,

-but she moved cautiously. She had never forgotten the address on

-Northrup's letter to his mother and she believed he was still there.

-She again looked up road maps, located King's Forest, and made some

-clever calculations. She could go in the motor. The autumn was just

-the time for such a trip. It would be easy to satisfy her aunt,

-Kathryn very well knew. The mere statement that she was going to meet

-Northrup and return with him would account for everything and relieve

-the situation existing at present with Sandy Arnold in daily evidence.

-"And if Brace is not playing in some messy puddle in his old Forest, I

-can get on his trail from there," she reasoned secretly.

-

-But, for some uncanny cause, Kathryn was confident that Northrup _was_

-at his first address. It was so like him to creep into a hole and be

-very dramatic and secretive. It was his temperament, Kathryn felt,

-and she steeled herself against him.

-

-On the morning that Northrup staggered over the rubbish of Hunter's

-Point toward Twombley's, Kathryn took her place in her limousine--her

-nice little travelling bag at her feet--and viewed with complacency

-the back of her Japanese chauffeur who had absorbed and digested all

-her directions and would be, henceforth, a well-oiled, safe-running

-part of the machinery, without curiosity or opinions.

-

-They stopped for luncheon at a comfortable road-house, rested for an

-hour, and then went on. It was mid-afternoon when the yellow house at

-the crossroads made its appeal to be questioned.

-

-"I'll run in and ask the way," Kathryn explained, and slowly went up

-to the door that once opened so humorously to Northrup's touch. Again

-the door responded, and a bit startled, Kathryn found herself in the

-presence of a dull-faced girl seated by the table apparently doing

-nothing.

-

-"I beg your pardon. Really, I did knock--the door just opened."

-Kathryn was confused and stepped back.

-

-In all her dun-coloured life Jan-an had never seen anything so

-wonderful as the girl on the doorstep. She was not at all sure but

-that she was one of Noreen's fiction creatures. There was a story that

-Northrup had told Noreen about Eve's Other Children, and for an

-instant Jan-an estimated the likelihood of the stranger being one--she

-wasn't altogether wrong, either!

-

-"What you want?" she asked cautiously. Jan-an was, as she put it, "all

-skew-y," for the work of the evening before had brought her to a more

-confused state than usual.

-

-The world was widening--she included Northrup now in her circle of

-protection and she wasn't sure what Eve's Other Children were capable

-of doing.

-

-"I want to find out the way to the inn, Heathcote Inn." Kathryn smiled

-alluringly.

-

-"Why don't you look at the sign?" There was witchery about that sign,

-certainly.

-

-"I did not see the sign. Please excuse me." Then, "Do you happen to

-know if there is a Mr. Northrup at the inn?"

-

-"He sleeps there!" Jan-an looked stupid but honest. "Days, he takes to

-the woods."

-

-Jan-an meant, as soon as the unearthly visitor departed, to find

-Northrup and give the alarm. Kathryn thanked the girl sweetly and

-returned to her car. As she did so she saw the sign-board as Northrup

-had before her, and felt a bit foolish, but she also recalled that

-Northrup might be in the woods!

-

-"You may go on to the inn," she said to her man, "and make arrangements.

-I am going to remain over night and start back early to-morrow

-morning. Explain that I am walking and will be there shortly."

-

-The quiet man at the door of the car touched his cap and took his

-place at the wheel.

-

-This was to Kathryn a thrilling adventure. The silence and beauty were

-as novel as any experience she had ever known, and her pulses

-quickened. The solitude of the woods was not restful to her, but it

-stimulated every sense. The leaves were dropping from the trees; the

-sunlight slanted through the lacy boughs in exquisite design, and the

-sky was as blue as midsummer. There was a smell of wood smoke in the

-crisp air; the feel of the sweet leaves, underfoot, was delightful.

-Kathryn "scruffed" along, unmindful of her high heels and thin silk

-stockings. She did not know that she _could_ be so excited.

-

-She crossed the road and turned to the hill. An impish impulse swayed

-her. If she came upon Northrup! Well, how romantic and thrilling it

-would be! She fancied his surprise; his----Here she paused. Would it

-be joy or consternation that would betray Northrup?

-

-Now, as it happened, Mary-Clare had given her morning up to the

-business of the Point and she was worn and super-sensitive. An

-underlying sense of hurry was upon her. When she had done all that she

-could do, she meant to go to her Place and lay her tired soul open to

-the influence that flooded the quiet sanctuary. All day this had

-sustained her. She would leave Noreen at the inn; send Jan-an back

-there, and would, after her hour in the cabin, seek Larry out and give

-him what he asked--the Point.

-

-Through the hours at the inn she had feared Northrup's appearance, but

-when she learned that he had been away all night, she feared _for_

-him. Her uneventful days seemed gone forever, and yet Mary-Clare knew

-that soon--oh, very soon--there would be to-morrows, just plain

-to-morrows running one into another.

-

-She was distressed, too, that Larry was to have the Point. Aunt Polly

-had shaken her head over it and remarked that it seemed like dropping

-the Pointers into Maclin's mouth. But Peter reassured her.

-

-"I see your side, child," he comforted. "What the old doc said _goes_

-with you."

-

-"But it was Larry, not the doctor, as specified the Point," Polly

-insisted.

-

-"All right, all right," Peter patted Polly's shoulder. "Have it your

-own way, but I see it at _this_ angle. Give Larry what he wants;

-Maclin has Larry, anyway, but if he keeps him here where we can watch

-what's going on, I'll feel easier. He'll show his hand on the Point,

-take my word for it. Larry gallivanting is one thing, Larry with

-Twombley and Peneluna, not to mention us all, is another. You let go,

-Mary-Clare, and see what happens."

-

-"Well, I hold"--Aunt Polly was curiously stubborn--"that Larry Rivers

-don't want that Point any more than a toad wants a pocket."

-

-"All right, all right!" Peter grew red and his hair sprang up. "Put it

-as you choose. This may bring things to a head. I swear the whole

-world is like a throbbing and thundering boil--it's got to bust, the

-world and King's Forest. I say, then, let 'em bust and have done with

-it."

-

-At four o'clock the business of the day was over and Mary-Clare was

-ready to start. Then Noreen, with the perversity of children,

-complicated matters.

-

-"Motherly, let me go, too," she pleaded.

-

-"Childie, Mother wants to be alone."

-

-"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 at last 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. "So _this_ is 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.

-

-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 wove _her_ plot 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 the corner 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

-knowing _this_ all 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 the true 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 him _believe_ in

-women. Oh! 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

-if I 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 not be 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.

-

-

-

-

-CHAPTER 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."

-

-"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 fiancee," 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.

-

-"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's side. 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 was _real_ was 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.

-

-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?"

-

-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 dared

-_not_ take 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 had stood 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 and _so_ pitiful 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 that you 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. I _had_ to 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."

-

-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.

-

-"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.

-

-"I _am_ looking, 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. Now

-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?"

-

-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.

-

-

-

-

-CHAPTER 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.

-

-Crude and jagged as the thought was, Northrup, in rereading his words,

-did not now shrink from Mary-Clare's interpretation. She _would_

-understand.

-

-After an early breakfast, at which Kathryn did not appear--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 of _calm_ excitement. 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.

-

-"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 debris 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 been _home_ in 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 done her 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.

-

-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?"

-

-"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, to 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 up the 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.

-

-

-

-

-CHAPTER 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 role, 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, and, 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. "What _did_ he 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-an added 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 I _must_ go. 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!

-

-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, thinking, 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 she _had_

-escaped! 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--her leaf-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.

-

-"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 them as 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, and 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!

-

-"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 right _as_

-mines, 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 woman _can_ keep 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--and _make_ King'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 have much 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.

-

-

-

-

-CHAPTER 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, even, 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 a grandmother 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.

-

-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.

-

-"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 Forest in those

-awful muddy trousers! _She_ had 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 Brace _was_ changed. 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!

-

-So Kathryn, embroidering her wedding linen--for she meant to be

-married soon--prayed for guidance.

-

-On the whole, the situation was most gratifying. No wonder Kathryn

-felt well pleased with herself and more fully convinced that, with

-such wits as hers, life was reduced to a common factor. Once married

-she would be able to draw a long breath. Marriage was such a divine

-institution for women. It gave them such a stranglehold--with the

-right sort of men--and Brace _was_ the right sort.

-

-To be sure he was not entirely satisfying at the present moment. His

-attentions smacked too much of duty. He could not deceive Kathryn. He

-sent flowers and gifts in such profusion that they took on the aspect

-of blood money. Well, marriage would adjust all that.

-

-Helen urged an early date for the wedding and even Manly, who did not

-like Kathryn, gripped her as the saviour of a critical situation.

-

-King's Forest had had a sinister effect upon Manly; it made him doubt

-himself.

-

-And so life, apparently, ran along smoothly on the surface. It was the

-undercurrents that were really carrying things along at a terrific

-rate.

-

-It was in his tower room that most of Northrup's struggle went on.

-Daily he confronted that which Was and Had To Be! With all his old

-outposts being taken day by day, he was left bare and unprotected for

-the last assault. And it came!

-

-It came as death does, quite naturally for the most part, and found

-him--ready. Like the dying--or the reborn--Northrup put his loved ones

-to the acid test. His mother would understand. Kathryn? It was

-staggering, at this heart-breaking moment, to discover, after all the

-recent proving of herself, that Kathryn resolved into an Unknown

-Quantity.

-

-This discovery filled Northrup with a sense of disloyalty and

-unreality. What right had he to permit the girl who was to be his

-wife, the mother of his children, to be relegated to so ignominious a

-position? Had she not proved herself to him in faithfulness and

-understanding? Had she not, setting aside her own rights, looked well

-to his?

-

-The days dragged along and each one took its toll of Northrup's

-vitality while it intensified that crusading emotion in his soul.

-

-He did not mention all this to those nearest him until the time for

-departure came, and he tried, God knew, to work while he performed the

-small, devotional acts to his mother and Kathryn that would soon stand

-forth, to one of them at least, as the most courageous acts of his

-life.

-

-He had come to that part of his book where his woman must take her

-final stand--the stand that Mary-Clare had so undermined. If he

-finished the book before he went--and he decided that it might be

-possible--his woman must rise supreme over the doubts with which she

-had been invested. But when he came to the point, the decision, if he

-followed his purpose, looked cheap and commonplace--above everything,

-obvious. In his present mood his book would be just--a book; not the

-Big Experience.

