But beyond that exalted moment stretched the plain, drear days. Days
holding subtle danger and marvellous revelations.
Larry, with his superficial gripping of surface things, grew merry and
childishly happy. He had paid a debt, God knew. Shocked by the Maclin
exposure, he had been roused to decency and purpose as he had never
been before. He felt now that he had redeemed the past, and
Mary-Clare's gentleness and kindness meant but one thing to Rivers.
And he wanted that thing. His own partial regeneration had been
evolved through hours of remorse and contrition. Alone, under strange
skies and during long, danger-filled nights, he had caught a glimpse
of his poor, shivering soul, and it had brought him low in fear, then
high in hope.
"Perhaps, if I pay and pay"--he had pleaded with the sad thing--"I can
win out yet!"
And sitting in the warm, sunny room of the yellow house, Larry began
to believe he had! It was always so easy for him to see one small
spot.
At the first he was a hero, and the Forest paid homage to him;
listened at his shrine and fed his reviving ego. But heroes cloy the
taste, in time, and the most thrilling tales wax dull when they are
worn to shreds. More and more Larry grew to depend upon Mary-Clare and
Noreen for company and upon Jan-an for a never-failing listener to his
tales.
Noreen, just now, puzzled Mary-Clare. The child's old aversion to her
father seemed to have passed utterly from her thought. She was devoted
to him; touched his maimed body reverently, and wooed him from the sad
moments that presently began to overpower him.
She assumed an old and protecting manner toward him that would have
been amusing had it not been so tragically pathetic.
Every afternoon Larry took a nap, sitting in an old kitchen rocker.
Poised on the arm of the chair, her father's head upon her tiny
shoulder, Noreen sang him to sleep.
"You're my baby, daddy-linkum, and I'm your motherly. Come, shut your
eyes, and lall a leep!"
And Larry would sleep, often to awake with an unwholesome merriment
that frightened Mary-Clare.
One late summer afternoon she was sitting with him by the open door.
The beautiful hills opposite were still rich with flowers and green
bushes. Suddenly Larry said:
"It's great, this being home!"
"I'm glad home was here for you to come to, Larry." Mary-Clare felt
her heart beat quicker--not with love, but the growing fear.
"Are you, honest?"
"Yes, Larry. Honest."
"I wonder." It was the old voice now. "When I lay out there, and
crawled along----"
"Please, Larry, we have agreed not to talk of that!"
"Yes, I know, but even then, while I was crawling, I got to thinking
what I was crawling back to--and counting the chances and whether it
was worth while."
"Please, Larry!"
"All right!" Then, in the new voice: "You're beautiful, Mary-Clare.
Sometimes, sitting here, I get to wondering if I really ever saw you
before. Second sight, you know."
"Yes, second sight, Larry."
"And Noreen--she is mine, Mary-Clare." This was flung out defiantly.
"Part yours. Yes, Larry."
"She's a great kid. Old as the hills and then again--a baby-thing."
"We must not strain her, Larry, we cannot afford to put too heavy a
load on her. She would bear it until she dropped."
"Don't get talking booky, Mary-Clare. You don't as much as you once
did." A pause, then hardly above a whisper: "Do you go to the cabin in
the woods now, Mary-Clare?"
"I haven't been there for a long while, Larry." Mary-Clare's hands
clutched each other until the bones ached.
"I'm sorry, Mary-Clare, God knows I am, for what I did up there. It
was the note as drove me mad. Across--over there, I used to read that
note, you and he were queer lots."
"Larry, I will not talk about that--ever!"
"You can't forgive?"
"I have forgiven long ago."
"Nothing happened between you and him, Mary-Clare. You're great stuff.
Great! And so is he."
A thin, blue-veined hand stole out and rested on Mary-Clare's head and
Mary-Clare looked down at the empty place where Larry's strong right
leg should have been. A divine pity stirred her, but she knew now, as
always, that Larry did not crave pity; sympathy; and the awful Truth
upheld Mary-Clare in her weak moment. She would never again fail
herself or him by misunderstanding.
"When I'm well, Mary-Clare, you'll be everything to me, won't you?
We'll begin again. You, me, and little Noreen. You are lovely, girl!
The lights in your hair dance, your neck is white, and----"
The heart of Mary-Clare seemed to stop as the groping fingers touched
her.
"Look at me, Mary-Clare!"
There was the tone of the conqueror in the words--Larry laughed. Then
Mary-Clare looked at him! Long and unfalteringly she let her eyes meet
his, and there was that in them that no man misunderstands.
"You mean you do not care?" Larry's voice shook like a frightened
child's; "that you'll never care?"
"I care tremendously, Larry, and I will do my best. But you must not
ask for more."
"Good God! and I crawled back for this!" The words ended in a sob;
"for this! I thought I could pay but I cannot--ever, ever!"
* * * * *
And in the distant city Helen Northrup waited for her son. There had
been a cable--then the long silence. He was on the way, that was all
she knew.
In the work-room Helen tried to keep to the routine of her days. Her
work had saved her; strengthened her. Her contact with people had
given her vision and sympathy. She was marvellously changed, but of
that she took little heed.
