Noreen and Jan-an late that afternoon returned to the yellow house.
They were both rather depressed and forlorn, for they knew that
Northrup was gone and had taken away with him much that had stimulated
and cheered.
Finding the yellow house empty, the two went up the opposite hill and
leisurely made their way to the brook that marked the limit of free
choice. Here they sat down, and Noreen suggested that they sing
Northrup's old songs and play some of his diverting games. Jan-an
solemnly agreed, shaking her head and sighing as one does who recalls
the dead.
So Noreen piped out the well-beloved words of "Green Jacket" and,
rather heavily, acted the jovial part. But Jan-an refused to be
comforted. She cried distractedly, and always when Jan-an wept she
made such abnormal "faces" that she disturbed any onlookers.
"All right!" Noreen said at last. "We'll both do something."
This clever psychological ruse brought Jan-an to her normal state.
"Let's play Eve's Other Children," Noreen ran on. "I'll be Eve and
hide my children, the ones I don't like specially. You be God,
Jan-an."
This was a great concession on Noreen's part, for she revelled in the
leading rôle, as it gave full play to her dramatic sense of justice.
However, the play began with Noreen hiding some twisted and dry sticks
under stones and in holes in trees and then proceeding to dress, in
gay autumn leaves, more favoured twigs. She crooned over them;
expatiated upon their loveliness, 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.