-

-This struggle to finish his work in the face of the stubborn facts at

-moments obliterated the crusading spirit; the doubts of Kathryn and

-even Mary-Clare's pervading insistence. He hated to be beaten at his

-own job.

-

-Love's supreme sacrifice and glory, as portrayed in woman--_must_ be

-man's ideal, of course!

-

-The ugly business of the world had to be got through, and man often

-had to set love aside--for honour. "But, good Lord!" Northrup argued,

-apparently to his useless right hand, what would become of the

-spiritual, if woman got to setting up little gods and bowing down

-before them? Why, she would forego her God-given heritage. To her,

-love must be all. Above all else. Why, the very foundations of life

-were founded upon that. What could be higher to a woman? Man could

-look out for the rest, but he must be sure of his woman's love! The

-rest would be in their own hands--that was their individual affair.

-

-And then, at this crucial moment, Mary-Clare _would_ always intrude.

-

-"It's what one does to love!" That was her stern ultimatum. "Love's

-best proof might be renunciation, not surrender!"

-

-"Nonsense!" Northrup flung back. "How then could a man be sure? No

-book with such an ending would stand a chance."

-

-"You must not harm your book by such a doubt. That book must be

-_true_, and you know the truth. Women must be made glad by it, men

-stronger because someone understands and is brave enough to say it."

-

-But Northrup steeled his heart against this command. He meant to

-finish his book; finish it with a flaming proof that, while men

-offered their lives for duty, women offered theirs for love and did

-not count the cost, like misers or--lenders.

-

-One afternoon Northrup, the ink still wet upon the last sheet of his

-manuscript, leaned back wearily in his chair. He could not conquer

-Mary-Clare. He let his eyes rest upon his awakening city. For him it

-rose at night. In the day it belonged to others--the men and women,

-passing to and fro with those strange eyes and jaws. But when they all

-passed to their homes, then the lone city that was his started like a

-thing being born upon a hill.

-

-It may have been at one of these strained moments that Northrup slept;

-he was never able to decide. He seemed to hold to the twinkling

-lights; he thought he heard sounds--the elevator just outside his

-door; the rising wind.

-

-However that may be, as clearly as any impression ever fixed itself

-upon his consciousness, he saw Mary-Clare beside him in her stained

-and ugly garb, her lovely hair ruffled as if she had been travelling

-fast, and her great eyes turned upon him gladly. She was panting a

-bit; smiling and thankful that she had found him, at last in his

-city!

-

-It was like being with her on that day when they stood on the mountain

-near her cabin and talked.

-

-Northrup was spellbound. He understood, though no word passed between

-him and the girl so close to him. She did not try to touch him, but

-she did, presently, move a step nearer and lay her little work-worn

-hand upon the pile of manuscript in that quaint way of hers that had

-so often made Northrup smile. It was a reverent touch.

-

-Standing so, she sealed from him those last chapters! She would not

-argue or be set aside--she claimed her woman-right; the right to the

-truth as some women saw it, as more would see it; as, God willing,

-Northrup himself would see it some day! He would know that it was

-because of love that she had turned him and herself to duty.

-

-Northrup suddenly found himself on his feet.

-

-The little room was dark; the city was blazing about him--under him.

-His city! His hand lay upon his manuscript.

-

-Quietly he took it up and locked it in his safe. Slowly, reverently,

-he set the bare room in order without turning on the electricity. He

-worked in the dark but his vision was never clearer. He went out,

-locked the door, as one does upon a chamber, sacred and secret.

-

-He did not think of Mary-Clare, his mother, or Kathryn--he was setting

-forth to do that which had to be done; he was going to give what was

-his to give to that struggle across the ocean for right; the proving

-of right.

-

-All along, his unrest had been caused by the warring elements in

-himself--there was only one way out--he must take it and be proved as

-the world was being proved.

-

-

-

-

-CHAPTER XX

-

-

-"Mother, I must go!"

-

-Helen Northrup did not tremble, but she looked white, thin-lipped.

-

-"You have given me the twenty-four hours, son. You have weighed the

-question--it is not emotional excitement?"

-

-"No, Mother, it is conscience. I'm not in the least under an illusion.

-If I thought of this thing as war--a mere fight--I know I would be

-glad to avail myself of any honourable course and remain here. But

-it's bigger than war, that Thing that is deafening and blinding the

-world. Sometimes"--Northrup went over to the window and looked out

-into the still white mystery of the first snowstorm--"sometimes I

-think it is God Almighty's last desperate way to awaken us."

-

-Helen Northrup came to the window and stood beside her son. She did

-not touch him; she stood close--that was all.

-

-"I cannot see God in this," she whispered. "God could have found

-another way. I have--lost God. I fear most of us have."

-

-"Perhaps we never had Him," Northrup murmured.

-

-"But there _is_ God--somewhere." Helen's voice quivered. "I shall

-always be near you, beloved, always, and perhaps--God will."

-

-"I know that, Mother. And I want you to know that if this call wasn't

-mightier than anything else in all the world, I would not leave you."

-

-"Yes, I know that, dear son."

-

-For a moment they stood in silence by the window and then turned,

-together, to the fireside.

-

-They were in Helen's writing-room. The room where so often she had

-struggled to put enough life into her weak little verses to send them

-winging on their way. The drawers of her desk were full of sad fancies

-that had been still-born, or had come fluttering back to her ark

-without even the twig of hope to cheer her. But at all this she had

-never repined--she had her son! And now? Well, he was leaving her.

-Might never----

-

-Sitting in the warmth and glow the woman looked at her son. With all

-the yearning of her soul she wanted to keep him; she had so little; so

-little. And then she recognized, as women do, in the Temple where the

-Most High speaks to them, that if he turned a deaf ear to the best

-that was in him, she could not honour him.

-

-"You have been happy, dear son? I mean you have had a happy life on

-the whole?"

-

-Helen had wanted that above all else. His life had been so short--it

-might be so soon over, and the trivial untalked-of things rose sharply

-now to the surface.

-

-"Yes, Mother. Far too happy and easy."

-

-"I've been thinking." Helen's thought went slowly over the backward

-road--she must not break! But she must go back to the things they had

-left unspoken. "I've been thinking, during the last twenty-four hours,

-of all the happenings, dear, that I wish had been different. Your

-father, Brace! I--I tried not to deprive you of your father--I knew

-the cost. It--it wasn't all his fault, dear; it was no real fault of

-either of us; it was my misfortune, you see--he was asking what--what

-he had a perfect right to ask--but I was, well, I had nothing to give

-him that he wanted."

-

-Northrup went across the space between him and his mother and laid his

-hand upon hers.

-

-"Mother, I understand. Lately I have felt a new sympathy for Father,

-and a new contempt. He missed a lot that was worth while, but he did

-not know. It was damnable; he might have--kept you."

-

-"No, Brace. It is the world's thought. I have never been bitter. I

-only wish he could have been happy--after--after he went away."

-

-"And he wasn't?" This had never been discussed between them.

-

-"No, dear. He married a woman who seemed to be what he wanted. She

-wearied of him. He died a lonely, a bitter man. I was saved the

-bitterness, at least, and I had you."

-

-Another pause. Then:

-

-"Brace, I know it will seem foolish, but perhaps when you are far away

-it won't seem so foolish. I want to tell you, dear, that I wish I had

-never spoken a harsh word to you. Life hurts so at the best--many

-women are feeling this as I do, dear. Once--you must humour me,

-Brace--once, after I punished you, I regretted it. I asked your pardon

-and you said, 'Don't mention it, Mother, I understood.' I want you to

-say it now, son; it will be such a comfort."

-

-"I believe, God hearing me, Mother, that I have understood; have

-always known that you were the best and dearest of mothers."

-

-"Thank you."

-

-"And now, Mother, there is one thing more. We may not have another

-opportunity for a real house-cleaning. It's about King's Forest."

-

-Helen started, but she stiffened at once.

-

-"Yes, Brace," she said simply.

-

-"There is a girl, a woman there. Such things as relate to that woman

-and me often happen to men and women. It's what one does to the

-happening that counts. I realize that my life has had much in it; but

-much was left out of it. Much that is common stuff to most fellows;

-they take it in portions. It came all at once to me, but she was

-strong enough, fine enough to help me; not drift with me. I wanted you

-to know."

-

-"Thank you. I understand. Is there anything you would like to have me

-do?"

-

-"No. Nothing, Mother. It is all right; it had to happen, I suppose. I

-wanted you to know. We did not dishonour the thing--she's quite

-wonderful." A pause; then:

-

-"She has a brute of a husband--I hope I freed her of him, in a way;

-I'm glad to think of that now. She has a child, a little girl, and

-there were some dead children."

-

-This detail seemed tragically necessary to tell; it seemed to explain

-all else.

-

-"And now, Mother, I must go around to Kathryn's. Do not sit up, dear.

-I'll come to your room."

-

-"Very well." Then Helen stood up and laid her hands on his shoulders.

-"Some sons and daughters," she said slowly, convincingly, "learn how

-to bear life, in part, from their parents--I have learned from my

-son."

-

-Then she raised her hands and drew his head down to hers and rested

-her cheek against his. Without a word more Northrup left the house.

-He was deeply moved by the scene through which he and his mother

-had just passed. It had consisted of small and trivial things; of

-overwhelmingly big things, but it had been marked by a complete

-understanding and had brought them both to a point where they could

-separate with faith and hope.

-

-But as Northrup neared Kathryn's house this exalted feeling waned.

-Again he was aware of the disloyal doubt of Kathryn that made him

-hesitate and weigh his method of approach. He stood, before touching

-the bell of the Morris house, and shook the light snow from his

-coat; he was glad of delay. When at last he pushed the button he

-instinctively braced. The maid who admitted him told him that he was

-to go to the library.

-

-This was the pleasantest room in the house, especially at night. The

-lighting was perfect; the old books gave forth a welcoming fragrance

-and, to-night, a generous cannel coal fire puffed in rich, glowing

-bursts of heat and colour upon the hearth. Kathryn was curled up in

-the depths of a leather chair, her pretty blonde head just showing

-above the top. She did not get up but called merrily:

-

-"Here, dear! Come and be comfy. This is a big chair and a very little

-me."

