At the Crossroads Part 42

They stood in the dark for a moment and then, because there was nothing more to say--Northrup went to meet Kathryn Morris.

He went in at one of the end doors, not the middle one, and so disturbed Kathryn's stage setting. He opened and closed the door so quietly, walked over to the fire so rapidly, that to rise and carry out her programme was out of the question, so Kathryn remained on the hearth and Northrup dropped into the chair beside her.

"Well, little girl," he said--people always lowered their voices when speaking to Kathryn--"what is it?"

Northrup was braced for bad news. Of course Manly had given his address to Kathryn--it was something beyond the realm of letters and telegrams that had occurred; Kathryn had been sent! That Manly was not prime mover in this matter could not occur to Northrup.

"Is it Mother?" he whispered.

Kathryn nodded and her easy tears fell.

"Dead?" The word cut like a knife and Kathryn shivered. For the first she doubted herself; felt like a bungler.

"Oh! no, Brace; Brace, do not look like that--really--really--listen to me."

Northrup breathed heavily.

"An accident?" he demanded. A hard note rang in his words. This turn of affairs was rather more than Kathryn had arranged for. It was like finding herself on the professional stage when she had bargained for an amateur performance.

She ran to cover, abandoning all her well-laid plans. She knew the advantage of being the first in a new situation, so she hurried there.

"Brace dear, I--you know I have been bearing it all alone and I dared _not_ take any further responsibility even to--to shield you, dearest, and your work."

By some dark magic Northrup felt himself a selfish brute; a deserter of duty.

"Kathryn," he said, and his eyes fell, "please tell me. I suppose I have been unforgivable, but--well, there's nothing to say!" Northrup bowed his head to take whatever blow might fall.

"I may be all wrong, dear. You know, when one is alone, is the confidante of another, one as precious as your mother is to you and me, it unnerves one--I did not know what to do. It may not be anything--but how could I know?"

"You went to Manly?" Northrup asked this with a sense of relief while at the same time Kathryn had risen to a plane so high that he felt humbled before her. He was still dazed and in the dark, but all was not lost!

While he had been following his selfish ends, Kathryn had stood guard over all that was sacred to him. He had never before realized the strength and purpose of the pretty child near him. He reached out and laid his hand on the bowed head.

"No, dear, that was it. Your mother would not let me--she thought only of you; you must not be worried, just now--oh! you know how she is!

But, dearest, she has had, for years, a strange and dreadful pain. It does not come often, but when it does, it is very, very bad--it comes mostly at night--so she has been able to hide it from you; the day following she always spoke of it as a headache--you know how we have sympathized with her--but never were alarmed?"

Northrup nodded. He recalled those headaches.

"Well, a week ago she called me to come to her--she really looked quite terrible, Brace. I was so frightened, but of course I had to hide my feelings. She says--oh! Brace, she says there is--way back in the family----"

"Nonsense!" Northrup got up and paced the floor. "Manly has told me that was sheer nonsense. Go on, Kathryn."

"Well, dear, she was weak and _so_ pitiful and she--she confided things to me that I am sure she would not have, had she been her brave, dear self."

"What kind of things?"

It was horrible, but Northrup was conscious of being in a net where the meshes were wide enough to permit of his seeing freedom but utterly cutting him off from it.

What he had subconsciously hoped the night before, what his underlying strength had been founded upon, he would never be able to know, for now he felt every line of escape from, heaven knew what, closing upon him; permitting no choice, wiping out all the security of happiness; leaving--chaff. For a moment, he forgot the question he had just asked, but Kathryn was struggling to answer it.

"About you and me, Brace. Oh! help me. It is so hard; so hard, dear, to tell you, but you must realize that because of the things she said, I estimated the seriousness of her condition and I cannot spare myself! Brace, she knows that you and I--have been putting off our marriage because of her!"

There was one mad moment when Northrup felt he was going to laugh; but instantly the desire fled and ended in something approaching a groan.

"Go on!" he said quietly, and resumed his seat by the fire.

"I think we have been careless rather than thoughtful, dear. Older people can be hurt by such kindness--if they are wonderful and proud like your mother. She cannot bear to--to be an obstacle."

"An obstacle? Good Lord!" Northrup jammed a log to its place and so relieved his feelings.

"Well, my dearest, you must see the position I was placed in?"

"Yes, Kathryn, I do. You're a brick, my dear, but--how did you know where I was, if you did not go to Manly?"

Kathryn looked up, and all the childlike confidence and sweetness she could summon lay in her lovely eyes.

"Dearest, I remembered the address on the letter you sent to your mother. Because I wanted to keep this secret about our fear from her--I came alone and I knew that people here could direct me if you had gone away. I was prepared to follow you--anywhere!"--Kathryn suddenly recalled her small hand-bag upstairs--"Brace, I was frightened, bearing it alone. I _had_ to have you. Oh! Brace."

Northrup found the girl in his arms. His face was against hers--her tears were falling and she was sobbing helplessly. The net, it was a purse net now, drew close.

"Brace, Brace, we must make her happy, together. I will share everything with you--I have been so heedless; so selfish--but my life is now yours and--hers!"

Guilt filled the aroused soul of Northrup. As far as in him lay he--surrendered! With characteristic swiftness and thoroughness he closed his eyes and made his dash!

"Kathryn, you mean you will marry me; you will--do this for me and her?"

"Yes."

Just then Aunt Polly came into the room. Her quick, keen eye took in the scene and her gentle heart throbbed in sympathy. She came over to the two and hovered near them, patting Northrup's shoulder and Kathryn's head indiscriminately. She crooned over them and finally got them to the dining-room and the evening meal.

An early start for the morrow was planned, and by nine o'clock Kathryn went to her room.

Northrup was restless and nervous. There was much to be done before he left. He must see Rivers and finish that business--it might have to be hurried, but he felt confident that by raising Larry's price he could secure his ends. And then, because of the finality in the turn of events, Northrup desperately decided upon a compromise with his conscience. Strange as it now seemed he had, before his talk with Kathryn, believed that he was done forever with his experience, but he realized, as he reconsidered the matter, that hope, a strange, blind hope, had fluttered earlier but that now it was dead; dead!

Since that was the case, he would do for a dead man--Northrup gruesomely termed himself that--what the dead man could not do for himself. Surely no one, not even Rivers, would deny him that poor comfort, if all were known. He would write a note to Mary-Clare, go early in the morning to that cabin on the hill and leave it--where her eye would fall upon it when she entered.

That the cabin was sacred to Mary-Clare he very well knew; that she shared it with no one, he also knew; but she would forgive his trespa.s.sing, since it was his only way in honour out--out of her life.

Very well, then! At nine-thirty he decided to go over to the Point again and, if he found Larry, finish that business. If Larry were not there, he would lie in wait for him and gain his ends. So he prepared for another night away from the inn, if necessary.

Aunt Polly, hovering on the outskirts of all that was going on, materialized, as he was about leaving the house like a thief of the night.

"Now, son, must you go out?" she pleaded, her spectacles awry on the top of her head, her eyes unnaturally bright.

"Yes, Aunt Polly." Northrup paused, the k.n.o.b of the door in hand, and looked down at the little creature.

"Is it fair, son?" Aunt Polly was savagely thinking of the gossip of the Forest--she wildly believed that Northrup might be going to the yellow house. The hurry of departure might blind him to folly.

"Fair--fair to whom, Aunt Polly?" Northrup's brows drew together.