Northrup found his tower room but little changed. The dust lay upon
it, and a peace that had not held part during the last days before he
went away greeted him. More and more as he sat apart the truth of
things came to him; he accepted the grim fact that all, everything, is
bound by a chain, the links of which must hold, or, if they are
broken, they must be welded again together. The world; people;
everything in time must pause while repairs were made, and he had done
his best toward the mending of a damaged world: toward righting his
own mistakes.
It was slow work. Good God! how slow, and oh, the suffering!
He had paid a high price but he could now look at his city without
shame.
This was a fortifying thought, but a lonely one, and it did not lead
to constructive work. The days were listless and empty.
Northrup got out his manuscript--there was life in it, he made sure of
that, but it was feeble and would require intelligent concentration in
order to justify its existence.
But the intelligence and concentration were not in his power to
bestow.
After a few days he regarded his new freedom with strange exhilaration
mingled with fear and distrust.
So much had gone down in the wreck with Kathryn. So much that was
purely himself--not her--that readjustment was slow. How would it have
been, he wondered, back in the King's Forest days, had he not been
upheld by a sense of duty to what was now proven false and wrong?
One could err in duty, it seemed.
He was free! He had not exacted freedom! It had been thrust upon him
so brutally, that it had, for a spell, sent him reeling into space.
Not being able to resume his work, Northrup got to thinking about
King's Forest with concentration, if not intelligence.
He had purposely refrained, while he was away, from dwelling upon it
as a place in which he had some rights. He used, occasionally, to
think of Twombley, sitting like a silent, wary watch-dog, keeping an
eye on his interests. He had heard of the Maclin tragedy--Helen
Northrup felt it wise to give him that information while withholding
much more; that was, in a way, public knowledge.
Things were at least safe now in the Forest, Northrup believed. This
brought him to the closer circle. He felt a sudden homesickness for
the inn and the blessed old pair. A kind of mental hunger evolved from
this unwholesome brooding that drove Northrup, as hunger alone can, to
snatch whatever he could for his growing desire to feed upon.
He shifted his thoughts from Mary-Clare and the Heathcotes to Larry
Rivers. Where was he? Had he kept his part of the bargain? What had
Mary-Clare done with her hard-won freedom?
Sitting alone under his dome of changing lights, Northrup became a
prey to whimsical fancies that amused while they hurt.
As the lighted city rose above the coarser elements that formed it, so
the woman, Mary-Clare, towered over other women. Such women as
Kathryn! The bitterness of pain lurked here as, unconsciously,
Northrup went back over the wasted years of misplaced faith.
The sweet human qualities he knew were not lacking in Mary-Clare. They
were simply heightened, brightened.
All this led to but one thing.
Something was bound to happen, and suddenly Northrup decided to go to
King's Forest!
Once this decision was reached he realized that he had been travelling
toward it since the night of his scene with Kathryn. The struggle was
over. He was at rest, and began cheerfully to make preparations. Of
course, he argued, he meant to keep the spirit, if not the letter, of
his agreement with Larry Rivers.
This was not safe reasoning, and he set it aside impatiently.
He waited a few days, deliberating, hoping his mother would return
from a visit she was making at Manly's hospital in the South. When at
the end of a week no word came from her, he packed his grip and set
forth, on foot again, for the Forest.
He did the distance in half the time. His strong, hardened body served
him well and his desire spurred him on.
When he came in sight of the crossroads a vague sense of change struck
him. The roads were better. There was an odd little building near the
yellow house. It was the new school, but of that Northrup had not
heard. From the distance the chapel bell sounded. It did not have that
lost, weird note that used to mark it--there was definiteness about it
that suggested a human hand sending forth a friendly greeting.
"Queer!" muttered Northrup, and then he did a bold thing. He went to
the door of the yellow house and knocked. He had not intended to do
that.
How quiet it was within! But again the welcoming door swayed open, and
for a moment Northrup thought the room was empty, for his eyes were
filled with the late afternoon glow.
It was autumn and the days were growing short.