-

-Northrup came around in front of the chair, his back to the fire, and

-looked down upon the small figure. The blue blur of the evening gown,

-the exquisite whiteness of arms, neck, and face sank into his

-consciousness. Unconsciously he was fixing scenes in his memory, as

-one secures pictures in a scrap-book, for the future.

-

-"Been dining out, dear?"

-

-The dress suggested this, but Kathryn was alert.

-

-"Don't be a silly old cave thing, Brace. One cannot throw an old

-friend overboard in cold blood, now can one? Sandy is going away for a

-week, but I told him to-night that never, never again would I dine

-with him alone. Now will you be good?"

-

-Still Northrup did not smile. He was not concerned about Arnold, but

-he seemed such a nuisance at this moment.

-

-Kathryn, regarding Northrup's face, sat up and her eyes widened.

-

-"What's the matter, Brace?" she asked, and the hard, metallic ring was

-in her voice. Northrup misunderstood the change. He felt that he had

-startled her. He sat down upon the arm of the chair.

-

-"Poor little girl," he whispered. Kathryn also misunderstood, she

-nestled against him.

-

-"Big man," she murmured, "he _is_ going to be nice. Kiss me

-here--close behind my right ear--always and always that is going to be

-just your place."

-

-Northrup did not seem to hear. He bent closer until his face pressed

-the soft, scented hair, but he did not kiss the spot dedicated to him.

-Instead he said:

-

-"Darling, I am going away!"

-

-"Away--where?" Kathryn became rigid.

-

-"Overseas."

-

-"Overseas? What for, in heaven's name?"

-

-"Oh! anything they'll let me do. I'm going as soon as I can be

-sent--but----"

-

-"You mean, without any reason whatever, you're going to go over

-there?"

-

-"Hardly without something that stands for reason, Kathryn."

-

-"But no one, not even Doctor Manly, thinks that it is our fight,

-Brace. The men who have gone are simply adventurers; men who love

-excitement or men who want to cut responsibilities and don't dare

-confess it."

-

-Kathryn's face flamed hot.

-

-"Their lives must be pretty damnable," Northrup broke in, "if they

-take such a method to fling them aside. Do try to understand, dear;

-our women must, you know." There was pleading in the words.

-

-Then by one of those sudden reversions of her nimble wits, Kathryn

-recalled things she had heard recently--and immediately she took the

-centre of her well-lighted stage, and horrible as it might seem, saw

-herself, a ravishing picture in fascinating widow's weeds! While this

-vision was holding, Kathryn clung to Northrup and was experiencing

-actual distress--not ghoulish pleasure.

-

-"Oh! you must not leave me," she quivered.

-

-"You will help me, Kathryn; be a woman like my mother?" Again Northrup

-pleaded. This was unfortunate. It steadied Kathryn, but it hardened

-her.

-

-"You want me to marry you at once, Brace?" she whispered.

-

-"No, dear. That would not be fair to you. I want you to understand; I

-want to know that you will--will keep Mother company. That is all,

-until I come home. I could not feel justified in asking a woman to

-marry such a--such a chance as I am about to be."

-

-Now there was cause for what Kathryn suddenly felt, but not the cause

-she suspected. Had Northrup loved deeply, faithfully, understandingly,

-he might, as others did, see that to the right woman the "chance," as

-he termed himself, would become her greatest glory and hope, but as it

-was Northrup considered only Kathryn's best good and, gropingly, he

-realized that her interests and his were not, at the present,

-identical.

-

-But Kathryn, her ever-present jealousy and apprehension rising, was

-carried from her moorings. She recalled the evidences of "duty" in

-Northrup's attitude toward her since his return from King's Forest;

-his abstraction and periods of low spirits.

-

-"He cannot stand it any longer," she thought resentfully; "he's

-willing to do anything, take any chance."

-

-A hot wave of anger enveloped Kathryn, but she did not speak.

-

-"Kathryn"--Northrup grew restive at her silence--"haven't you anything

-to say to me? Something I can remember--over there? I'd like to think

-of you as I see you now, little, pretty, and loving. The blue gown,

-the jolly fire, this fine old room--I reckon there will be times when

-my thoughts will cling to the old places and my own people rather

-fiercely."

-

-"What can I say, Brace? You never see _my_ position. Men are selfish

-always, even about their horrible fights. What do they care about

-their women, when the call of blood comes? Oh! I hate it all, I hate

-it! Everything upset--men coming back, heaven only knows how! even if

-they come at all--but we women must let them go and _smile_ so as to

-send them off unworried. We must stay home and be _nothings_ until the

-end and then take what's left--joyfully, gratefully--oh! I hate it

-all."

-

-Northrup got up and stood again with his back to the fire. He loomed

-rather large and dark before Kathryn's angry eyes. She feared he was

-going to say the sentimental regulation thing, but he did not.

-Sorrowfully he said:

-

-"What you say, dear, is terribly true. It isn't fair nor decent and

-there are times when I feel only shame because, after all these

-centuries, we have thought out no better way; but, Kathryn, women are

-taking part in this trouble--perhaps _you_----"

-

-"You mean that _I_ may go over into that shambles--if I want to?" With

-this Kathryn sprang to her feet. "Well, thanks! I do not want to. I'm

-not the kind of girl who takes her dissipation that way. If I ever let

-go, I'll take my medicine and not expect to be shielded by this

-sentimentality."

-

-"Kathryn, how can you? My dear, my dear! Say what you want to about my

-folly--men's mistakes--but do not speak so of your--sisters!"

-

-"Sisters?" Kathryn laughed her mirthless but musical laugh. "You _are_

-funny, Brace!"

-

-Then, as was her way when she lost control, Kathryn made straight for

-the rocks while believing she was guided by divine intuition. She

-faced Northrup, looking up at him from her lower level.

-

-"I think I understand the whole matter," she said slowly, all traces

-of excitement gone. "I am going to prove it. Will you marry me before

-you go?"

-

-"No, Kathryn. This is a matter of principle with me."

-

-"You think they might not let you go--you'd have to provide for my

-protection?"

-

-"No, I am not afraid of that. You'd be well provided for; I would go

-under any circumstances, but I will not permit you to take a leap in

-the dark."

-

-"That sounds very fine, but _I_ do not believe it!"

-

-The black wings that poor Jan-an had suspected under Kathryn's fine

-plumage were flapping darkly now. Kathryn was awed by Northrup's

-silence and aloofness. She was afraid, but still angry. What was

-filling her own narrow mind, she believed, was filling Northrup's and

-she lost all sense of proportion.

-

-"Is _she_ going over there?" she asked.

-

-Northrup, if possible, looked more bewildered and dazed.

-

-"She--whom do you mean, Kathryn?"

-

-"Oh! I never meant to tell you! You drive me to it, Brace. I always

-meant to blot it out----"

-

-Kathryn got no further just then. Northrup came close to her and with

-folded arms fixed his eyes upon her flushed face.

-

-"Kathryn, you're excited; you've lost control of yourself, but there's

-something under all this that we must get at. Just answer my

-questions. Whom do you mean--by 'she'?"

-

-Kathryn mentally recoiled and with her back to her wall replied, out

-of the corner of her mouth:

-

-"That girl in King's Forest!"

-

-From sheer astonishment Northrup drew back as from a blow. Kathryn

-misunderstood and gained courage.

-

-"I forgave it because I love you, Brace." She gathered her cheap

-little charms together--her sex appeals. "I understood from the moment

-I saw her."

-

-"When did you see her? Where?"

-

-Northrup had recovered himself; he was able to think. He knew he must

-act quickly, emphatically, and he generously tried to be just.

-

-Keen to take advantage of what she believed was guilt, Kathryn

-responded, dragging her lures along with her.

-

-"Please, dear Brace, do not look at me so sternly. I could not help

-what happened and I suffered so, although I never meant to let you

-know. You see, I walked in the woods that day that I went to King's

-Forest to tell you about your mother. A queer-looking girl told me

-that you lived at the inn, but were then in the woods. I went to find

-you; to meet you--can you not understand?"

-

-The tears stood in Kathryn's eyes, her mouth quivered. Northrup

-softened.

-

-"Go on, Kathryn. I _do_ understand."

-

-"Well, I came to a cabin in the woods, I don't know why, but something

-made me think it was yours. You would be so likely to take such a

-place as that, dear. I went in--to wait for you; to sit and think

-about you, to calm myself--and then----"

-

-"Yes, Kathryn!" Northrup was seeing it all--the cabin, the silent

-red-and-gold woods.

-

-"And then--she came! Oh! Brace, a man can never know how a woman feels

-at such a moment--you see there were some sheets of your manuscript on

-the table--I was looking at them when the girl came in. Brace, she was

-quite awful; she frightened me terribly. She asked who I was and I

-told her--I thought that would at least make her see my side; explain

-things--but it did not! She was--she was"--Kathryn ventured a bolder

-dash--"she was quite violent. I cannot remember all she said--she said

-so much--a girl does when she realizes what _she_ must have realized.

-Oh! Brace, I tried to be kind, but I had to take your part and she

-turned me out!"

-

-In all this Northrup felt his way as one does along a narrow passage

-beset on either side with dangers. Characteristically he saw his own

-wrong in originally creating the situation. Not for an instant did he

-doubt Kathryn's story; indeed, she rose in his regard; for he felt for

-her deeply. He had, unwittingly, set a trap for her innocent, girlish

-feet; brought her to bay with what she could not possibly understand;

-and the belief that she had been merciful, had accepted, in silence,

-at a time when his trouble absorbed her, touched and humiliated him;

-and yet, try as he did to consider only Kathryn, he could not

-disregard Mary-Clare. He could not picture her in a coarse rage; the

-idea was repellent, but he acknowledged that the dramatic moment,

-lived through by two stranger-women with much at stake, was beyond his

-powers of imagination. The great thing that mattered now was that his

-duty, since a choice must be made, was to Kathryn. By every right, as

-he saw it, she must claim his allegiance. And yet, what was there to

-be done?

-

-Northrup was silent; his inability to express himself condemned him in

-her eyes, and yet, strangely enough, he had never been more desirable

-to her.

-

-"Marry me, dear. Let me prove my love to you. No matter what lies back

-there, I forgive everything! That is what love means to a woman like

-me."

-

-Love! This poor, shabby counterfeit.

