At the Crossroads Part 31

"Largely, yes."

"I do not think that. There are some things bigger to him. Maybe not bigger, but things that he would choose instead of love, if he had to.

It is what you _do_ to love that matters. If you come and take it when you haven't a right to it; when you'd be stealing it; letting other sacred things go for it--then you would be killing love. But if you honour it, even if it is lonely and often sad, it lives and lives and----"

The universe, at that momentous instant, seemed to rock and tremble.

Everything was swept aside as by a Force that but bided its hour and had taken absolute control.

Northrup was never able to connect the two edges of conscious thought that were riven apart by the blinding stroke that left him and Mary-Clare in that s.p.a.ce where their souls met. But, thank G.o.d, the Force was not evil; it was but revealing.

Northrup drew Mary-Clare to her feet and held her little work-worn hands close.

"You are crying--suffering," he whispered.

"Yes."

"And----"

"Oh! please wait"--the deep sobs shook the girl--"you must wait. I'll try to--to make you see. I was awake that night at the inn--that is why I--trust you now! Why I want you to--to understand."

She seemed pleading with him--it made him wince; she was calling forth his best to help her weakest.

"Your book"--Mary-Clare gripped that again--"your book is a beautiful, live thing--we must keep it so! Your man has grown and grown through every page until he quite naturally believed he was able to--to do more than any man can ever do! Why, this is your chance to be different, stronger." The quick, panting words ran into each other and then Mary-Clare controlled them while, unheeded, the tears rolled down her cheeks. "You must let your woman _act_ for herself! She, too, must learn and know. She made a horrible mistake from _not_ knowing and seeing the first man; no love can help her by taking the solution from her. She must be free--free and begin again. If it is right----"

"Yes, Mary-Clare. If it is right, what then?"

Everything seemed to wait upon the answer. The scurrying wood creatures and the dropping of dead leaves alone broke the silence.

Slowly, like one coming into consciousness, Mary-Clare drew one hand from Northrup's, wiped her eyes, and then--let it fall again into his!

"I can see clearer now," she faltered. "Please, please try to understand. It is because love means so much to some women, that when they think it out with their women-minds they will be very careful of it. They will feel about it as men do about their honour. There must be times when love must stand aside if they want to keep it! I know how queer and crooked all this must sound, but men do not stop loving if their honour makes them turn from it. We are all, men and women, too, _parts_--we cannot act as if--oh! you do understand, I know you do, and some day you will go on with your beautiful book."

"And the end of my book, Mary-Clare? There must be an end."

"I do not know. I do not think a great big book ever ends any more than life ends."

Northrup was swept from his hard-wrought position at this. The next wave of emotion might carry him higher, but for the moment he was drifting, drifting.

"You do not know life, nor men, nor women," he said huskily and clutched her hands in his. "If life cheats and injures you, you have a right to s.n.a.t.c.h what joy you can. It's not only what you do to love, but what you do to yourself, that counts. For real love can stand anything."

"No, it cannot!" Mary-Clare tried to draw away, but she felt the hold tighten on her hands; "it cannot stand dishonour. That's what kills it."

"Dishonour! What _is_ dishonour?" Northrup asked bitterly. "I'm going to prove as far as I can, in my book, that the right kind of man and woman with a big enough love can throttle life; cheat the cheater."

This came defiantly.

But the book no longer served its purpose; it seemed to fall at the feet of the man and woman, standing with clasped hands and hungry, desperate eyes.

The words that might have changed their lives were never spoken, for, down the trail gaily, joyously, came the sound of Noreen's voice, shrilly singing one of the songs Northrup had taught her.

"That's what I mean by honour," Mary-Clare whispered. "Noreen and all that she is! You, you _do_ understand about some women, don't you? You will help, not hurt, such women, won't you?"

"For G.o.d's sake, Mary-Clare, don't!"

Northrup bent and touched his lips to the small work-stained hands.

The song down the trail rose joyously.

"I have thought of you"--Mary-Clare was catching her breath sharply--"as Noreen has--a man brought by the haunted wind. It has all been like a wonderful play. I have not thought of the place where you belong, but I know there are those in that place who are like Noreen."

"Yes!" Northrup shivered and flinched as a cold, wet leaf fell upon his hands and Mary-Clare's.

"The wind is changing," said the woman. "The lovely autumn has been kind and has stayed long."

"My dear, my dear--don't!" Northrup pleaded.

"Oh! but I must. You see I want you to think back, as I shall--at all this as great happiness. Come, let us go down the trail. I want you to tell me about your city, the place where you belong! I must picture you there now."

Northrup kept the small right hand in his as they turned. It was a cold hand and it trembled in his grasp, but there was a steel-like quality in it, too.

It was tragic, this strength of the girl who had drawn her understanding of life from hidden sources. Northrup knew that she was seeking to smooth his way on ahead; to take the bitterness from a memory that, without her sacrifice, might hold him back from what had been, was, and must always be, inevitable. She was ignoring the weak, tempted moment and linking the past with all that the future must hold for them both.

There was only the crude, simple course for him to follow--to accept the commonplace, turn and face life as one turns from a grave that hides a beautiful thing.

"You have never been to the city?"

There was nothing to do but resort to words. Superficial, foolish words.

"Yes, once. On my wedding trip."

This was unfortunate, but words without thought are wild things.

Mary-Clare hurried along while visions of Larry's city rose like smiting rebukes to her heedlessness. Cheap theatres, noisy restaurants, gaudy lights.

"My dear doctor and I always planned going together," she said brokenly. "I believe there are many cities in the city. One has to find his city for himself."

"Yes, that's exactly what one does." Northrup closed his hand closer over the dead-cold one in his grasp.

"Your city, it must be wonderful."

"It will be a haunted city, Mary-Clare."

"Tell me about it. And tell me a little, if you don't mind, about your people."

The bravery was almost heart-breaking, it caused Northrup's lips to set grimly.

"There is my mother," he replied.

"I'm glad. You love her very much?"

"Very much. She's wonderful. My father died long ago."

Mary-Clare did not ask whether he loved his father or not, and she hurried on: