In King's Forest many strange and awe-inspiring things had happened--but,
as far as the Forest people knew, they were so localized that, like a
cancer, they were eating in, deeper and deeper--to the death.
The winter, with its continuous snow and cruel ice, had obliterated
links; only certain centres glowed warm and alive, though even they
ached with the pain of blows they had endured.
The Mines. The Point. The Inn. The Little Yellow House. These throbbed
and pulsated and to them, more often than of old--or so it seemed--the
bell in the deserted chapel sent its haunting messages--messages rung
out by unseen hands.
"There's mostly lost winds this winter," poor Jan-an whimpered to
Peneluna. "I have feelin's most all the time. I'm scared early and
late, and that cold my bones jingle."
Peneluna, softened and more silent than ever, comforted the girl,
wrapped her in warmer clothes, and sent her scurrying across the
frozen lake to the yellow house.
"And don't come back till spring!" she commanded.
"Spring?" Jan-an paused as she was strapping on an old pair of skates
that once belonged to Philander Sniff. "Spring? Gawd!"
It was a terrific winter. The still, intense kind that grips every
snowstorm as a miser does his money, hiding it in secret places of the
hills where the divine warmth of the sun cannot find it.
The wind, early in November, set in the north! Occasionally the "ha'nt
wind" troubled it; wailed a bit and caught the belfry bell, and then
gave up and sobbed itself away.
At the inn a vague something--was it old age or lost faith?--was
trying to conquer Peter's philosophy and Aunt Polly's spiritual
vision. The _Thing_, whatever it was, was having a tussle, but it made
its marks. Peter sat oftener by the fire with Ginger edging close to
the leg that the gander had once damaged and which, now, acted as an
indicator for Peter's moods. When he did not want to talk his "leg
ached." When his heart sank in despair his "leg ached." But Polly, a
little thinner, a little more dim as to far-off visions, caught every
mood of Peter's and sent it back upon him like a boomerang. She met
his silent hours with such a flare of talk that Peter responded in
self-defence. His black hours she clutched desperately and held them
up for him to look at after she had charged them with memories of
goodness and love.
As for herself? Well, Aunt Polly nourished her own brave spirit by
service and an insistent, demanding cry of justice.
"'Tain't fair and square to hold anything against the Almighty," she
proclaimed, "till you've given Him a chance to show what He did things
for."
Polly waxed eloquent and courageous; she kept her own faith by voicing
it to others; it grew upon reiteration.
Peter was in one of his worst combinations--silence and low
spirits--when Polly entered the kitchen one early afternoon. A glance
at the huddling form by the red-hot range had the effect of turning
Polly into steel. She looked at Ginger, who reflected his master's
moods pathetically, and her steel became iron.
"I suppose if I ask you, Peter, how you're feeling," she said slowly,
calmly, "you'll fling your leg in my face! It's monstrous to see how
an able-bodied man can use any old lie to save his countenance."
"My leg----" Peter began, but Polly stopped him. She had hung her coat
and hood in the closet and came to the fire, patting her thin hair in
order and then stretching her small, blue-veined hands to the heat.
"Don't leg me, Peter Heathcote, I'm terrible ashamed of you. Terrible.
So long as you _have_ legs, brother--and you _have_!--I say use 'em.
Half the troubles in this world are _think troubles_, laid to legs and
backs and what not."
"Where you been?" Peter eyed the stern little face glowering at him.
"You look tuckered."
"I wasn't tuckered until I set my eyes on you, Peter. I've been
considerable set up to-day. I went to Mary-Clare's. She is mighty
heartening. She's gathered all the children she can get and she's
teaching them. She's mimicking the old doctor's plan--making him live
again, she calls it--and the Lord knows we need someone in the Forest
who doesn't set chewing his own troubles, but gets out and does
things!"
Peter winced and Polly rambled on:
"It's really wonderful the way that slip of a thing handles those
children. She has made the yellow house like a fairy story--evergreens,
red leaves and berries hanging about, and all the dogs with red-ribbon
collars. They look powerful foolish, but they don't look like poor
Ginger, who acts as if he was being smothered!"
Peter regarded the dog by his side and remarked sadly:
"I guess we better change this dog's name. Ginger is like an insult to
him. Ginger! Lord-a-mighty, there ain't no ginger left in him."