-

-With a sickening sense of repulsion Northrup drew back, and

-maddeningly his book, not Kathryn, seemed to fill his aching

-brain. With this conception of love revealed--how blindly he had

-misunderstood. He tried to speak; did speak at last--he heard his

-words, but was not conscious of their meaning.

-

-"You are wrong, child. Whatever folly was committed in King's Forest

-was mine, not that girl's. I suppose I was a bit mad without knowing

-it, but I will not accept your sacrifice, Kathryn, I will not ask for

-forgiveness. When I come home, if you still love me, I will devote my

-life to you. We will start afresh--the whole world will."

-

-"You are going at once?" Kathryn clutched at what was eluding her.

-

-"Yes, my dear."

-

-"And you won't marry me? Won't--prove to me?"

-

-"No."

-

-"Oh! how can you leave me to think----"

-

-"Think what, Kathryn?"

-

-"Oh! things--about her. It would be such a proof of what you've just

-said--if only you would marry me now."

-

-"Kathryn, I cannot. I am--I wish that you could understand--I am

-stepping out into the dark. I must go alone."

-

-"That is absurd, Brace. Absurd." A baffled, desperate note rang in

-Kathryn's voice. It was not for Northrup, but for her first sense of

-failure. Then she looked up. All the resentment gone from her face,

-she was the picture of despair.

-

-"I will wait for you, Brace. I will prove to you what a woman's real

-love is!"

-

-So, cleverly, did she bind what she intuitively felt was the highest

-in Northrup. And he bent and laid his lips on the smooth girlish

-forehead, sorrowfully realizing how little he had to offer.

-

-A few moments later Northrup found himself on the street. The snow was

-falling thicker, faster. It had the smothering quality that is so

-mysterious. People thudded along as if on padded feet; the lights were

-splashed with clinging flakes and gleamed yellow-red in the whiteness.

-Sounds were muffled; Northrup felt blotted out.

-

-He loved the sensation--it was like a great, absorbing Force taking

-him into its control and erasing forever the bungling past. He

-purposely drifted for an hour in the storm. He was like a moving part

-of it, and when at last he reached home, he stood in the vestibule for

-many moments extricating himself--it was more that than shaking the

-snow off. He felt singularly free.

-

-Once within the house, he went directly to his mother's room. She was

-lying on a couch by the fire. In the shelter of her warm, quiet place

-Helen seemed to have gained what Brace had won in the storm. She was

-smiling, almost eager.

-

-"Yes, dear?" she said.

-

-Northrup sat down in the chair that was his by his mother's hearth.

-

-"Kathryn wanted to marry me, Mother, at once."

-

-"That would be like her, bless her heart!"

-

-"I could not accept the sacrifice, Mother."

-

-"That would be like you--but is it a sacrifice?"

-

-"It seems so to me."

-

-"You see, son, to many women this is the supreme offering. All _they_

-can give, vicariously, at this great demanding hour."

-

-"Women must learn to stop that rubbish, Mother. We men must refuse

-it."

-

-"Why, Brace!" Then: "Are you quite, quite sure it was all for Kathryn,

-son?"

-

-"No, partly for myself; but that must include and emphasize Kathryn's

-share."

-

-"I see--at least I think I do."

-

-"But you have faith, Mother?"

-

-"Yes, faith! Surely, faith."

-

-After a silence, broken only by the sputtering of the fire and that

-soft, mystic pattering of the snow on the window glass, Northrup asked

-gently:

-

-"And you, Mother, what will you do? I cannot bear to think of you

-waiting here alone."

-

-Helen Northrup rose slowly from the couch; her long, loose gown

-trailed softly as she walked to the fireplace and stood leaning one

-elbow on the shelf.

-

-"I'm not going to--wait, dear, in the sense you mean. I'm going to

-work and get ready for your return."

-

-"Work?" Northrup looked anxious. Helen smiled down upon him.

-

-"While you have been preparing," she said, "so have I. There is

-something for me to do. My poor little craft that I have pottered at,

-keeping it alive and praying over it--my writing job, dear; I have

-offered for service. It has been accepted. It is my great secret--I've

-kept it for you as my last gift. When you come home, I'll tell you

-about it. While you are away you must think of me, busy--busy!"

-

-Then she bent and laid her pale fine face against the dark bowed

-head.

-

-"You are tired, dear, very, very tired. You must go to bed and

-rest--there is so much to do; so much."

-

-

-

-

-CHAPTER XXI

-

-

-In King's Forest many strange and awe-inspiring things had happened--but,

-as far as the Forest people knew, they were so localized that, like a

-cancer, they were eating in, deeper and deeper--to the death.

-

-The winter, with its continuous snow and cruel ice, had obliterated

-links; only certain centres glowed warm and alive, though even they

-ached with the pain of blows they had endured.

-

-The Mines. The Point. The Inn. The Little Yellow House. These throbbed

-and pulsated and to them, more often than of old--or so it seemed--the

-bell in the deserted chapel sent its haunting messages--messages rung

-out by unseen hands.

-

-"There's mostly lost winds this winter," poor Jan-an whimpered to

-Peneluna. "I have feelin's most all the time. I'm scared early and

-late, and that cold my bones jingle."

-

-Peneluna, softened and more silent than ever, comforted the girl,

-wrapped her in warmer clothes, and sent her scurrying across the

-frozen lake to the yellow house.

-

-"And don't come back till spring!" she commanded.

-

-"Spring?" Jan-an paused as she was strapping on an old pair of skates

-that once belonged to Philander Sniff. "Spring? Gawd!"

-

-It was a terrific winter. The still, intense kind that grips every

-snowstorm as a miser does his money, hiding it in secret places of the

-hills where the divine warmth of the sun cannot find it.

-

-The wind, early in November, set in the north! Occasionally the "ha'nt

-wind" troubled it; wailed a bit and caught the belfry bell, and then

-gave up and sobbed itself away.

-

-At the inn a vague something--was it old age or lost faith?--was

-trying to conquer Peter's philosophy and Aunt Polly's spiritual

-vision. The _Thing_, whatever it was, was having a tussle, but it made

-its marks. Peter sat oftener by the fire with Ginger edging close to

-the leg that the gander had once damaged and which, now, acted as an

-indicator for Peter's moods. When he did not want to talk his "leg

-ached." When his heart sank in despair his "leg ached." But Polly, a

-little thinner, a little more dim as to far-off visions, caught every

-mood of Peter's and sent it back upon him like a boomerang. She met

-his silent hours with such a flare of talk that Peter responded in

-self-defence. His black hours she clutched desperately and held them

-up for him to look at after she had charged them with memories of

-goodness and love.

-

-As for herself? Well, Aunt Polly nourished her own brave spirit by

-service and an insistent, demanding cry of justice.

-

-"'Tain't fair and square to hold anything against the Almighty," she

-proclaimed, "till you've given Him a chance to show what He did things

-for."

-

-Polly waxed eloquent and courageous; she kept her own faith by voicing

-it to others; it grew upon reiteration.

-

-Peter was in one of his worst combinations--silence and low

-spirits--when Polly entered the kitchen one early afternoon. A glance

-at the huddling form by the red-hot range had the effect of turning

-Polly into steel. She looked at Ginger, who reflected his master's

-moods pathetically, and her steel became iron.

-

-"I suppose if I ask you, Peter, how you're feeling," she said slowly,

-calmly, "you'll fling your leg in my face! It's monstrous to see how

-an able-bodied man can use any old lie to save his countenance."

-

-"My leg----" Peter began, but Polly stopped him. She had hung her coat

-and hood in the closet and came to the fire, patting her thin hair in

-order and then stretching her small, blue-veined hands to the heat.

-

-"Don't leg me, Peter Heathcote, I'm terrible ashamed of you. Terrible.

-So long as you _have_ legs, brother--and you _have_!--I say use 'em.

-Half the troubles in this world are _think troubles_, laid to legs and

-backs and what not."

-

-"Where you been?" Peter eyed the stern little face glowering at him.

-"You look tuckered."

-

-"I wasn't tuckered until I set my eyes on you, Peter. I've been

-considerable set up to-day. I went to Mary-Clare's. She is mighty

-heartening. She's gathered all the children she can get and she's

-teaching them. She's mimicking the old doctor's plan--making him live

-again, she calls it--and the Lord knows we need someone in the Forest

-who doesn't set chewing his own troubles, but gets out and does

-things!"

-

-Peter winced and Polly rambled on:

-

-"It's really wonderful the way that slip of a thing handles those

-children. She has made the yellow house like a fairy story--evergreens,

-red leaves and berries hanging about, and all the dogs with red-ribbon

-collars. They look powerful foolish, but they don't look like poor

-Ginger, who acts as if he was being smothered!"

-

-Peter regarded the dog by his side and remarked sadly:

-

-"I guess we better change this dog's name. Ginger is like an insult to

-him. Ginger! Lord-a-mighty, there ain't no ginger left in him."

-

-"Peter, you're all wrong. There are times when I think Ginger is more

-gingery than ever. You don't have to dash around after yer tail to

-prove yer ginger, the thinking part of you can be terrible nimble even

-when yer bones stiffen up. Ginger does things, brother, that sometimes

-makes my flesh creepy. Do you know what he does when he can get away

-from you?"

-

-"No." Peter's hair sprang up; his face reddened. Polly noted the good

-signs and took heart.

-

-"Why, he joins Mary-Clare's dogs and fetches the littlest children to

-the yellow house. Carries lunch pails, pulls sleds, and I've seen that

-little crippled tot of Jonas Mills' on Ginger's back. Ain't that

-ginger fur yer? I tell you, Peter, it's you as ails that dog--he's

-what you make him. I reckon the Lord, that isn't unmindful of

-sparrows, takes notice of dogs." Then suddenly, Polly demanded:

-"Peter, what is it, just?"

-

-Polly drew her diminutive rocker to the stove and settled back against

-its gay cretonne cushions--a vivid bird of Paradise flamed just where

-her aching head rested.

-

-"Well, Polly"--Peter slapped the leg that he had lied about--"you and

-I came to the Forest half a century ago and felt real perky. We

-thought, under God, we'd make the Forest something better; the people

-more like people. We came from a city with all sorts of patterns of

-folks; we had ideas. The Forest gave me health and we were grateful

-and chesty. It all keeps coming back and--and swamping me."

-

-"Yes, brother, and what else?"

-

-"At first we did seem to count, under God, of course. We shut up the

-bar and fixed up the inn and we thought we was caring for folks and

-protecting 'em." Peter gulped.

