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.