At the Crossroads Part 47

"Well, then, child, take this along with you, wherever you bide for a time. I'm here and G.o.d Almighty's here and things is safe! You get that?"

"Yes, Peneluna."

"Then listen--'The solitary place shall be glad--and a highway shall be there--and a way.'" The confused words fell into a crooning song.

"Solitary Place----" Mary-Clare drifted to it, her eyes closed wearily, but she smiled and Peneluna believed that she had found The Way. Whether it wound back or out--well! Peneluna turned to her task of nursing. She had the gift of healing and she had an understanding heart, and so she took command.

It was a rough and difficult Way and beset with dangers. A physician came and diagnosed the case.

"Bad fall--almost concussion."

Aunt Polly came and shared the nursing. Jan-an mechanically attended to the house while Uncle Peter took Noreen under his care.

The dull, uneventful days dragged on before Mary-Clare came back to her own. One day she said to Jan-an, "I--I want you to go to the cabin, Jan-an. I have given it--back to G.o.d. Close the windows and doors--for winter has come!"

Jan-an nodded. She believed Mary-Clare was "pa.s.sing out"--she was frightened and superst.i.tious. She did not pause to explain to Peneluna, in the next room, where she was going, but covering her head and shoulders with an old shawl, she rushed forth.

It was bitingly cold and the dry twigs struck against the girl's face like ice. The ghost-wind added terror to the hour, but Jan-an struggled on.

When she reached the cabin it was nearly dark--the empty room was haunted by memories and there were little scurrying creatures darting about. Standing in the centre of the room, Jan-an raised her clenched hands and extended them as if imploring a Presence. If Mary-Clare had given the Place back to G.o.d, then it might be that G.o.d was there close and--listening. Jan-an became possessed by the spiritual. She lifted her faithful, yearning eyes and spoke aloud.

"G.o.d!" She waited. Then: "G.o.d, I'm trusting and I ain't afraid--much!

G.o.d, listen! I fling this to Your face. Yer raised Lazarus and others from the dead and Mary-Clare ain't dead yet--can't Yer--save her? Hear me! hear me!"

Surely G.o.d heard and made answer, for that night Mary-Clare's Way turned back again toward the little yellow house.

When she was able, Aunt Polly insisted that she be moved to the inn.

"It will make less trouble all around and Peneluna will stay on."

So they went to the inn, and the winter settled down upon the Forest and the Point and the mines. The lake was frozen and became a glittering highway; children skated; sleighs darted here and there.

The world was shut away and things sank into the old grooves.

During her convalescence Mary-Clare had strange visionary moments. She seemed to be able at times to detach herself from her surroundings and, guided by almost forgotten words of Northrup's, find herself--with him. And always he was alone. She never visualized his mother; she could, thank heaven, eliminate Kathryn.

She was alone with Northrup in a high place. They did not speak or touch each other--but they knew and were glad! There seemed to be mists below them, surrounding them; mists that now and then parted, and she and Northrup would eagerly try to--see things! Mary-Clare imagined herself in that high place as she did Northrup, a personality quite outside her own.

After awhile those moments took more definite shape and form. She and Northrup were trying to see their city in the mists; trying to create their city.

This became a thrilling mental exercise to Mary-Clare, and in time she saw a city. Once or twice she almost felt him as she, that girl of her own creation, reached out to the man whom she loved; who loved her, but who knew, as she did, that love asks renunciation at times as well as acceptance if one were to keep--truth.

Presently Mary-Clare was able to walk in the sunshine and then she often went to the deserted chapel and sat silent for hours.

And there Maclin found her one day--a smiling, ingratiating Maclin.

Maclin had been much disturbed by Larry's abrupt and, up to the present, successful escape. Of course Maclin's very one-track mind had at the hour of Rivers's disappearance accounted for things in a primitive way. Northrup had bought Larry off! That was simple enough until Northrup himself disappeared.

At this Maclin was obliged to do some original conjecturing. There must have been a scene--likely enough in that wood cabin. Northrup's woman had got the whip hand and Northrup had accepted terms--leaving Mary-Clare. That would account for the illness.

So far, so good. But with both Larry and Northrup off the ground, the Heathcotes would have to take responsibility. This would be the psychological moment to buy the Point! So Maclin, keeping watch, followed Mary-Clare to chapel island.

"Well, well!" he exclaimed as if surprised to see the girl in the angle of the old church. "Decided to get well, eh? Taking a sun bath?"

Mary-Clare gathered her cloak closer, as if shrinking from the smiling, unwholesome-looking man.

"Yes, I'm getting well fast," she said.

"Hear anything from Larry?" It seemed best to hide his own feelings as to Larry.

"No."

"Some worried, I expect?"

"No, I do not worry much, Mr. Maclin." Mary-Clare was thinking of her old doctor's philosophy. She wasn't going to die, so she must live at once!

"It's a d.a.m.ned mean way to treat a little woman the way you've been treated."

Maclin stepped nearer and his neck wrinkled. Mary-Clare made no reply to this. Maclin was conscious of the back of his neck--it irritated him.

"Left you strapped?" he asked.

"What is that?" Mary-Clare was interested.

"Short of money."

"Oh! no. My wishes are very simple--there's money enough for them."

"See here, Mrs. Rivers, let's get down to business. Of course you know I want the Point. I'll tell you why. The mines are all right _as_ mines, but I have some inventions over there ripe for getting into final shape. Now, I haven't told a soul about this before--not even Larry--but I always hold that a woman _can_ keep her tongue still. I'm not one of the men who think different. I want to put up a factory on the Point; some model cottages and--and _make_ King's Forest. Now what would you take for the Point, and don't be too modest. I don't grind the faces of women."

Maclin smiled. The fat on his face broke into lines--that was the best a smile could do for him. Mary-Clare looked at him, fascinated.

"Speak up, Mrs. Rivers!" This came like a poke in the ribs--Mary-Clare recoiled as from a physical touch.

"I do not own the Point any longer," she said.

"What in thunder!" Maclin now recoiled. "Who then?"

"I gave it to Larry."

"How the devil could Larry pay you for it?"

"Larry gave me no money."

"Do you expect me to believe this, Mrs. Rivers?" The fat now resumed its flaccid lines.

"It doesn't interest me in the least, Mr. Maclin, whether you do or not."

Then Mary-Clare rose, rather weakly, and turned toward the bridge.

And there stood Maclin alone! Like all people who have much that they fear to have known, Maclin considered now how much Larry really knew?