-

-"I guess the Lord can care for His own, Peter," Polly remarked

-fiercely.

-

-"Then Maclin came!" Peter groaned out the words, for this was the crux

-of the matter.

-

-"Yes--Maclin came." Aunt Polly wiped her eyes. "And I think, looking

-back, that something had to happen to wake us up! Maclin was a

-tester."

-

-Peter gave a rumbling laugh.

-

-"Maclin a tester!" he repeated. "Lord, Polly, yer notions are more

-messing than clearing."

-

-"Well, anyway, Peter Heathcote, Maclin came, and this I do say: places

-are like folks--if their constitutions are all right, they don't take

-disease. Maclin was a disease, and we caught him! He settled on us and

-we hadn't vim enough to know and understand what he was. If it hadn't

-been Maclin it would have been another. As things are I do feel that

-Maclin has cleared our systems! The folks were wakened by him as

-nothing in the world could have wakened them."

-

-Peter was not listening, he was thinking aloud.

-

-"All our years wasted! We felt so sure that we was capable that we

-just let folks fall into the hands of that evil man. Think of

-anything, bearing the image of God taking advantage of simple, honest

-people and letting them into what he did!"

-

-"I never did think Maclin was in the image of God, Peter. All God's

-children ain't the spitting image of Him. And Maclin certainly did us

-a good turn when he found iron on the Point. The iron's here--if he

-ain't!"

-

-"He meant to turn that and his damned inventions against us. Betray us

-to an enemy! And us just sitting and letting him do it!"

-

-"Well, he didn't do it!" Polly snapped. "And it seems like God is

-giving us another chance; same as He is the world."

-

-Peter got up and stumped noisily about the kitchen much to Ginger's

-surprise and discomfort.

-

-"We're old, Polly," he muttered; "the heart's taken out of us. We led

-'em astray because we didn't lead 'em right."

-

-"I'm not old." Polly looked comically defiant. "And my heart's where

-it belongs and on the job. It's shame to us, Peter, if we don't use

-every scrap that's left of us to undo the failings of the past."

-

-"And that night!" Peter groaned, recalling the night of Maclin's

-arrest. "That's what comes of being false to yer trust. Terrible,

-terrible! Twombley standing over Maclin with his gun after finding him

-flashing lights to God knows who, and then those government men

-hauling things out of his bags--why, Polly, in the middle of some

-black nights I get to seeing the look on Maclin's face when he was

-caught!"

-

-"Now, brother, do be sensible and wipe the sweat off yer forehead.

-This room is stifling. Can't you see, Peter, that at a time like that

-the Lord had to use what He had, and there was only us to use? Better

-Twombley's gun than Maclin's, and you know, full well, they found two

-ugly looking guns in Maclin's bag all packed with papers and pictures

-of the mines and bits of our own rock--what showed iron. Peter, I

-ain't a bloodthirsty woman and the Lord knows I don't hunger for my

-fellow's vitals, but I'm willing to give Maclin up to a righteous God.

-The Lord knows we couldn't deal with the like of him."

-

-"But, Polly"--poor Peter's humanity had received a terrible jog--"the

-look on Maclin's face--when he was caught!"

-

-"Well! he ought to have had a look!" Polly snapped. "Several of us

-gave him looks. I remember that the Point men looked just as if it was

-resurrection day. They stiffened up and _I_ say, Peter Heathcote,

-their backs ain't slumped yet--oh! if only we could keep them stiff!

-It was an awful big thing to happen to a little place like the Forest.

-It's terrible suggestive!"

-

-But Peter could not be diverted.

-

-"They were fearful rough with him--he, a trapped creature, Polly! I

-always feel as if one oughtn't to harry a trapped thing. That's not

-God's way. It was all my fault! What was I a magistrate for--and just

-standing by--staring?"

-

-"Well, he should have held still--he put up fight. Brother, you make

-me indignant."

-

-"They mauled him, Polly, mauled him. And they took him--to what?"

-

-Polly got up.

-

-"Peter," she said, "you're a sick man or you wouldn't be such a fool.

-I always did hold that your easy-going ways might lead you into mush

-instead of clear vision, and it certainly looks as if I was right.

-What you need is a good spring tonic and more faith in God. Maclin was

-leading us into--what? Hasn't he sent the old doctor's boy into--what?

-The Almighty has got all sorts to deal with--and he's got Maclin, but

-we've got what's left. Peter, I put it up to you--what are we going to

-do about it?"

-

-"What can we do?" Peter placed his two hands on his wide-spread

-knees--for he had dropped exhausted into his chair. "Has any one heard

-of Larry?"

-

-This sudden question roused Aunt Polly; she had hoped it would not be

-asked.

-

-"Yes, Peter. Twombley has," she faltered.

-

-"Where is he?" Peter's mouth gaped.

-

-"The letter said that when he came back we'd be proud of him

-and"--Polly choked--"he begged our pardons--for Maclin. He's gone to

-that war--over there. He said it was all he could do--with himself, to

-prove against Maclin."

-

-A silence fell in the warm, sunny room. Then Polly spoke with a catch

-in her voice:

-

-"Twombley and Peneluna hold that we better not tell Mary-Clare. Better

-give Larry a chance to do his proving--before we get any hopes or

-fears to acting up."

-

-"I guess that's sensible," Peter nodded, "he mightn't do it, you

-know."

-

-Polly was watching her brother. She saw the dejection dropping from

-his face like a mask; the hypnotism of fear and repulsion was losing

-its hold.

-

-"It's powerful hot here!" Peter muttered, wiping his face. "And what

-in thunder ails that dog?"

-

-Ginger was certainly acting queer. He was circling around, sniffing,

-sniffing, his nose in the air, his tail wagging. He edged over to the

-door and smelt at the crack.

-

-"Fits?" Peter looked concerned. But Polly had an inspiration.

-

-"I believe, Peter," she said solemnly, "Ginger smells--spring! I

-thought I did myself as I came along. There were fluffy green edges by

-the water. I do love edges, Peter! Let's open the door wide, brother.

-We get so used to winter, and live so close, that sometimes we don't

-know spring is near. But it is, Peter, it is always on the edge of

-winter and God has made dogs terrible knowing. See! There, now, Ginger

-old fellow, what's the matter?"

-

-Polly flung the door open and Ginger gave a glad cry and leaped out. A

-soft breath of air touched the two gentle old people in the doorway

-and a fragrance of young, edgy things thrilled them.

-

-"Peter dear, spring is here!" Polly said this like a prayer.

-

-"Spring!" Peter's voice echoed the sound. Then he turned to the closet

-for his coat and hat.

-

-"Where you going, brother?"

-

-The big bulky figure, ready for a new adventure, turned at the door.

-

-"Just going to the Point and stand by! We must take care of the old

-doc's leavings. The iron, that boy of his, and--the rest. Come on,

-Ginger."

-

-Polly watched the two pass from sight and then she readjusted her

-spectacles to the far-off angle.

-

-And while this was occurring at the inn there was a tap on the door of

-the yellow house, and with its welcoming characteristic in full play,

-the door swung in, leaving a tall woman on the threshold flushed and

-apologetic.

-

-"I never saw such a responsive door!" she said. "I really knocked very

-gently. Please tell me how far it is to the inn?"

-

-Mary-Clare, her little group of children about her, looked up and

-smiled. The smile and the eyes made the stranger's breath come a bit

-quicker.

-

-"Just three miles to the south." Mary-Clare came close. "You are

-walking? I will send my little girl with you. Noreen?"

-

-But Jan-an was holding Noreen back.

-

-"She's one of them other children of Eve!" she cautioned. "Don't

-forget the other one!"

-

-"Thank you so much," the stranger was speaking. "But may I rest here

-for a moment? These children--is it a school."

-

-"A queer one, I'm afraid. We're all teachers, all pupils--even the

-dogs."

-

-Mary-Clare looked at her small group.

-

-"One has to do something, you know," she said. "Something to help."

-

-"Yes. And will you send the children away for a moment? I have

-something to say to you."

-

-Mary-Clare's face went white. Since Maclin's exposure the girl knew a

-spiritual fear that never before had troubled her. Maclin and Larry!

-Doubt, uncertainty--they had done their worst for Mary-Clare.

-

-When the children were gone the stranger leaned forward and said

-quietly:

-

-"I am Mrs. Dana--I am here on government business. There, my dear Mrs.

-Rivers, please do not be alarmed--I come as your friend; the friend of

-King's Forest; it is on the map, you know."

-

-The tears stood in Mary-Clare's wide eyes, her lips trembled.

-

-"I conscript you!" Mrs. Dana leaned a little further toward Mary-Clare

-and took her hands. "I was directed to you, Mrs. Rivers. You must help

-me do away with a wrong impression of the Forest. Together we will

-tell a story to the outside world that will change a great many

-things. We will tell the truth and set the Forest free from

-suspicion."

-

-"Oh! can we? Why, that would be the most splendid thing. We're all

-so--so frightened."

-

-"Yes. I know. See, I have my credentials"--Mrs. Dana took a notebook

-from her bag. "The mines--well, all the danger there is destroyed. The

-mines are cleaned out." She was reading from her notes.

-

-"Yes." Mary-Clare was impressed.

-

-"And there's iron on the Point--we must get at that--you own the

-Point?"

-

-"No; I gave it to my husband." The words were whispered. "And he sold

-it to a Mr. Northrup." There was no holding back in King's Forest

-these days.

-

-"I see. Well, we must get this Mr. Northrup busy, then. Where is he?"

-

-Mrs. Dana tucked the book away and her eyes looked kindly into

-Mary-Clare's.

-

-"I do not know. He went to his--to the city--New York."

-

-"And you have never heard from him?"

-

-"No."

-

-"Well, Mrs. Rivers, I am your friend and the friend of the Forest.

-Together, we ought to be able to do it a good turn. And now, if you

-are willing, I would love to borrow your little girl."

-

-On the lake road Noreen, after a few skirmishes, succumbed to one of

-her sudden likings--she abandoned herself to Mrs. Dana's charm. With

-her head coquettishly set slantwise she fixed her grave eyes--they

-were very like her mother's--on Mrs. Dana's face.

-

-"I like the look of you," she confided softly.

-

-"I'm glad. I like the look of you very much, little Noreen."