"Peter, you're all wrong. There are times when I think Ginger is more
gingery than ever. You don't have to dash around after yer tail to
prove yer ginger, the thinking part of you can be terrible nimble even
when yer bones stiffen up. Ginger does things, brother, that sometimes
makes my flesh creepy. Do you know what he does when he can get away
from you?"
"No." Peter's hair sprang up; his face reddened. Polly noted the good
signs and took heart.
"Why, he joins Mary-Clare's dogs and fetches the littlest children to
the yellow house. Carries lunch pails, pulls sleds, and I've seen that
little crippled tot of Jonas Mills' on Ginger's back. Ain't that
ginger fur yer? I tell you, Peter, it's you as ails that dog--he's
what you make him. I reckon the Lord, that isn't unmindful of
sparrows, takes notice of dogs." Then suddenly, Polly demanded:
"Peter, what is it, just?"
Polly drew her diminutive rocker to the stove and settled back against
its gay cretonne cushions--a vivid bird of Paradise flamed just where
her aching head rested.
"Well, Polly"--Peter slapped the leg that he had lied about--"you and
I came to the Forest half a century ago and felt real perky. We
thought, under God, we'd make the Forest something better; the people
more like people. We came from a city with all sorts of patterns of
folks; we had ideas. The Forest gave me health and we were grateful
and chesty. It all keeps coming back and--and swamping me."
"Yes, brother, and what else?"
"At first we did seem to count, under God, of course. We shut up the
bar and fixed up the inn and we thought we was caring for folks and
protecting 'em." Peter gulped.
"I guess the Lord can care for His own, Peter," Polly remarked
fiercely.
"Then Maclin came!" Peter groaned out the words, for this was the crux
of the matter.
"Yes--Maclin came." Aunt Polly wiped her eyes. "And I think, looking
back, that something had to happen to wake us up! Maclin was a
tester."
Peter gave a rumbling laugh.
"Maclin a tester!" he repeated. "Lord, Polly, yer notions are more
messing than clearing."
"Well, anyway, Peter Heathcote, Maclin came, and this I do say: places
are like folks--if their constitutions are all right, they don't take
disease. Maclin was a disease, and we caught him! He settled on us and
we hadn't vim enough to know and understand what he was. If it hadn't
been Maclin it would have been another. As things are I do feel that
Maclin has cleared our systems! The folks were wakened by him as
nothing in the world could have wakened them."
Peter was not listening, he was thinking aloud.
"All our years wasted! We felt so sure that we was capable that we
just let folks fall into the hands of that evil man. Think of
anything, bearing the image of God taking advantage of simple, honest
people and letting them into what he did!"
"I never did think Maclin was in the image of God, Peter. All God's
children ain't the spitting image of Him. And Maclin certainly did us
a good turn when he found iron on the Point. The iron's here--if he
ain't!"
"He meant to turn that and his damned inventions against us. Betray us
to an enemy! And us just sitting and letting him do it!"
"Well, he didn't do it!" Polly snapped. "And it seems like God is
giving us another chance; same as He is the world."
Peter got up and stumped noisily about the kitchen much to Ginger's
surprise and discomfort.
"We're old, Polly," he muttered; "the heart's taken out of us. We led
'em astray because we didn't lead 'em right."
"I'm not old." Polly looked comically defiant. "And my heart's where
it belongs and on the job. It's shame to us, Peter, if we don't use
every scrap that's left of us to undo the failings of the past."
"And that night!" Peter groaned, recalling the night of Maclin's
arrest. "That's what comes of being false to yer trust. Terrible,
terrible! Twombley standing over Maclin with his gun after finding him
flashing lights to God knows who, and then those government men
hauling things out of his bags--why, Polly, in the middle of some
black nights I get to seeing the look on Maclin's face when he was
caught!"
"Now, brother, do be sensible and wipe the sweat off yer forehead.
This room is stifling. Can't you see, Peter, that at a time like that
the Lord had to use what He had, and there was only us to use? Better
Twombley's gun than Maclin's, and you know, full well, they found two
ugly looking guns in Maclin's bag all packed with papers and pictures
of the mines and bits of our own rock--what showed iron. Peter, I
ain't a bloodthirsty woman and the Lord knows I don't hunger for my
fellow's vitals, but I'm willing to give Maclin up to a righteous God.
