At the Crossroads Part 7

The reaction had set in. Worn-out nerves became non-resistant; they ceased to ache. Then it was that Noreen's shrill voice broke the calm:

"Motherly, Motherly, he's come: he's come home!"

Mary-Clare rose stiffly; her hands were spread wide as if to balance her on that dangerous, adventurous trail that lay between her past and the hidden future. There lay the trail: within her soul was a sense of truth and she had strength and courage for the first step. That was all.

"I'm coming, Noreen. I'm coming!" And Mary-Clare staggered on.

CHAPTER IV

Mary-Clare met Noreen at the brook, smiling and calm. The child was trembling and pale, but the touch of her mother's hand rea.s.sured her.

It was like waking from a painful dream and finding everything safe and the dream gone.

"I was just coming down the path with Jan-an, Motherly, when I saw him going in the house."

"Daddy, dear?"

"Yes, Motherly, Daddy. He left a bag in the house; looked all around and then came out. I was 'fraid he was coming to you, so I ran and ran, but Jan-an said she'd stay and fix him if he did."

"Noreen!" The tone was stern and commanding.

"Well, Motherly, Jan-an said that, but maybe she was just funny."

"Of course. Just funny. We must always remember, Noreen, that poor Jan-an is just funny."

"Yes, Motherly."

Things were reduced to normal by the time the little yellow house was reached. Jan-an was there, crouched by the fireplace, upon which she had kindled a welcoming fire after making sure Larry had not gone up the secret trail.

Rivers was not in evidence, though a weather-stained bag, flung hastily on the floor, was proof of his hurried call. He did not appear all day. As a matter of fact, he was at the mines. Failing to find his wife, he had availed himself of the opportunity of announcing his presence to his good friend Maclin, and getting from him much local gossip, and what approval Maclin vouchsafed.

All day, with Jan-an's a.s.sistance, Mary-Clare prepared for the creature comforts of her husband; while Noreen made nervous trips to door and window. At night Jan-an departed--she seemed glad to go away, but not sure that she ought to go; Mary-Clare laughed her into good humour.

"I jes don't like the feelings I have," the girl reiterated; "I'm creepy."

Mary-Clare packed a bag of food for her and patted her shoulder.

"Come to-morrow," she said, and then, after a moment's hesitation, she kissed the yearning, vacant face. "You're going to the Point, Jan-an?"

she asked, and the girl nodded.

Noreen, too, had to be petted into a calmer state--her old aversion to her father sprang into renewed life with each return after an absence.

In a few days the child would grow accustomed to his presence and accept him with indifference, at least, but there was always this struggle.

Mary-Clare herself wondered where Larry was; why he delayed, once having come back to the Forest; but she kept to her tasks of preparation and rea.s.suring Noreen, and so the day pa.s.sed.

At eight o'clock, having eaten supper and undressed the child, she sat in the deep wooden rocker with Noreen in her arms. There was always one story that had power to claim attention when all others failed, and Mary-Clare resorted to it now. Swaying back and forth she told the story of the haunt-wind.

"It was a wonderful wind, Noreen, quite magical. It came from between the south and the east--a wild little wind that ran away and did things on its own account; but it was a good little wind for all that foolish people said about it. It took hold of the bell rope in the belfry, and swung out and out; it swung far, and then it dropped and fluttered about quite dizzily."

"Touching Jan-an?" Noreen suggested sleepily.

"Jan-an, of course. Making her beautiful and laughing. Waking her from her sad dream, poor Jan-an, and giving her strength to do really splendid things."

"I love the wild wind!" Noreen pressed closer. "I'm not afraid of it.

And it found Aunt Polly and Uncle Peter?"

"To be sure. It made Aunt Polly seem as grand and big as she really is--only blind folks cannot see--and it made all the blind folks _see her_ for a minute. And it made Uncle Peter--no; it left Uncle Peter as he is!"