-

-"Do you know any stories or songs?" Noreen had her private test.

-

-"I used to, but it has been a long while since I thought about them.

-Do you know any, Noreen?"

-

-"Oh! many. My man taught me. He taught me to be unafraid, too."

-

-"Your man, little girl?" Mrs. Dana turned her eyes away.

-

-"Yes'm. Jan-an, she's a bit queer, you know, Jan-an says the

-ghost-wind brought him. He only stayed a little while, but things

-aren't ever going to be the same again. No'm, not ever! He even liked

-Jan-an, and most folks don't--at first. His name is Mr. Northrup, but

-Jan-an and I call him The Man."

-

-"And he sang for you?"

-

-"Yes'm. We sang together, marching along--this way!" Noreen swung the

-hand that held hers. "Do you know--'Green jacket, red cap'?" she

-asked.

-

-"I used to. It goes something like this--doesn't it?

-

-    "Up the airy mountain

-    Down the rustly glen----

-

-I have forgotten the rest." Mrs. Dana closed her eyes.

-

-"Oh! that's kingdiferous," Noreen laughed with delight. "I'll sing the

-rest, then we'll sing together:

-

-    "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."

-

-They were keeping step and singing, rather brokenly, for Noreen was

-thinking of her man and Mrs. Dana seemed searching, in a blur of

-moving men upon a weary road, for a little boy--a very little boy.

-

-"Now, then," Noreen insisted, "we can sing it betterer this time.

-

-    "Green jacket, red cap

-      And white owl's feather."

-

-Suddenly Noreen stopped.

-

-"Your face looks funny," she said. "Your lips are laughing, but your

-eyes--is it the sun in your eyes?"

-

-Mrs. Dana bent until her head was close to Noreen's.

-

-"Little girl, little Noreen," she said, "that is it--the sun is in my

-eyes."

-

-"There's the inn!" Noreen was uncomfortable. Things were not turning

-out quite as gaily as she hoped. Things did not, any more.

-

-"Shall I go right to the door with you?" she asked.

-

-"No. I want to go alone. Good-bye, Noreen."

-

-"I hope you'll stay a long time!" Noreen paused on the road.

-

-"Why, dear?"

-

-"Because Motherly liked you, and I like you. Good-bye."

-

-And Mrs. Dana stayed a long time, though after the first week her

-sojourn was marked by incidents, not hours.

-

-"Seems like the days of the creation," Peter confided to Twombley.

-"Let there be light--there was light! Get the Forest to work--and the

-Forest gets busy! Heard the church is going to be opened--and a

-school. Queer, Twombley, how her being a woman and the easy sort, too,

-doesn't seem to stop her none."

-

-Twombley shifted in his chair--the two men were sitting in the spring

-sunshine by Twombley's door.

-

-"The Government's behind her!" he muttered confidently. "And,

-Heathcote, I ain't monkeying with the Government. Since that Maclin

-night--anything the Government asks of me, I hold up my hands."

-

-"Yes, I reckon that's safest." Peter was uplifted, but cautious.

-

-"She's set Peneluna to painting all the houses--yeller," Twombley

-rambled on, the smell of fresh paint filling his nostrils. "And you

-know what Peneluna is when she gets a start. Colour's mighty

-satisfying, Peneluna says; but I guess there's more in it than just

-colour. The Pointers get touchy about dirt, and creepy insects showing

-up on the 'tarnal paint that's slushed everywhere."

-

-"Mighty queer doings!" Heathcote agreed.

-

-"The women are plumb crazy over this government woman," Twombley went

-on, "and the children lap out of her hand. She and Mary-Clare are

-together early and late. Thick as corn mush."

-

-Peter drew his chair closer.

-

-"Her and Mary-Clare is writing up the doings of the Forest," he

-whispered. "Writing things allas makes me nervous. What's writ--is

-fixed."

-

-"Gosh! Heathcote; it's like the Judgment Day and no place to hide

-in!"

-

-"That's about it, Twombley. No place to hide in."

-

-And then after weeks of strenuous effort Mrs. Dana went away as

-suddenly as she had come. She simply disappeared! But there was a

-peculiar sense of waiting in the Forest and a going on with what had

-been begun. The momentum carried the people along. The church was

-repaired, a school house started, the Point cleaned.

-

-                  *       *       *       *       *

-

-The summer passed, another winter--not so cruel as the last--and the

-spring came, less violently.

-

-                  *       *       *       *       *

-

-It was early summer when another event shook the none-too-steady

-Forest. Larry came home!

-

-Jan-an discovered him sitting on a mossy rock, his back against a

-tree. The girl staggered away from him--she thought she saw a vision.

-

-"It is--you, ain't it?" she gasped.

-

-"What's left of me--yes." There was a strange new note in Rivers's

-voice.

-

-Jan-an's horror-filled eyes took in the significance of the words.

-

-"Where's--the rest of you?" she gasped.

-

-Larry touched the pinned-up leg of his trousers.

-

-"I paid a debt with the rest," he said, and there was that in his

-voice that brought Jan-an closer to him.

-

-"Where yer bound for?" she asked, her dull face quivering.

-

-"I don't know. A fellow gave me a lift and dropped me--here."

-

-"You come along home!" Jan-an bent and half lifted Larry. "Lean on me.

-There, now, lean heavy and take it easy."

-

-Mary-Clare was sitting in the living-room, sewing and singing, when

-the sound of steps startled her. She looked up, then her face changed

-as a dying face does.

-

-"Larry!" she faltered. She was utterly unprepared. She had been kept

-in ignorance of the little that others knew.

-

-"I--I'm played out--but I can go on." Larry's voice was husky and he

-drooped against Jan-an. Then Mary-Clare came forward, her arms opened

-wide, a radiance breaking over her cold white face.

-

-"You have come--home, Larry! Home. Your father's home."

-

-And then Larry's head rested on her shoulder; her arms upheld him, for

-the crutch clattered to the floor.

-

-"My father's home," he repeated like a hurt child--"that's it--my

-father's home."

-

-

-

-

-CHAPTER XXII

-

-

-But beyond that exalted moment stretched the plain, drear days. Days

-holding subtle danger and marvellous revelations.

-

-Larry, with his superficial gripping of surface things, grew merry and

-childishly happy. He had paid a debt, God knew. Shocked by the Maclin

-exposure, he had been roused to decency and purpose as he had never

-been before. He felt now that he had redeemed the past, and

-Mary-Clare's gentleness and kindness meant but one thing to Rivers.

-And he wanted that thing. His own partial regeneration had been

-evolved through hours of remorse and contrition. Alone, under strange

-skies and during long, danger-filled nights, he had caught a glimpse

-of his poor, shivering soul, and it had brought him low in fear, then

-high in hope.

-

-"Perhaps, if I pay and pay"--he had pleaded with the sad thing--"I can

-win out yet!"

-

-And sitting in the warm, sunny room of the yellow house, Larry began

-to believe he had! It was always so easy for him to see one small

-spot.

-

-At the first he was a hero, and the Forest paid homage to him;

-listened at his shrine and fed his reviving ego. But heroes cloy the

-taste, in time, and the most thrilling tales wax dull when they are

-worn to shreds. More and more Larry grew to depend upon Mary-Clare and

-Noreen for company and upon Jan-an for a never-failing listener to his

-tales.

-

-Noreen, just now, puzzled Mary-Clare. The child's old aversion to her

-father seemed to have passed utterly from her thought. She was devoted

-to him; touched his maimed body reverently, and wooed him from the sad

-moments that presently began to overpower him.

-

-She assumed an old and protecting manner toward him that would have

-been amusing had it not been so tragically pathetic.

-

-Every afternoon Larry took a nap, sitting in an old kitchen rocker.

-Poised on the arm of the chair, her father's head upon her tiny

-shoulder, Noreen sang him to sleep.

-

-"You're my baby, daddy-linkum, and I'm your motherly. Come, shut your

-eyes, and lall a leep!"

-

-And Larry would sleep, often to awake with an unwholesome merriment

-that frightened Mary-Clare.

-

-One late summer afternoon she was sitting with him by the open door.

-The beautiful hills opposite were still rich with flowers and green

-bushes. Suddenly Larry said:

-

-"It's great, this being home!"

-

-"I'm glad home was here for you to come to, Larry." Mary-Clare felt

-her heart beat quicker--not with love, but the growing fear.

-

-"Are you, honest?"

-

-"Yes, Larry. Honest."

-

-"I wonder." It was the old voice now. "When I lay out there, and

-crawled along----"

-

-"Please, Larry, we have agreed not to talk of that!"

-

-"Yes, I know, but even then, while I was crawling, I got to thinking

-what I was crawling back to--and counting the chances and whether it

-was worth while."

-

-"Please, Larry!"

-

-"All right!" Then, in the new voice: "You're beautiful, Mary-Clare.

-Sometimes, sitting here, I get to wondering if I really ever saw you

-before. Second sight, you know."

-

-"Yes, second sight, Larry."

-

-"And Noreen--she is mine, Mary-Clare." This was flung out defiantly.

-

-"Part yours. Yes, Larry."

-

-"She's a great kid. Old as the hills and then again--a baby-thing."

-

-"We must not strain her, Larry, we cannot afford to put too heavy a

-load on her. She would bear it until she dropped."

-

-"Don't get talking booky, Mary-Clare. You don't as much as you once

-did." A pause, then hardly above a whisper: "Do you go to the cabin in

-the woods now, Mary-Clare?"

-

-"I haven't been there for a long while, Larry." Mary-Clare's hands

-clutched each other until the bones ached.

-

-"I'm sorry, Mary-Clare, God knows I am, for what I did up there. It

-was the note as drove me mad. Across--over there, I used to read that

-note, you and he were queer lots."

-

-"Larry, I will not talk about that--ever!"

-

-"You can't forgive?"

-

-"I have forgiven long ago."

-

-"Nothing happened between you and him, Mary-Clare. You're great stuff.

-Great! And so is he."

-

-A thin, blue-veined hand stole out and rested on Mary-Clare's head and

-Mary-Clare looked down at the empty place where Larry's strong right

-leg should have been. A divine pity stirred her, but she knew now, as

-always, that Larry did not crave pity; sympathy; and the awful Truth

-upheld Mary-Clare in her weak moment. She would never again fail

-herself or him by misunderstanding.

-

-"When I'm well, Mary-Clare, you'll be everything to me, won't you?

