At the Crossroads Part 4

"On the other hand," Northrup gave a relieved laugh, "I am intensely interested. You see, she looks so young, that Mrs.--Mrs.----"

"Rivers?" suggested Heathcote refilling his pipe. "Lord! I wonder if any one ever called Mary-Clare Mrs. Rivers before, Polly?" Heathcote paused, then went on:

"Yes; Mary-Clare holds her own and her boy-togs help the idea.

Mary-Clare ain't properly grown up, anyway. Some parts of her are terrible strong and thrifty; parts as has caught the sunlight, so to speak, and been sheltered from blasts. The other parts of her ain't what you might say shrivelled, but they've kept hid and they ain't ever on exhibition."

"How ridiculous you _are_, brother." Aunt Polly was enjoying her brother's flights, but felt called upon to keep him in order.

"Oh! it's just a blamed amusing fancy of mine," Heathcote chuckled, "to calculate 'bout Mary-Clare. You see, being a magistrate, I married Mary-Clare to Larry, and I've never been at ease about the thing, though I had to put it through. There lay ole Doc looking volumes and not being able to speak a word--nothing to do for him but keep him company and try to find out what he wanted. He kept on wanting something like all possessed. Larry and Mary-Clare hung over him asking, was it this or that? and his big, burning eyes sorter flickering, never steady. I recall old Peneluna Todd was there and she said the young uns were pestering the ole Doc. Then, it was 'long about midnight, Larry rose up from asking some question, and there was a new look on his face, a white, frozen kind of look. Mary-Clare kinder sprang at him. 'What is it?' she whispered, and I ain't never forgot her face. At first Larry didn't answer and he began shaking, like he had the chills.

"'You must tell me, Larry!' Mary-Clare went up close and took Larry by the shoulders as if she was going to tear his secret from him. Then she went on to say how he had no right to keep anything from her--her, as would give her soul for the ole Doc. She meant it, too. Well, Larry sort of dragged it out of himself. Ole Doc wanted him and Mary-Clare to marry! That was what was wanted! There wasn't much time to consider things, but Mary-Clare went close to the bed and knelt down and said slowly and real tender:

"'You can hear me, can't you, Daddy?' The flicker in ole Doc's eyes steadied. I reckon any call of Mary-Clare's could halt him, short of the other side of Jordan. 'Then, dearie Dad, listen.' Just like that she said it. I remember every word. 'You want me to marry Larry--now?

It would make you--happy?' The steady look seemed to kinder freeze. I called it a listening look more than an understanding one. I'll allas hold to that, but G.o.d knows there warn't much time to calculate.

Peneluna began acting up but Mary-Clare set her aside.

"'All right, Daddy darling!' she whispered, and with that she stood up and said to me, 'You marry us at once! Come close so that he can see and know!'

"Things go here in the Forest that don't go elsewhere; I married them two because I couldn't help it--something drew me on. And then just when I got to the end, ole Doc rose up like he was lifted--he stared at what was pa.s.sing; tried to say something, and sank back smiling--dead!"

Northrup wiped his forehead. There were drops of perspiration on it, and his breath came roughly through his throat; he seemed part of the dramatic scene.

"Satisfied, _I_ say!" broke in Aunt Polly. "It _was_ a big risk, but the dying see far, and the doctor had left all he had to Mary-Clare, which didn't seem just right to his flesh-and-blood boy, and I guess he wanted to mend a bad matter the only way he could."

"Maybe!" sighed Peter. "Maybe. But he took big chances even for a dying man. I couldn't get rid of the notion that when he cottoned to what had been done, he sorter threw up his hands! But what happened to Mary-Clare just took my breath. 'Pon my soul, as I looked at her it was like I saw her going away after ole Doc and leaving, in her place, a new, different woman that really didn't count so long as she looked after things while the real Mary-Clare went about her business. It was disturbing and I felt downright giddy."

"You're downright silly, Peter Heathcote"--Polly tossed her knitting aside and s.h.i.+fted the pillows of the couch--"making Mary-Clare out the way you do when she's ordinary enough and doing her life tasks same as other folks."

"How has it worked out?" Northrup heard the words as if another spoke them.

"I guess, friend, that's what no one actually knows." Peter pulled on his pipe. "Larry is on and off. Maclin, over to the mines, seems to do the ordering of Larry's coming and going. Darned funny business, I say. However, there you are. When Larry is home I guess the way Mary-Clare holds her head and laughs gets on his nerves. No man likes to feel that he can't clutch hold of his wife, but it comes to that, say what you will, Mary-Clare keeps free of things in a mighty odd fas.h.i.+on; I mean the real part of her; the other part goes regular enough.

"She don't slacken up on her plain duty. What the ole Doc left she shares right enough with Larry; she keeps the house like it should be kept, and she's a good second to Polly here, where fodder is concerned. But something happened when Larry was last home that leaked out somehow. A girl called Jan-an let it slip. Not a quarrel exactly, but a thing that wasn't rightfully settled. Larry was ordered off, sudden, by Maclin, but take it from me, when Larry comes back he'll get his innings. Larry isn't what you could call a sticker, but he gets there all the same. He ain't going to let any woman go too far with him. That's where Larry comes out strong--with women."

"I don't know as you ought to talk so free, brother." Polly looked dubious.

"In the meantime," Northrup said quietly, "the little wife lives alone in the yellow house, waiting?" He hadn't heard Polly's caution.