And then Northrup came, unannounced. He stood in the doorway of the
room where his mother sat bent upon her task on the desk before her.
For a moment he hardly knew her. He had feared to find her broken,
crushed beyond the hope of health and joy. He had counted that
possibility among the things that his experience had cost him. A wave
of relief, surprise, and joy swept over him now.
"Mother!"
Helen paused--her pen held lightly--then she rose and came toward him.
Her face Northrup was never to forget. So might a face look that
welcomed the dead back to life. Just for one, poor human moment, they
could not speak, they simply clung close. After that, life caught them
in its common current.
The afternoon, warm and sunny, made it possible for the windows to be
open wide; there were flowers blooming in a window-box and a cool
breeze, now and again, drew the white curtains out, then released them
with a little sighing sound. The peacefulness and security stirred
Northrup's imagination.
"It doesn't seem possible, you know!" he said.
"Being home, dear?" Helen watched him. Every new line of his fine
brown face made her lips firmer.
"Yes. I'd given up hope, and then when hope grew again I was afraid to
crawl back. You'll laugh, but I was afraid to come home and find
things just the same! I couldn't have stood it, after what I learned.
I would have felt like a ghost. A lot of fellows feel this way. It's
all a mistake for our home folks to think they're doing the best for
us by trying to fool us into forgetting."
"Brace, we've tried, all of us, to be worthy of you boys. Even they
who attempt the thing you mention are doing it for the best. Often it
is the hardest way."
They were both thinking of Kathryn. Monstrous as it might seem, Brace
recalled her as she looked that day--pulling the shades of the
automobile down! That ugly doubt had haunted him many times.
Helen was half sick with fear of what would occur when Brace saw
Kathryn.
"I ought not keep you, son," she said weakly. "You ought to go to
Kathryn. No filial duty toward me, dear! I'm a terribly self-sufficient
woman."
"Bully! And that's why I want to have dinner with you alone. I've got
used to the self-sufficient woman--I like her."
It was long after eight o'clock, that first evening, when Northrup
left his mother's house.
So powerfully hypnotic is memory that as he walked along in the bland
summer night he shivered and recalled the snowstorm that blotted him
out after his last interview with Kathryn. With all earnestness he had
prepared himself for this hour. He was ready to take up his life and
live it well--only so could he justify what he had endured. His
starved senses, too, rose to reinforce him. He craved the beauty,
sweetness, and tenderness--though he was half afraid of them. They had
so long been eliminated from his rugged existence that he wondered how
he was again to take them as his common fare.
He paused before touching the bell at the Morris house. Again that
hypnotic shiver ran over him; but to his touch on the bell there was
immediate response.
"Will you wait, sir, in the reception-room?" The trim maid looked
flurried. "I will tell Miss Kathryn at once."
Northrup sat down in the dim room, fragrant with flowers, and a sense
of peace overcame his doubts.
Now the Morris house was curiously constructed. The main stairway and
a stairway leading to a side entrance converged at the second landing,
thus making it possible for any one to leave the house more privately,
should he so desire, than by the more formal way.
After leaving Northrup in the reception-room, the maid was stopped by
Miss Anna Morris somewhere in the hall. A hurried whispered
conversation ensued and made possible what dramatically followed.
A door above opened--the library door--and it seemed to set free
Kathryn's nervous, metallic laugh and Sandy Arnold's hard, indignant
words:
"What's the hurry? I guess I understand." Almost it seemed as if the
girl were pushing the man before her. "I was good enough to pass the
time with; pay for your fun while you weighed the chances."
"Please, Sandy, you are cruel." Kathryn was pleading.
"Cruel be damned! And what are you? I want you--you've told me that
you loved me--what's the big idea?"
"Oh! Sandy, do lower your voice. Aunt Anna will think the servants are
quarrelling."
"All right." Sandy's voice sank a degree. "But I'm going to put this
to you square----" The two above had come to the dividing stairways.
"What in thunder!" Sandy gave a coarse laugh. "Keeping to the servant
notion, eh? Want me to go out the side door? Why?"
"Oh! Sandy, you won't mind?--I have a reason, I'll tell you some
day."
There was a pause, a scuffle. Then:
"Sandy, you are hurting me!"
"All right, don't struggle then. Listen. I'm going away for two weeks.
You promise if Northrup comes home, during that time, to tell him?"
"Yes; yes, dear," the words came pantingly smothered. "All right, and
if you don't, I will! I'm not the kind to see a woman sacrifice
herself for duty. By the Lord! Northrup shall know from you--or me!
Now kiss me!"
There were the hurried steps--down the side stairs! Then flying ones
to the library--the maid was on her way with her message--but Northrup
dashed past her, nearly knocking her over.
He strode heavily to the library door, which had been left open, and
stood there. A devil rose in him as he gazed at the girl, a bit
dishevelled, but lovely beyond words.
For a moment, smiling and cruel, he thought he would let her
incriminate herself; he would humiliate her and then fling her off.
But this all passed like a blinding shock.
Kathryn had turned at his approach. She stood at bay. He frightened
her. Had he heard? Or was it mad passion that held him? Had he just
come to the house refusing to be announced?