-We'll begin again. You, me, and little Noreen. You are lovely, girl!

-The lights in your hair dance, your neck is white, and----"

-

-The heart of Mary-Clare seemed to stop as the groping fingers touched

-her.

-

-"Look at me, Mary-Clare!"

-

-There was the tone of the conqueror in the words--Larry laughed. Then

-Mary-Clare looked at him! Long and unfalteringly she let her eyes meet

-his, and there was that in them that no man misunderstands.

-

-"You mean you do not care?" Larry's voice shook like a frightened

-child's; "that you'll never care?"

-

-"I care tremendously, Larry, and I will do my best. But you must not

-ask for more."

-

-"Good God! and I crawled back for this!" The words ended in a sob;

-"for this! I thought I could pay but I cannot--ever, ever!"

-

-                  *       *       *       *       *

-

-And in the distant city Helen Northrup waited for her son. There had

-been a cable--then the long silence. He was on the way, that was all

-she knew.

-

-In the work-room Helen tried to keep to the routine of her days. Her

-work had saved her; strengthened her. Her contact with people had

-given her vision and sympathy. She was marvellously changed, but of

-that she took little heed.

-

-And then Northrup came, unannounced. He stood in the doorway of the

-room where his mother sat bent upon her task on the desk before her.

-For a moment he hardly knew her. He had feared to find her broken,

-crushed beyond the hope of health and joy. He had counted that

-possibility among the things that his experience had cost him. A wave

-of relief, surprise, and joy swept over him now.

-

-"Mother!"

-

-Helen paused--her pen held lightly--then she rose and came toward him.

-Her face Northrup was never to forget. So might a face look that

-welcomed the dead back to life. Just for one, poor human moment, they

-could not speak, they simply clung close. After that, life caught them

-in its common current.

-

-The afternoon, warm and sunny, made it possible for the windows to be

-open wide; there were flowers blooming in a window-box and a cool

-breeze, now and again, drew the white curtains out, then released them

-with a little sighing sound. The peacefulness and security stirred

-Northrup's imagination.

-

-"It doesn't seem possible, you know!" he said.

-

-"Being home, dear?" Helen watched him. Every new line of his fine

-brown face made her lips firmer.

-

-"Yes. I'd given up hope, and then when hope grew again I was afraid to

-crawl back. You'll laugh, but I was afraid to come home and find

-things just the same! I couldn't have stood it, after what I learned.

-I would have felt like a ghost. A lot of fellows feel this way. It's

-all a mistake for our home folks to think they're doing the best for

-us by trying to fool us into forgetting."

-

-"Brace, we've tried, all of us, to be worthy of you boys. Even they

-who attempt the thing you mention are doing it for the best. Often it

-is the hardest way."

-

-They were both thinking of Kathryn. Monstrous as it might seem, Brace

-recalled her as she looked that day--pulling the shades of the

-automobile down! That ugly doubt had haunted him many times.

-

-Helen was half sick with fear of what would occur when Brace saw

-Kathryn.

-

-"I ought not keep you, son," she said weakly. "You ought to go to

-Kathryn. No filial duty toward me, dear! I'm a terribly self-sufficient

-woman."

-

-"Bully! And that's why I want to have dinner with you alone. I've got

-used to the self-sufficient woman--I like her."

-

-It was long after eight o'clock, that first evening, when Northrup

-left his mother's house.

-

-So powerfully hypnotic is memory that as he walked along in the bland

-summer night he shivered and recalled the snowstorm that blotted him

-out after his last interview with Kathryn. With all earnestness he had

-prepared himself for this hour. He was ready to take up his life and

-live it well--only so could he justify what he had endured. His

-starved senses, too, rose to reinforce him. He craved the beauty,

-sweetness, and tenderness--though he was half afraid of them. They had

-so long been eliminated from his rugged existence that he wondered how

-he was again to take them as his common fare.

-

-He paused before touching the bell at the Morris house. Again that

-hypnotic shiver ran over him; but to his touch on the bell there was

-immediate response.

-

-"Will you wait, sir, in the reception-room?" The trim maid looked

-flurried. "I will tell Miss Kathryn at once."

-

-Northrup sat down in the dim room, fragrant with flowers, and a sense

-of peace overcame his doubts.

-

-Now the Morris house was curiously constructed. The main stairway and

-a stairway leading to a side entrance converged at the second landing,

-thus making it possible for any one to leave the house more privately,

-should he so desire, than by the more formal way.

-

-After leaving Northrup in the reception-room, the maid was stopped by

-Miss Anna Morris somewhere in the hall. A hurried whispered

-conversation ensued and made possible what dramatically followed.

-

-A door above opened--the library door--and it seemed to set free

-Kathryn's nervous, metallic laugh and Sandy Arnold's hard, indignant

-words:

-

-"What's the hurry? I guess I understand." Almost it seemed as if the

-girl were pushing the man before her. "I was good enough to pass the

-time with; pay for your fun while you weighed the chances."

-

-"Please, Sandy, you are cruel." Kathryn was pleading.

-

-"Cruel be damned! And what are you? I want you--you've told me that

-you loved me--what's the big idea?"

-

-"Oh! Sandy, do lower your voice. Aunt Anna will think the servants are

-quarrelling."

-

-"All right." Sandy's voice sank a degree. "But I'm going to put this

-to you square----" The two above had come to the dividing stairways.

-

-"What in thunder!" Sandy gave a coarse laugh. "Keeping to the servant

-notion, eh? Want me to go out the side door? Why?"

-

-"Oh! Sandy, you won't mind?--I have a reason, I'll tell you some

-day."

-

-There was a pause, a scuffle. Then:

-

-"Sandy, you are hurting me!"

-

-"All right, don't struggle then. Listen. I'm going away for two weeks.

-You promise if Northrup comes home, during that time, to tell him?"

-

-"Yes; yes, dear," the words came pantingly smothered. "All right, and

-if you don't, I will! I'm not the kind to see a woman sacrifice

-herself for duty. By the Lord! Northrup shall know from you--or me!

-Now kiss me!"

-

-There were the hurried steps--down the side stairs! Then flying ones

-to the library--the maid was on her way with her message--but Northrup

-dashed past her, nearly knocking her over.

-

-He strode heavily to the library door, which had been left open, and

-stood there. A devil rose in him as he gazed at the girl, a bit

-dishevelled, but lovely beyond words.

-

-For a moment, smiling and cruel, he thought he would let her

-incriminate herself; he would humiliate her and then fling her off.

-But this all passed like a blinding shock.

-

-Kathryn had turned at his approach. She stood at bay. He frightened

-her. Had he heard? Or was it mad passion that held him? Had he just

-come to the house refusing to be announced?

-

-"Brace! Brace!" she cried, her lovely eyes widening. "You have come."

-

-Kathryn stepped slowly forward, her arms outstretched. She looked as a

-captive maiden might before the conqueror whose slave she was willing

-to become. As she advanced Northrup drew back. He reached a chair and

-gripped it. Then he said quietly:

-

-"You see, I happened to hear you and Arnold."

-

-Kathryn's face went deadly white.

-

-"I had to tell him something, Brace; you know how Sandy is--I knew I

-could explain to you; you would understand." The pitiful, futile words

-and tone did not reach Northrup with appeal.

-

-"You can explain," he said harshly, "and I think I will understand,

-but I want the explanation to come in my way, if you please. Just

-answer my questions. Have you ever told Arnold--what he just made you

-promise to tell me?"

-

-Kathryn stood still, breathing hard.

-

-"Yes or no!"

-

-The girl was being dragged to a merciless bar of judgment. She

-realized it and all her foolish defences fell; all but that power of

-hers to leap to some sort of safety. There still was Arnold!

-

-"Yes," she said gaspingly.

-

-"You mean you love Arnold; that only duty held you to me?"

-

-"Yes."

-

-"Well, by God!" Northrup flung his head back and laughed--"and after

-all I have been fearing, too!"

-

-To her dying day Kathryn never knew what he meant by those words.

-There was a moment's silence, then Northrup spoke again:

-

-"I don't think there is anything more to say. Shall I take the side

-entrance?"

-

-Outside, the summer night was growing sultry; a sound of thunder broke

-the heavy quiet of the dark street--it brought back memories that were

-evil things to remember just then.

-

-"Good God!" Northrup thought, "we're coming back to all kinds of

-hells."

-

-He was bitter and cynical. He hardly took into account, in that hard

-moment, the feeling of release; all his foregone conclusions, his

-stern resolves, had been battered down. He had got his discharge with

-nothing to turn to.

-

-In this mood he reached home. More than anything he wanted to be by

-himself--but his mother's bedroom door was open and he saw her sitting

-by the window, watching the flashes of heat lightning.

-

-He went in and stood near her.

-

-"I've about concluded," he said harshly, "that the fellows who keep to

-the herd are the sensible ones."

-

-The words conveyed no meaning to Helen Northrup, but the tones did.

-

-"Sit down, dear," she said calmly. "If this shower strikes us, I do

-not want to be alone."

-

-Northrup drew a chair to the window and the red flashes lighted his

-face luridly.

-

-"Having ideals is rot. Dying for them, madness. Mother, it's all over

-between Kathryn and me!"

-

-Helen's own development had done more for her than she would ever

-realize, but from out its strength and security she spoke:

-

-"Brace, I am glad! Now you can live your ideals."

-

-Northrup turned sharply.

-

-"What do you mean?" he said.

-

-"Oh! we've all been so stupid; so blind. Seeing the false and calling

-it the truth. Being afraid; not daring to let go. My work has set me

-free, son. Lately I have seen the girl that Kathryn _really_ is,

-looming dark over the girl she made us believe she was. I have feared

-for you, but now I am glad. Brace, there _are_ women a man can count

-on. Cling hold of that."

-

-"Yes, I know that, of course."

-

-"Women whose honour is as high and clear as that of the best of men."

-

-"Yes, Mother."

-

-Helen looked at the relaxed form close to her. She yearned to confide

-fully in him, tell him how she had guarded his interests while he

-fared afar from her. She thought of Mary-Clare and the love and

-understanding that now lay between her and the girl whose high honour

-could, indeed, be trusted.

-

-But she realized that this son of hers was not the kind of man whose

-need could be supplied by replacing a loss with a possible gain. He

-had been dealt a cruel blow and must react from it sanely. The time

-was not yet come for the telling of the King's Forest story.