He was thinking of Mary-Clare's look when she confronted him the day of his coming. Was she expecting her husband? Had she learned to love him? Was she that kind of woman? The kind that thrives on neglect and indifference?

"Not alone, as you might say," Heathcote's voice drawled. "There's Noreen, her little girl, you know. Noreen seems at times to be about a thousand years older than her mother, but by actual count she's going on six, ain't that it, Polly?"

Again Northrup felt as he had that day by the lightning-shattered tree.

"Her little girl?" he asked slowly, and Aunt Polly raised her eyes to his face. She looked troubled, vaguely uneasy.

"Yep!" Peter rose stiffly. He wanted to go to bed. "Noreen's the saving from the litter. How many was there, Polly?"

Polly got upon her feet, the trouble-look growing in her eyes.

"Noreen had a twin as was dead," she said tenderly. "Then the last one lived two hours--that's all, brother." She walked to the window. "The storm is setting this way," she went on. "Just listen to that lake acting up as if it was the ocean."

The riotous swish of the water sounded distant but insistent in the warm, quiet room, and faintly, at rare intervals, the bell, rung by unseen forces, struck dully. It had given up the struggle.

Northrup, presently, had a strong inclination to say to his host that he had changed his mind and must leave on the morrow. That course seemed the only safe and wise one.

"But why?" Something new and uncontrolled demanded an answer. Why, indeed? Why should anything he had heard cause him to change his plans? This hectic story of a young woman had set his imagination afire, but it must not make a fool of him. What really was taking place became presently overpoweringly convincing.

"I am going to write!"

That was it! The story had struck his dull brain into action and he had been caught in time, before running away. He had gained the thing he had been pursuing, and he might have let it escape! The woman of the yellow house became a mere bearer of a rare gift--his restored power! He was safe; everything was safe. The world had righted itself at last. It wasn't the woman with the dun-coloured ending to her story that mattered; it was the story.

"I think I'll turn in," he said, stifling a yawn, "Good-night."

"Don't hurry about breakfast," Aunt Polly said gently. "Breakfast is only a starter, I always hold. It's like kindlings to start the big logs. Sleep well, and G.o.d bless you!"

She smiled up at her guest as if he were an old friend--come back!

Up in his room Northrup had difficulty in keeping himself from work.

He dared not begin; if he did he would write all night. He must be sure. In the meantime, he wrote to his mother:

By the above heading you'll see how far I've got on my way, searching for my lost health. I'm really in great shape. Manly was right: I had to let go! I'm struggling now between two courses.

Apparently I was in a blue funk; all I needed was to find it out.

Well, I've found it out. Shall I come home and prove it by doing the sensible thing, or shall I go on and make it doubly sure? If anything important turns up I would telegraph, but in case I _do_ go on I want to do the job thoroughly and for a time lose myself.

I will wait your word, Mother.

Northrup was not seeking to deceive any one. He might strike out for new places in a week, or he might, if the mood held, write in King's Forest. It all depended upon the mood. What really mattered was an unfettered state.

The vagrant in him, that had been starved and denied, rose supreme.

Now that he was sure that he was going to write, had a big theme, there was excuse for his desire to be free. He would return to his c.h.i.n.k in the wall, as Manly explained, better fitted for it and with a wider vision. He had a theory that a writer was, more or less, like a person with a contagious disease: he should be exiled until all danger to the peace and happiness of others was past. If only the evenly balanced folks would see that and not act as if they were being insulted!

While he undressed, Northrup was sketching his plot mentally. In the morning it would be _fixed_; it would be more like copying than creating when a pen was resorted to.

"I'll take that girl in the yellow house and do no end of things with her. Dual personality! Lord, and in this stagnant pool! All right.

Dual personality. Now she must get a jog about her husband and wake up! Two men and one woman. Triangle, of course. Nothing new under G.o.d's heaven. It's the handling of the ragged old things. I can make rather a big story out of the ingredients at hand."

Northrup felt that he was going to sleep; going to rise to the restored desire for work. No wonder he laughed and whistled--softly; he had overtaken himself!

Three days later a telegram came from Mrs. Northrup.

"Go on," it said simply. Mrs. Northrup knew when it was wisest to let go. But this was not true of Kathryn Morris, the other woman most closely attached to Northrup's life. Kathryn never let go. When she lost interest in any one, or anything, she flung it, or him, from her with no doubtful att.i.tude of mind. Kathryn meant to marry Northrup some day and he fully expected to marry her, though neither of them could ever recall just when, or how, this understanding had been arrived at.

It was, to all appearances, a most fitting outcome to close family interests and friends.h.i.+ps. It had just naturally happened up to the point when both would desire to bring it to a culmination. The next step, naturally, must be taken by Kathryn for, when Northrup had ventured to suggest, during his convalescence, a definite date for their wedding, Kathryn had, with great show of tenderness, pushed the matter aside.

The fact was, marriage to Kathryn was not a terminal, but a way station where one was obliged to change for another stretch on a pleasant and unhampered journey, and she had no intention of marrying a possible invalid or, perhaps, a dying man.

So while Northrup struggled out of his long and serious illness, Kathryn played her little game under cover. Some women, rather dull and stupid ones, can do this admirably if they are young enough and lovely enough to carry it through, and Kathryn was both. She had also that peculiar a.s.set of looking divinely intuitive and sweet during her silences, and it would have taken a keen reader of human nature to decide whether Kathryn Morris's silences brooded over a rare storeroom of treasure or over a haunted and empty chamber.