"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."