Then someone spoke. Someone who was eager to greet and hold any chance
visitor. "Come in, Mary-Clare will be back soon. She never stays
long."
At that voice Northrup slammed the door behind him and strode across
the space separating him from Larry Rivers!
Larry sat huddled in the chintz rocker, his crutch on the floor, his
thin, idle hands clasped in his lap. He wore his uniform, poor fellow!
It gave him a sense of dignity. His eyes, accustomed to the dimmer
light, took in the situation first; he smiled nervously and waited.
Northrup in a moment grasped the essentials.
"So you've been over there, too?" was what he said. The angry gleam in
his eyes softened. At least he and Rivers could speak the common
language of comrades-in-arms.
"Yes, I've been there," Larry answered. "When I came back, I had
nowhere else to go. Northrup, you wonder why I am here. Good God! How
I've wanted to tell you."
"Well, I'm here, too, Rivers. Life has been stronger than either of
us. We've both drifted back."
Larry turned away his head. It was then that Northrup caught the full
significance of what life had done to Rivers!
"Northrup, let me talk to you. Let me plunge in--before any one comes.
They won't let me talk. It's like being in prison. It's hell. I've
thought of you, you're the only one who can really help. And I dared
not even ask for you!"
Larry was now nervously twisting his fingers, and his face grew
ashen.
"I'm listening, Rivers. Go on."
Northrup had a feeling as if he were back among those scenes where
time was always short, when things that must be said hurriedly gripped
a listener. The conventions were swept aside.
"They--they couldn't understand, anyway," Larry broke in. "They've got
a fixed idea of me; they wouldn't know what it was that changed me,
but you will.
"Everyone's kind. I haven't anything to complain of, but good God!
Northrup, I'm dying, and what's to be done--must be done quickly.
You--see how it is?"
"Yes, Rivers, I see." There could be no mercy in deceiving this
desperate man.
"I knew you would. Day after day, lately, I've been saying that over
in my mind. I remembered the night in the shack on the Point. I knew
you would understand!"
"Perhaps your longing brought me, Rivers. Things like that happen, you
know."
Northrup, moved by pity, laid his hand on the shrunken ones near him.
All feeling of antagonism was gone.
"It began the night I was shot," Larry's voice fell, "and Mary-Clare
will not let me talk of those times. She thinks the memory will keep
me from getting well! Good Lord! Getting well! Me!
"There were two of us that night, Northrup, two of us crawling away
from the hell in the dark. You know!"
"Yes, Rivers, I know."
"I'd never met him--the other chap--before, but we got talking to each
other, when we could, so as to--to keep ourselves alive. I told him
about Mary-Clare and Noreen. I couldn't think of anything else. There
didn't seem to be anything else. The other fellow hadn't any one, he
said.
"When help came, there was only room for one. One had to wait.
"That other chap," Larry moistened his lips in the old nervous fashion
that Northrup recalled, "that other chap kept telling them about my
wife and child--he said he could wait; but they must take me!
"God! Northrup, I think I urged them to take him. I hope I did, but I
cannot remember--I might not have, you know. I can remember what he
said, but I can't recall what I said."
"I think, Rivers, you played fair!"
"Why? Northrup, what makes you think that?" The haggard face seemed to
look less ghastly.
"I've seen others do it at such a time."
"Others like me?"
"Yes, Rivers, many times."
"Well, there were weeks when nothing mattered," Larry went on, "and
then I began to come around, but something in me was different. I
wanted, God hearing me, Northrup, I wanted to make what that other
chap had done for me--worth while.
"When I got to counting up what I'd gone through and holding to the
new way I felt, I began to get well--and--then I came home. Came to my
father's house, Northrup--that's what Mary-Clare said when she saw
me.
"That's what it is--my father's house. You catch on?"
"Yes, Rivers, I catch on." Then after a pause: "Let me light the
lamp." But Rivers caught hold of him.
"No, don't waste time--they may come back at any moment--there'll
never be another chance."
"All right, go on, Rivers."
The soft autumn day was drawing to its close, but the west was still
golden. The light fell on the two men near the window; one shivered.
