At the Crossroads Part 50

"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 G.o.d 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 G.o.d in this," she whispered. "G.o.d could have found another way. I have--lost G.o.d. I fear most of us have."

"Perhaps we never had Him," Northrup murmured.

"But there _is_ G.o.d--somewhere." Helen's voice quivered. "I shall always be near you, beloved, always, and perhaps--G.o.d 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 s.p.a.ce 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 d.a.m.nable; 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, G.o.d 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 pa.s.sed. 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 b.u.t.ton 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 sc.r.a.p-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: