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.