"Brace! Brace!" she cried, her lovely eyes widening. "You have come."
Kathryn stepped slowly forward, her arms outstretched. She looked as a
captive maiden might before the conqueror whose slave she was willing
to become. As she advanced Northrup drew back. He reached a chair and
gripped it. Then he said quietly:
"You see, I happened to hear you and Arnold."
Kathryn's face went deadly white.
"I had to tell him something, Brace; you know how Sandy is--I knew I
could explain to you; you would understand." The pitiful, futile words
and tone did not reach Northrup with appeal.
"You can explain," he said harshly, "and I think I will understand,
but I want the explanation to come in my way, if you please. Just
answer my questions. Have you ever told Arnold--what he just made you
promise to tell me?"
Kathryn stood still, breathing hard.
"Yes or no!"
The girl was being dragged to a merciless bar of judgment. She
realized it and all her foolish defences fell; all but that power of
hers to leap to some sort of safety. There still was Arnold!
"Yes," she said gaspingly.
"You mean you love Arnold; that only duty held you to me?"
"Yes."
"Well, by God!" Northrup flung his head back and laughed--"and after
all I have been fearing, too!"
To her dying day Kathryn never knew what he meant by those words.
There was a moment's silence, then Northrup spoke again:
"I don't think there is anything more to say. Shall I take the side
entrance?"
Outside, the summer night was growing sultry; a sound of thunder broke
the heavy quiet of the dark street--it brought back memories that were
evil things to remember just then.
"Good God!" Northrup thought, "we're coming back to all kinds of
hells."
He was bitter and cynical. He hardly took into account, in that hard
moment, the feeling of release; all his foregone conclusions, his
stern resolves, had been battered down. He had got his discharge with
nothing to turn to.
In this mood he reached home. More than anything he wanted to be by
himself--but his mother's bedroom door was open and he saw her sitting
by the window, watching the flashes of heat lightning.
He went in and stood near her.
"I've about concluded," he said harshly, "that the fellows who keep to
the herd are the sensible ones."
The words conveyed no meaning to Helen Northrup, but the tones did.
"Sit down, dear," she said calmly. "If this shower strikes us, I do
not want to be alone."
Northrup drew a chair to the window and the red flashes lighted his
face luridly.
"Having ideals is rot. Dying for them, madness. Mother, it's all over
between Kathryn and me!"
Helen's own development had done more for her than she would ever
realize, but from out its strength and security she spoke:
"Brace, I am glad! Now you can live your ideals."
Northrup turned sharply.
"What do you mean?" he said.
"Oh! we've all been so stupid; so blind. Seeing the false and calling
it the truth. Being afraid; not daring to let go. My work has set me
free, son. Lately I have seen the girl that Kathryn _really_ is,
looming dark over the girl she made us believe she was. I have feared
for you, but now I am glad. Brace, there _are_ women a man can count
on. Cling hold of that."
"Yes, I know that, of course."
"Women whose honour is as high and clear as that of the best of men."
"Yes, Mother."
Helen looked at the relaxed form close to her. She yearned to confide
fully in him, tell him how she had guarded his interests while he
fared afar from her. She thought of Mary-Clare and the love and
understanding that now lay between her and the girl whose high honour
could, indeed, be trusted.
But she realized that this son of hers was not the kind of man whose
need could be supplied by replacing a loss with a possible gain. He
had been dealt a cruel blow and must react from it sanely. The time
was not yet come for the telling of the King's Forest story.
Northrup needed comfort, Heaven knew, but it must come from within,
not without.
At that instant Helen Northrup gripped the arms of her chair and sent
a quick prayer to the God of mothers of grown sons.
"The storm seems to be passing," she said quietly.
"Yes, and the air is cooler." Northrup stood up and his face was no
longer hopeless. "Are you going to stay in town all summer?" he
asked.
"I was waiting for you, dear. As soon as you get settled I must take a
short trip. Business, you know. I do enjoy the short trips, the
comings home; the feeling of moving along; not being relegated to an
armchair."
"Mother, how _did_ you do it?"
"Oh! it was easy enough, once I threw off my own identity. Identities
are so cramping, Brace; full of suggestions and fears. I took my
mother's maiden name--Helen Dana. After that, I just flew ahead."
"Well, I won't hold you back. You're too good for that, Mother. I've
kept the old tower room. I'm going to try to finish my book, now.
Somehow I got to thinking it dead; but lately I've sort of heard it
crying out for me. I hope the same little elevator devil is on the job
yet. Funny, freckled scamp. He kissed me when I went away--I thought
he was going to cry. Queer how a fellow remembered things like that
over there. The little snapshots were fixed pictures--and some rather
big-sized things shrank."
They bade each other good-night. Mother and son, they looked
marvellously alike at that moment. Then:
"I declare, I almost forgot Manly. How has this all struck him,
Mother?"
Helen's face was radiant.
"Gave up everything! His hard-won position, his late comfort and ease.
He will have to begin again--he is where he says he belongs--mending
and patching."
"He'll reach the top, Mother. Manly's bound for the top of things."