The Lord knows we couldn't deal with the like of him."
"But, Polly"--poor Peter's humanity had received a terrible jog--"the
look on Maclin's face--when he was caught!"
"Well! he ought to have had a look!" Polly snapped. "Several of us
gave him looks. I remember that the Point men looked just as if it was
resurrection day. They stiffened up and _I_ say, Peter Heathcote,
their backs ain't slumped yet--oh! if only we could keep them stiff!
It was an awful big thing to happen to a little place like the Forest.
It's terrible suggestive!"
But Peter could not be diverted.
"They were fearful rough with him--he, a trapped creature, Polly! I
always feel as if one oughtn't to harry a trapped thing. That's not
God's way. It was all my fault! What was I a magistrate for--and just
standing by--staring?"
"Well, he should have held still--he put up fight. Brother, you make
me indignant."
"They mauled him, Polly, mauled him. And they took him--to what?"
Polly got up.
"Peter," she said, "you're a sick man or you wouldn't be such a fool.
I always did hold that your easy-going ways might lead you into mush
instead of clear vision, and it certainly looks as if I was right.
What you need is a good spring tonic and more faith in God. Maclin was
leading us into--what? Hasn't he sent the old doctor's boy into--what?
The Almighty has got all sorts to deal with--and he's got Maclin, but
we've got what's left. Peter, I put it up to you--what are we going to
do about it?"
"What can we do?" Peter placed his two hands on his wide-spread
knees--for he had dropped exhausted into his chair. "Has any one heard
of Larry?"
This sudden question roused Aunt Polly; she had hoped it would not be
asked.
"Yes, Peter. Twombley has," she faltered.
"Where is he?" Peter's mouth gaped.
"The letter said that when he came back we'd be proud of him
and"--Polly choked--"he begged our pardons--for Maclin. He's gone to
that war--over there. He said it was all he could do--with himself, to
prove against Maclin."
A silence fell in the warm, sunny room. Then Polly spoke with a catch
in her voice:
"Twombley and Peneluna hold that we better not tell Mary-Clare. Better
give Larry a chance to do his proving--before we get any hopes or
fears to acting up."
"I guess that's sensible," Peter nodded, "he mightn't do it, you
know."
Polly was watching her brother. She saw the dejection dropping from
his face like a mask; the hypnotism of fear and repulsion was losing
its hold.
"It's powerful hot here!" Peter muttered, wiping his face. "And what
in thunder ails that dog?"
Ginger was certainly acting queer. He was circling around, sniffing,
sniffing, his nose in the air, his tail wagging. He edged over to the
door and smelt at the crack.
"Fits?" Peter looked concerned. But Polly had an inspiration.
"I believe, Peter," she said solemnly, "Ginger smells--spring! I
thought I did myself as I came along. There were fluffy green edges by
the water. I do love edges, Peter! Let's open the door wide, brother.
We get so used to winter, and live so close, that sometimes we don't
know spring is near. But it is, Peter, it is always on the edge of
winter and God has made dogs terrible knowing. See! There, now, Ginger
old fellow, what's the matter?"
Polly flung the door open and Ginger gave a glad cry and leaped out. A
soft breath of air touched the two gentle old people in the doorway
and a fragrance of young, edgy things thrilled them.
"Peter dear, spring is here!" Polly said this like a prayer.
"Spring!" Peter's voice echoed the sound. Then he turned to the closet
for his coat and hat.
"Where you going, brother?"
The big bulky figure, ready for a new adventure, turned at the door.
"Just going to the Point and stand by! We must take care of the old
doc's leavings. The iron, that boy of his, and--the rest. Come on,
Ginger."
Polly watched the two pass from sight and then she readjusted her
spectacles to the far-off angle.
And while this was occurring at the inn there was a tap on the door of
the yellow house, and with its welcoming characteristic in full play,
the door swung in, leaving a tall woman on the threshold flushed and
apologetic.
"I never saw such a responsive door!" she said. "I really knocked very
gently. Please tell me how far it is to the inn?"