"There isn't much more to say. I wanted you to know that I'm not going
to be in the way very long.
"You and I talked man to man once back there in the shack. Northrup,
we must do it now. We needn't be damned fools. I've got a line on
Mary-Clare and yes, thank God! on you. I can trust you both. She
mustn't know. When it's all over, I want her to have the feeling that
she's played square. She has, but if she thought I felt as I do
to-day, it would hurt her. You understand? She's like that. Why, she's
fixed it up in her mind that I'm going to pull through, and she's
braced to do her part to the end; but"--here Larry paused, his dull
eyes filled with hot tears; his strength was almost gone--"but I
wanted you to help her--if it means what it once did to you."
"It means that and more, Rivers."
Northrup heard his own words with a kind of shock. Again he and Rivers
were stripped bare as once before they had been.
"It--it won't be long, Northrup--there's damned little I can do to--to
make good, but--I can do this."
The choking voice fell into silence. Presently Northrup stood up.
Years seemed to have passed since he had come into the room. It was a
trick of life, in the Forest, when big things happened--they swept all
before them.
"Rivers, you are a brave man," he slowly said. "Will you shake
hands?"
The thin cold fingers instantly responded.
"God helping me, I will not betray your trust. Once I would not have
been so sure of myself, but you and I have been taught some strange
truths."
Then something of the old Larry flashed to the surface: the old, weak
relaxing, the unmoral craving for another's solution of his problems.
"Oh, it always has to be someone to help me out," he said.
"You know about Maclin?"
"Yes, Rivers."
"Well, I did the turn for that damned scoundrel. I got the Forest out
of his clutches."
"Yes, you did when you got your eyes opened, Rivers."
"They're open now, Northrup, but there always has to be--someone to
help me out."
"Rivers, where is your wife?" So suddenly did Northrup ask this that
Larry started and gave a quick laugh.
"She went to that cabin of hers--you know?"
"Yes, I know."
Both men were reliving old scenes.
Then Larry spoke, but the laugh no longer rang in his tone:
"She'll be coming, by now, down the trail," he whispered. "Go and meet
her, tell her you've been here, that I told you where she was--nothing
more! Nothing more. Ever!"
"That's right, never!" Northrup murmured. Then he added:
"I'll come back with her, Rivers, soon. I'm going to stay at the inn
for a time."
Their hands clung together for a moment longer while one man
relinquished, the other accepted. Then Northrup turned to the door.
There was a dull purplish glow falling on the Forest. The subtle,
haunting smell of wood smoke rose pungently. It brought back, almost
hurtingly, the past. Northrup walked rapidly along the trail.
Hurrying, hurrying to meet--he knew not what!
Presently he saw Mary-Clare, from a distance, in the ghostly woods.
Her head was bowed, her hands clasped lightly before her. There was no
haste, no anticipation in her appearance; she simply came along!
The sight of youth beaten is a terrible sight, and Mary-Clare, off her
guard, alone and suffering, believed herself beaten. She was close to
Northrup before she saw him. For a moment he feared the shock was
going to be too great for her endurance. She turned white--then the
quick red rose threateningly, the eyes dimmed.
Northrup did not speak--he could not. With gratitude he presently saw
the dear head lift bravely, the trembling smile curl her cold lips.
"You--have come!"
"Yes, Mary-Clare."
"How--did you know--where I was?"
"I stopped at the yellow house. I saw your--I saw Larry--he told me
where to find you."
"He told you that?"
The bravery flickered--but pride rallied.
"He is very changed." The words were chosen carefully. "He is very
patient and--and Noreen loves him. She never could have, if he had not
come back! She--well, you remember how she used to take care of me?"
"Yes, Mary-Clare."
"She takes care of her father in that way, now that she understands
his need."
"She would. That would be Noreen's way."
"Yes, her way. And I am glad he came back to us. It might all have
been so different."
There was a suggestion of passionate defence in the low, hurried
words, a quick insistence that Northrup accept her position as she
herself was doing.
"Yes, Mary-Clare. Your old philosophy has proved itself."