-

-Northrup needed comfort, Heaven knew, but it must come from within,

-not without.

-

-At that instant Helen Northrup gripped the arms of her chair and sent

-a quick prayer to the God of mothers of grown sons.

-

-"The storm seems to be passing," she said quietly.

-

-"Yes, and the air is cooler." Northrup stood up and his face was no

-longer hopeless. "Are you going to stay in town all summer?" he

-asked.

-

-"I was waiting for you, dear. As soon as you get settled I must take a

-short trip. Business, you know. I do enjoy the short trips, the

-comings home; the feeling of moving along; not being relegated to an

-armchair."

-

-"Mother, how _did_ you do it?"

-

-"Oh! it was easy enough, once I threw off my own identity. Identities

-are so cramping, Brace; full of suggestions and fears. I took my

-mother's maiden name--Helen Dana. After that, I just flew ahead."

-

-"Well, I won't hold you back. You're too good for that, Mother. I've

-kept the old tower room. I'm going to try to finish my book, now.

-Somehow I got to thinking it dead; but lately I've sort of heard it

-crying out for me. I hope the same little elevator devil is on the job

-yet. Funny, freckled scamp. He kissed me when I went away--I thought

-he was going to cry. Queer how a fellow remembered things like that

-over there. The little snapshots were fixed pictures--and some rather

-big-sized things shrank."

-

-They bade each other good-night. Mother and son, they looked

-marvellously alike at that moment. Then:

-

-"I declare, I almost forgot Manly. How has this all struck him,

-Mother?"

-

-Helen's face was radiant.

-

-"Gave up everything! His hard-won position, his late comfort and ease.

-He will have to begin again--he is where he says he belongs--mending

-and patching."

-

-"He'll reach the top, Mother. Manly's bound for the top of things."

-

-

-

-

-CHAPTER XXIII

-

-

-Northrup found his tower room but little changed. The dust lay upon

-it, and a peace that had not held part during the last days before he

-went away greeted him. More and more as he sat apart the truth of

-things came to him; he accepted the grim fact that all, everything, is

-bound by a chain, the links of which must hold, or, if they are

-broken, they must be welded again together. The world; people;

-everything in time must pause while repairs were made, and he had done

-his best toward the mending of a damaged world: toward righting his

-own mistakes.

-

-It was slow work. Good God! how slow, and oh, the suffering!

-

-He had paid a high price but he could now look at his city without

-shame.

-

-This was a fortifying thought, but a lonely one, and it did not lead

-to constructive work. The days were listless and empty.

-

-Northrup got out his manuscript--there was life in it, he made sure of

-that, but it was feeble and would require intelligent concentration in

-order to justify its existence.

-

-But the intelligence and concentration were not in his power to

-bestow.

-

-After a few days he regarded his new freedom with strange exhilaration

-mingled with fear and distrust.

-

-So much had gone down in the wreck with Kathryn. So much that was

-purely himself--not her--that readjustment was slow. How would it have

-been, he wondered, back in the King's Forest days, had he not been

-upheld by a sense of duty to what was now proven false and wrong?

-

-One could err in duty, it seemed.

-

-He was free! He had not exacted freedom! It had been thrust upon him

-so brutally, that it had, for a spell, sent him reeling into space.

-

-Not being able to resume his work, Northrup got to thinking about

-King's Forest with concentration, if not intelligence.

-

-He had purposely refrained, while he was away, from dwelling upon it

-as a place in which he had some rights. He used, occasionally, to

-think of Twombley, sitting like a silent, wary watch-dog, keeping an

-eye on his interests. He had heard of the Maclin tragedy--Helen

-Northrup felt it wise to give him that information while withholding

-much more; that was, in a way, public knowledge.

-

-Things were at least safe now in the Forest, Northrup believed. This

-brought him to the closer circle. He felt a sudden homesickness for

-the inn and the blessed old pair. A kind of mental hunger evolved from

-this unwholesome brooding that drove Northrup, as hunger alone can, to

-snatch whatever he could for his growing desire to feed upon.

-

-He shifted his thoughts from Mary-Clare and the Heathcotes to Larry

-Rivers. Where was he? Had he kept his part of the bargain? What had

-Mary-Clare done with her hard-won freedom?

-

-Sitting alone under his dome of changing lights, Northrup became a

-prey to whimsical fancies that amused while they hurt.

-

-As the lighted city rose above the coarser elements that formed it, so

-the woman, Mary-Clare, towered over other women. Such women as

-Kathryn! The bitterness of pain lurked here as, unconsciously,

-Northrup went back over the wasted years of misplaced faith.

-

-The sweet human qualities he knew were not lacking in Mary-Clare. They

-were simply heightened, brightened.

-

-All this led to but one thing.

-

-Something was bound to happen, and suddenly Northrup decided to go to

-King's Forest!

-

-Once this decision was reached he realized that he had been travelling

-toward it since the night of his scene with Kathryn. The struggle was

-over. He was at rest, and began cheerfully to make preparations. Of

-course, he argued, he meant to keep the spirit, if not the letter, of

-his agreement with Larry Rivers.

-

-This was not safe reasoning, and he set it aside impatiently.

-

-He waited a few days, deliberating, hoping his mother would return

-from a visit she was making at Manly's hospital in the South. When at

-the end of a week no word came from her, he packed his grip and set

-forth, on foot again, for the Forest.

-

-He did the distance in half the time. His strong, hardened body served

-him well and his desire spurred him on.

-

-When he came in sight of the crossroads a vague sense of change struck

-him. The roads were better. There was an odd little building near the

-yellow house. It was the new school, but of that Northrup had not

-heard. From the distance the chapel bell sounded. It did not have that

-lost, weird note that used to mark it--there was definiteness about it

-that suggested a human hand sending forth a friendly greeting.

-

-"Queer!" muttered Northrup, and then he did a bold thing. He went to

-the door of the yellow house and knocked. He had not intended to do

-that.

-

-How quiet it was within! But again the welcoming door swayed open, and

-for a moment Northrup thought the room was empty, for his eyes were

-filled with the late afternoon glow.

-

-It was autumn and the days were growing short.

-

-Then someone spoke. Someone who was eager to greet and hold any chance

-visitor. "Come in, Mary-Clare will be back soon. She never stays

-long."

-

-At that voice Northrup slammed the door behind him and strode across

-the space separating him from Larry Rivers!

-

-Larry sat huddled in the chintz rocker, his crutch on the floor, his

-thin, idle hands clasped in his lap. He wore his uniform, poor fellow!

-It gave him a sense of dignity. His eyes, accustomed to the dimmer

-light, took in the situation first; he smiled nervously and waited.

-

-Northrup in a moment grasped the essentials.

-

-"So you've been over there, too?" was what he said. The angry gleam in

-his eyes softened. At least he and Rivers could speak the common

-language of comrades-in-arms.

-

-"Yes, I've been there," Larry answered. "When I came back, I had

-nowhere else to go. Northrup, you wonder why I am here. Good God! How

-I've wanted to tell you."

-

-"Well, I'm here, too, Rivers. Life has been stronger than either of

-us. We've both drifted back."

-

-Larry turned away his head. It was then that Northrup caught the full

-significance of what life had done to Rivers!

-

-"Northrup, let me talk to you. Let me plunge in--before any one comes.

-They won't let me talk. It's like being in prison. It's hell. I've

-thought of you, you're the only one who can really help. And I dared

-not even ask for you!"

-

-Larry was now nervously twisting his fingers, and his face grew

-ashen.

-

-"I'm listening, Rivers. Go on."

-

-Northrup had a feeling as if he were back among those scenes where

-time was always short, when things that must be said hurriedly gripped

-a listener. The conventions were swept aside.

-

-"They--they couldn't understand, anyway," Larry broke in. "They've got

-a fixed idea of me; they wouldn't know what it was that changed me,

-but you will.

-

-"Everyone's kind. I haven't anything to complain of, but good God!

-Northrup, I'm dying, and what's to be done--must be done quickly.

-You--see how it is?"

-

-"Yes, Rivers, I see." There could be no mercy in deceiving this

-desperate man.

-

-"I knew you would. Day after day, lately, I've been saying that over

-in my mind. I remembered the night in the shack on the Point. I knew

-you would understand!"

-

-"Perhaps your longing brought me, Rivers. Things like that happen, you

-know."

-

-Northrup, moved by pity, laid his hand on the shrunken ones near him.

-All feeling of antagonism was gone.

-

-"It began the night I was shot," Larry's voice fell, "and Mary-Clare

-will not let me talk of those times. She thinks the memory will keep

-me from getting well! Good Lord! Getting well! Me!

-

-"There were two of us that night, Northrup, two of us crawling away

-from the hell in the dark. You know!"

-

-"Yes, Rivers, I know."

-

-"I'd never met him--the other chap--before, but we got talking to each

-other, when we could, so as to--to keep ourselves alive. I told him

-about Mary-Clare and Noreen. I couldn't think of anything else. There

-didn't seem to be anything else. The other fellow hadn't any one, he

-said.

-

-"When help came, there was only room for one. One had to wait.

-

-"That other chap," Larry moistened his lips in the old nervous fashion

-that Northrup recalled, "that other chap kept telling them about my

-wife and child--he said he could wait; but they must take me!

-

-"God! Northrup, I think I urged them to take him. I hope I did, but I

-cannot remember--I might not have, you know. I can remember what he

-said, but I can't recall what I said."

-

-"I think, Rivers, you played fair!"

-

-"Why? Northrup, what makes you think that?" The haggard face seemed to

-look less ghastly.

-

-"I've seen others do it at such a time."

-

-"Others like me?"

-

-"Yes, Rivers, many times."

-

-"Well, there were weeks when nothing mattered," Larry went on, "and

-then I began to come around, but something in me was different. I

-wanted, God hearing me, Northrup, I wanted to make what that other

-chap had done for me--worth while.

-

-"When I got to counting up what I'd gone through and holding to the

-new way I felt, I began to get well--and--then I came home. Came to my

-father's house, Northrup--that's what Mary-Clare said when she saw

-me.

-

-"That's what it is--my father's house. You catch on?"

-

-"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."

-

-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 herself beaten. 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.

-

-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.

-

-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 of _you_ as 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 brighter hope 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

-

-

-

-

-

-End of Project Gutenberg's At the Crossroads, by Harriet T. Comstock

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