Mary-Clare, her little group of children about her, looked up and
smiled. The smile and the eyes made the stranger's breath come a bit
quicker.
"Just three miles to the south." Mary-Clare came close. "You are
walking? I will send my little girl with you. Noreen?"
But Jan-an was holding Noreen back.
"She's one of them other children of Eve!" she cautioned. "Don't
forget the other one!"
"Thank you so much," the stranger was speaking. "But may I rest here
for a moment? These children--is it a school."
"A queer one, I'm afraid. We're all teachers, all pupils--even the
dogs."
Mary-Clare looked at her small group.
"One has to do something, you know," she said. "Something to help."
"Yes. And will you send the children away for a moment? I have
something to say to you."
Mary-Clare's face went white. Since Maclin's exposure the girl knew a
spiritual fear that never before had troubled her. Maclin and Larry!
Doubt, uncertainty--they had done their worst for Mary-Clare.
When the children were gone the stranger leaned forward and said
quietly:
"I am Mrs. Dana--I am here on government business. There, my dear Mrs.
Rivers, please do not be alarmed--I come as your friend; the friend of
King's Forest; it is on the map, you know."
The tears stood in Mary-Clare's wide eyes, her lips trembled.
"I conscript you!" Mrs. Dana leaned a little further toward Mary-Clare
and took her hands. "I was directed to you, Mrs. Rivers. You must help
me do away with a wrong impression of the Forest. Together we will
tell a story to the outside world that will change a great many
things. We will tell the truth and set the Forest free from
suspicion."
"Oh! can we? Why, that would be the most splendid thing. We're all
so--so frightened."
"Yes. I know. See, I have my credentials"--Mrs. Dana took a notebook
from her bag. "The mines--well, all the danger there is destroyed. The
mines are cleaned out." She was reading from her notes.
"Yes." Mary-Clare was impressed.
"And there's iron on the Point--we must get at that--you own the
Point?"
"No; I gave it to my husband." The words were whispered. "And he sold
it to a Mr. Northrup." There was no holding back in King's Forest
these days.
"I see. Well, we must get this Mr. Northrup busy, then. Where is he?"
Mrs. Dana tucked the book away and her eyes looked kindly into
Mary-Clare's.
"I do not know. He went to his--to the city--New York."
"And you have never heard from him?"
"No."
"Well, Mrs. Rivers, I am your friend and the friend of the Forest.
Together, we ought to be able to do it a good turn. And now, if you
are willing, I would love to borrow your little girl."
On the lake road Noreen, after a few skirmishes, succumbed to one of
her sudden likings--she abandoned herself to Mrs. Dana's charm. With
her head coquettishly set slantwise she fixed her grave eyes--they
were very like her mother's--on Mrs. Dana's face.
"I like the look of you," she confided softly.
"I'm glad. I like the look of you very much, little Noreen."
"Do you know any stories or songs?" Noreen had her private test.
"I used to, but it has been a long while since I thought about them.
Do you know any, Noreen?"
"Oh! many. My man taught me. He taught me to be unafraid, too."
"Your man, little girl?" Mrs. Dana turned her eyes away.
"Yes'm. Jan-an, she's a bit queer, you know, Jan-an says the
ghost-wind brought him. He only stayed a little while, but things
aren't ever going to be the same again. No'm, not ever! He even liked
Jan-an, and most folks don't--at first. His name is Mr. Northrup, but
Jan-an and I call him The Man."
"And he sang for you?"
"Yes'm. We sang together, marching along--this way!" Noreen swung the
hand that held hers. "Do you know--'Green jacket, red cap'?" she
asked.
"I used to. It goes something like this--doesn't it?
"Up the airy mountain
Down the rustly glen----
I have forgotten the rest." Mrs. Dana closed her eyes.
"Oh! that's kingdiferous," Noreen laughed with delight. "I'll sing the
rest, then we'll sing together:
"We daren't go a-hunting
For fear of little men.
Wee folk, good folk
Trooping all together,
Green jacket, red cap
And white owl's feather."
They were keeping step and singing, rather brokenly, for Noreen was
thinking of her man and Mrs. Dana seemed searching, in a blur of
moving men upon a weary road, for a little boy--a very little boy.