"I am glad you believe that."
"I have come to the Forest to tell you so. The things that do not
count drop away. We do not have to push them from our lives."
"Oh! I am glad to hear you say that."
Mary-Clare caught her breath.
There seemed to be nothing to keep them apart now--a word, a quick
sentence were all that were necessary to bridge the past and the
present. Neither dared consider the future.
The small, common things crept into the conversation for a time, then
Mary-Clare asked hesitatingly:
"You--you are happy? And your book?"
"The book is awaiting its time, Mary-Clare. I must live up to it. I
know that now. And the girl you once saw here, well! that is all past.
It was one of those things that fell away!"
There was nothing to say to this, but Northrup heard a sharp indrawing
of the breath, and felt the girl beside him stumble on the darkening
trail.
"You know I went across the water to do my part?" he asked quickly.
"You would, of course. That call found such men as you. Larry went,
too!" This came proudly.
"Yes, and he paid more than I did, Mary-Clare."
"He had more to pay--there was Maclin. Do you know about Maclin?"
"Yes. It was damnable. We all scented the evil, but we're not the sort
of people to believe such deviltry until it's forced upon us."
"It frightened us all terribly," Mary-Clare's voice would always hold
fear when she spoke of Maclin. "I do not know what would have happened
to the Forest if--a Mrs. Dana had not come just when things were at
the worst."
There are occurrences in life that seem always to have been half
known. Their acceptance causes no violent shock. As Mary-Clare
spoke that name, Northrup for a moment paused, repeated it a bit
dazedly, and, as if a curtain had been withdrawn, he saw the broad,
illuminating truth! "You have heard of Mrs. Dana?" Mary-Clare
asked. That Northrup knew so much did not surprise her.
"Yes, of course! And it would be like her to drop in at the
psychological moment."
"She set us to work!" Mary-Clare went on. "She is the most wonderful
woman I ever knew."
"She must be!"
Slower and slower the two walked down the trail. They were clutching
the few golden moments.
It was quite dark when they came to the yellow house. The door was
wide open, the heart of the little home lay bare to the passer-by.
Jan-an was on her knees by the hearth, puffing to life the kindlings
she had lighted. Larry's chair was drawn close and upon its arm Noreen
was perched.
"They always leave it so for me," Mary-Clare whispered. "You see how
everything is?"
"Yes, I see, Mary-Clare."
Northrup reached forth and drew the small clasped hands into his
own!--then he bent and kissed them.
"I see, I see."
"And you will come in? Larry loves company."
"Not to-night, Mary-Clare, but to-morrow. I am going to stay at the
inn for a few days."
"Oh! I am glad!" Almost the brave voice broke.
"There is something else I see, my dear," Northrup ignored the poor
disguise for a moment. "I see the meaning of _you_ as I never saw it
before. You have never broken faith! That is above all else--it is all
else."
"I have tried." Upon the clasped hands tears fell, but Northrup caught
the note of joy in her grieving voice.
"You have carried on what your doctor entrusted to you."
"Oh! thank you, bless you for saying that."
"Good-night." Northrup released the cold hands--they clung for a
moment in a weak, human way. "There is to-morrow, you know," he
whispered.
Alone, a little later, on the road, Northrup experienced that strange
feeling of having left something back there in the yellow house.
He heard the water lapping the edge of the road where the sumach grew;
the bell, with its new tone, sounded clearly the vesper hour; and on
ahead the lights of the inn twinkled.
And then, as if hurrying to complete the old memory, Mary-Clare seemed
to be following, following in the darkness.
Northrup's lips closed grimly. He squared his shoulders to his task.
He must go on, keeping his mind fixed upon the brighter hope that
Mary-Clare could not, now, see; must not now see. For her, there must
be the dark stretch; for him the glory of keeping the brightness
undimmed--it must be a safe place for her to rest in, by and by. "She
has kept the faith with life," Northrup thought. "She will keep it
with death--but love must keep faith with her."
THE END
End of Project Gutenberg's At the Crossroads, by Harriet T. Comstock