At the Crossroads Part 59

"Well, I won't hold you back. You're too good for that, Mother. I've kept the old tower room. I'm going to try to finish my book, now.

Somehow I got to thinking it dead; but lately I've sort of heard it crying out for me. I hope the same little elevator devil is on the job yet. Funny, freckled scamp. He kissed me when I went away--I thought he was going to cry. Queer how a fellow remembered things like that over there. The little snapshots were fixed pictures--and some rather big-sized things shrank."

They bade each other good-night. Mother and son, they looked marvellously alike at that moment. Then:

"I declare, I almost forgot Manly. How has this all struck him, Mother?"

Helen's face was radiant.

"Gave up everything! His hard-won position, his late comfort and ease.

He will have to begin again--he is where he says he belongs--mending and patching."

"He'll reach the top, Mother. Manly's bound for the top of things."

CHAPTER XXIII

Northrup found his tower room but little changed. The dust lay upon it, and a peace that had not held part during the last days before he went away greeted him. More and more as he sat apart the truth of things came to him; he accepted the grim fact that all, everything, is bound by a chain, the links of which must hold, or, if they are broken, they must be welded again together. The world; people; everything in time must pause while repairs were made, and he had done his best toward the mending of a damaged world: toward righting his own mistakes.

It was slow work. Good G.o.d! how slow, and oh, the suffering!

He had paid a high price but he could now look at his city without shame.

This was a fortifying thought, but a lonely one, and it did not lead to constructive work. The days were listless and empty.

Northrup got out his ma.n.u.script--there was life in it, he made sure of that, but it was feeble and would require intelligent concentration in order to justify its existence.

But the intelligence and concentration were not in his power to bestow.

After a few days he regarded his new freedom with strange exhilaration mingled with fear and distrust.

So much had gone down in the wreck with Kathryn. So much that was purely himself--not her--that readjustment was slow. How would it have been, he wondered, back in the King's Forest days, had he not been upheld by a sense of duty to what was now proven false and wrong?

One could err in duty, it seemed.

He was free! He had not exacted freedom! It had been thrust upon him so brutally, that it had, for a spell, sent him reeling into s.p.a.ce.

Not being able to resume his work, Northrup got to thinking about King's Forest with concentration, if not intelligence.

He had purposely refrained, while he was away, from dwelling upon it as a place in which he had some rights. He used, occasionally, to think of Twombley, sitting like a silent, wary watch-dog, keeping an eye on his interests. He had heard of the Maclin tragedy--Helen Northrup felt it wise to give him that information while withholding much more; that was, in a way, public knowledge.

Things were at least safe now in the Forest, Northrup believed. This brought him to the closer circle. He felt a sudden homesickness for the inn and the blessed old pair. A kind of mental hunger evolved from this unwholesome brooding that drove Northrup, as hunger alone can, to s.n.a.t.c.h whatever he could for his growing desire to feed upon.

He shifted his thoughts from Mary-Clare and the Heathcotes to Larry Rivers. Where was he? Had he kept his part of the bargain? What had Mary-Clare done with her hard-won freedom?

Sitting alone under his dome of changing lights, Northrup became a prey to whimsical fancies that amused while they hurt.

As the lighted city rose above the coa.r.s.er elements that formed it, so the woman, Mary-Clare, towered over other women. Such women as Kathryn! The bitterness of pain lurked here as, unconsciously, Northrup went back over the wasted years of misplaced faith.

The sweet human qualities he knew were not lacking in Mary-Clare. They were simply heightened, brightened.

All this led to but one thing.

Something was bound to happen, and suddenly Northrup decided to go to King's Forest!

Once this decision was reached he realized that he had been travelling toward it since the night of his scene with Kathryn. The struggle was over. He was at rest, and began cheerfully to make preparations. Of course, he argued, he meant to keep the spirit, if not the letter, of his agreement with Larry Rivers.

This was not safe reasoning, and he set it aside impatiently.

He waited a few days, deliberating, hoping his mother would return from a visit she was making at Manly's hospital in the South. When at the end of a week no word came from her, he packed his grip and set forth, on foot again, for the Forest.

He did the distance in half the time. His strong, hardened body served him well and his desire spurred him on.

When he came in sight of the crossroads a vague sense of change struck him. The roads were better. There was an odd little building near the yellow house. It was the new school, but of that Northrup had not heard. From the distance the chapel bell sounded. It did not have that lost, weird note that used to mark it--there was definiteness about it that suggested a human hand sending forth a friendly greeting.

"Queer!" muttered Northrup, and then he did a bold thing. He went to the door of the yellow house and knocked. He had not intended to do that.

How quiet it was within! But again the welcoming door swayed open, and for a moment Northrup thought the room was empty, for his eyes were filled with the late afternoon glow.

It was autumn and the days were growing short.

Then someone spoke. Someone who was eager to greet and hold any chance visitor. "Come in, Mary-Clare will be back soon. She never stays long."

At that voice Northrup slammed the door behind him and strode across the s.p.a.ce separating him from Larry Rivers!

Larry sat huddled in the chintz rocker, his crutch on the floor, his thin, idle hands clasped in his lap. He wore his uniform, poor fellow!

It gave him a sense of dignity. His eyes, accustomed to the dimmer light, took in the situation first; he smiled nervously and waited.

Northrup in a moment grasped the essentials.

"So you've been over there, too?" was what he said. The angry gleam in his eyes softened. At least he and Rivers could speak the common language of comrades-in-arms.

"Yes, I've been there," Larry answered. "When I came back, I had nowhere else to go. Northrup, you wonder why I am here. Good G.o.d! How I've wanted to tell you."

"Well, I'm here, too, Rivers. Life has been stronger than either of us. We've both drifted back."

Larry turned away his head. It was then that Northrup caught the full significance of what life had done to Rivers!

"Northrup, let me talk to you. Let me plunge in--before any one comes.

They won't let me talk. It's like being in prison. It's h.e.l.l. I've thought of you, you're the only one who can really help. And I dared not even ask for you!"

Larry was now nervously twisting his fingers, and his face grew ashen.

"I'm listening, Rivers. Go on."

Northrup had a feeling as if he were back among those scenes where time was always short, when things that must be said hurriedly gripped a listener. The conventions were swept aside.