"Now, then," Noreen insisted, "we can sing it betterer this time.
"Green jacket, red cap
And white owl's feather."
Suddenly Noreen stopped.
"Your face looks funny," she said. "Your lips are laughing, but your
eyes--is it the sun in your eyes?"
Mrs. Dana bent until her head was close to Noreen's.
"Little girl, little Noreen," she said, "that is it--the sun is in my
eyes."
"There's the inn!" Noreen was uncomfortable. Things were not turning
out quite as gaily as she hoped. Things did not, any more.
"Shall I go right to the door with you?" she asked.
"No. I want to go alone. Good-bye, Noreen."
"I hope you'll stay a long time!" Noreen paused on the road.
"Why, dear?"
"Because Motherly liked you, and I like you. Good-bye."
And Mrs. Dana stayed a long time, though after the first week her
sojourn was marked by incidents, not hours.
"Seems like the days of the creation," Peter confided to Twombley.
"Let there be light--there was light! Get the Forest to work--and the
Forest gets busy! Heard the church is going to be opened--and a
school. Queer, Twombley, how her being a woman and the easy sort, too,
doesn't seem to stop her none."
Twombley shifted in his chair--the two men were sitting in the spring
sunshine by Twombley's door.
"The Government's behind her!" he muttered confidently. "And,
Heathcote, I ain't monkeying with the Government. Since that Maclin
night--anything the Government asks of me, I hold up my hands."
"Yes, I reckon that's safest." Peter was uplifted, but cautious.
"She's set Peneluna to painting all the houses--yeller," Twombley
rambled on, the smell of fresh paint filling his nostrils. "And you
know what Peneluna is when she gets a start. Colour's mighty
satisfying, Peneluna says; but I guess there's more in it than just
colour. The Pointers get touchy about dirt, and creepy insects showing
up on the 'tarnal paint that's slushed everywhere."
"Mighty queer doings!" Heathcote agreed.
"The women are plumb crazy over this government woman," Twombley went
on, "and the children lap out of her hand. She and Mary-Clare are
together early and late. Thick as corn mush."
Peter drew his chair closer.
"Her and Mary-Clare is writing up the doings of the Forest," he
whispered. "Writing things allas makes me nervous. What's writ--is
fixed."
"Gosh! Heathcote; it's like the Judgment Day and no place to hide
in!"
"That's about it, Twombley. No place to hide in."
And then after weeks of strenuous effort Mrs. Dana went away as
suddenly as she had come. She simply disappeared! But there was a
peculiar sense of waiting in the Forest and a going on with what had
been begun. The momentum carried the people along. The church was
repaired, a school house started, the Point cleaned.
* * * * *
The summer passed, another winter--not so cruel as the last--and the
spring came, less violently.
* * * * *
It was early summer when another event shook the none-too-steady
Forest. Larry came home!
Jan-an discovered him sitting on a mossy rock, his back against a
tree. The girl staggered away from him--she thought she saw a vision.
"It is--you, ain't it?" she gasped.
"What's left of me--yes." There was a strange new note in Rivers's
voice.
Jan-an's horror-filled eyes took in the significance of the words.
"Where's--the rest of you?" she gasped.
Larry touched the pinned-up leg of his trousers.
"I paid a debt with the rest," he said, and there was that in his
voice that brought Jan-an closer to him.
"Where yer bound for?" she asked, her dull face quivering.
"I don't know. A fellow gave me a lift and dropped me--here."
"You come along home!" Jan-an bent and half lifted Larry. "Lean on me.
There, now, lean heavy and take it easy."
Mary-Clare was sitting in the living-room, sewing and singing, when
the sound of steps startled her. She looked up, then her face changed
as a dying face does.
"Larry!" she faltered. She was utterly unprepared. She had been kept
in ignorance of the little that others knew.
"I--I'm played out--but I can go on." Larry's voice was husky and he
drooped against Jan-an. Then Mary-Clare came forward, her arms opened
wide, a radiance breaking over her cold white face.
"You have come--home, Larry! Home. Your father's home."
And then Larry's head rested on her shoulder; her arms upheld him, for
the crutch clattered to the floor.
"My father's home," he repeated like a hurt child--"that's it--my
father's home."