"I like that"--drowsily--"and it made us see the man that went to the inn?" Noreen lifted her head, suddenly alert.

"What made you think of him, Noreen?" Mary-Clare stopped swaying to and fro.

"I don't know, Motherly. Only it was funny how he just came and then the haunt-wind came and Jan-an says she thinks he _isn't_. Really we only think we see him."

"Well, perhaps that's true, childie. He's something good, I hope. Now shut your eyes like a dearie, and Mother will rock and sing."

Mary-Clare fixed her eyes on her child's face, but she was seeing another. The face of a man whose glance had held hers for a strange moment. She had been conscious, since, of this man's presence; his name was familiar--she could not forget him, though there was no reason for her to remember him except that he was new; a something different in her dull days.

But Noreen, eyes obediently closed, was pleading in the strange, foolish jargon of her rare moments of relaxation:

"You lit and lock, Motherly, and I'll luck my lum, just for to-night, and lall aleep."

"All right, beloved; you may, just for to-night, suck the little thumb, and fall asleep while Mother rocks."

After a few moments more Noreen was asleep and Mary-Clare carried her to an inner room and put her on her bed. She paused to look at the small sleeping face; she noted the baby outlines that always were so strongly marked when Noreen was unconscious; it hurt the mother to think how they hardened when the child awakened. The realization of this struck Mary-Clare anew and reinforced her to her purpose, for she knew her hour was at hand.

A week before she had dismantled the room in which she now stood. It had once been Doctor Rivers's chamber; later it had been hers--and Larry's. The old furniture was now in the large upper room, only bare necessities were left here.

Mary-Clare looked about and her face lost its smile; her head lowered--it was not easy, the task she had set for herself, and after Larry's visit to the mines it would be harder. She had hoped to see Larry first, for Maclin had a subtle power over him. Without ever referring to her, and she was sure he did not in an intimate sense, he always put Larry in an antagonistic frame of mind toward her. Well, it was too late now to avert Maclin's influence--she must do the best she could. She went back to the fire and sat down and waited.

It was after ten o'clock when Larry came noisily in. Rivers took his colour from his a.s.sociates and their att.i.tude toward him. He was a bit hilarious now, for Maclin had been glad to see him; had approved of the results of his mission--though as for that Larry had had little to do, for he had only delivered, to certain men, some private papers and had received others in return; had been conscious that non-essentials had been talked over with him, but as that was part of the business of big inventions, he did not resent it. Maclin had paid him better than he had expected to be paid, shared a good dinner with him and a bottle of wine, and now Rivers felt important and aggressive. Wine's first effect upon him was to make him genial.

He had meant to resent Mary-Clare's absence on his arrival, but he had forgotten all about that. He meant now to be very generous with her and let bygones be bygones--he had long since forgotten the words spoken just before he left for his trip. Words due, of course, to Mary-Clare just having had a baby. Almost Larry had forgotten that the baby had been born and had died.

He strode across the room. He was tall, lithe, and good-looking, but his face betokened weakness. All the features that had promised strength and power seemed, somehow, to have missed fulfilment.

Mary-Clare tried to respond; tried to do her full part--it would all help so much, if she only could. But this mood of Larry's was fraught with danger--did she not know? Success did not make him understanding and considerate; it made him boyishly dominant and demanding.

"Well, old girl"--Rivers had slammed the door after him--"sitting up for me, eh? Sorry; but when I didn't find you here, I had to get over and see Maclin. Devilish important, big pull I've made this time.

We'll have a spree--go to the city, if you like--have a real bat."

Mary-Clare did not have time to move or speak; Larry was crushing her against him and kissing her face--not as a man kisses a woman he loves, but as he might kiss any woman. The silence and rigidity of Mary-Clare presently made themselves felt. Larry pushed her away almost angrily.

"Mad, eh?" he asked with a suggestion of triumph in his voice. "Acting up because I ran off to Maclin? Well, I had to see him. I tried to get home sooner, but you know how Maclin is when he gets talking."