At the Crossroads Part 15

When the service came to an end, Peneluna arose and with grave dignity walked from the room, Mary-Clare following.

"Now the Pointers can have their way 'cording to rule, Mary-Clare,"

she whispered, "but you and me understand, child. And listen to this, I ain't much of a muchness, but come thick or thin, Mary-Clare, I'll do my first and last for you 'cause of the secret lying 'twixt us."

Then Mary-Clare asked the question that was hurting her with its weight.

"Peneluna, was it love, the thing that made you glad, through it all, just to wait?"

"I don't rightly know, Mary-Clare. It was something too big for me to call by name, but I just couldn't act different and kill it, not even when her as once was French made me feel I oughter. I wouldn't darst harm that feeling I had, child."

"And it paid?"

"I don't know. I only know I was glad, when he called last night, that I was waiting."

Then Mary-Clare raised her face and kissed the old, troubled, fumbling lips. The thing, too big for the woman, was too big for the girl; but she knew, whatever it was, it must not be hurt.

"What are you going to do now?" she asked.

"G.o.d knows, Mary-Clare. The old doctor gave this place to Philander, and he gave me mine, next door. I think, till I get my leadings, I'll hold to this and see what the Lord wants me to do with my old shack.

I allas find someone waiting to share. Maybe Jan-an will grow to fit in there in time. When she gets old and helpless she'll need some place to crawl to and call her own. I don't know, but I'm a powerful waiter and I'll keep an eye and ear open."

On the walk home Mary-Clare grew deeply thoughtful. The recent scene took on enormous significance. Detached from the pitiful setting, disa.s.sociated from the two forlorn creatures who were the actors in the tragic story, there rose, like a bright and living flame, a something that the girl's imagination caught and held.

That something was quite apart from laws and codes; it came; could not be commanded. It was something that marriage could not give, nor death kill. Something that could exist on the Point. Something that couldn't be got out of one's heart, once it had entered in. What was it? It wasn't duty or just living on. It was something too big to name. Why was the wonder of it crowding all else out--after the long years?

Mary-Clare left the Point behind her. She entered the sweet autumn-tinted woods beyond which lay her home. She hoped--oh!

yearningly she hoped--that Larry would not be there, not just yet. She would go for Noreen; she would stay awhile with Aunt Polly and tell her about what had just occurred--the service, but not the secret thing.

Suddenly she stood still and her face shone in the dim woods. Just ahead and around a curve, she heard Noreen's voice. But was it Noreen's?

Often, in her wondering moments, Mary-Clare had pictured her little girl as she longed for her to be--a glad, unthinking creature, such as Mary-Clare herself had once been, a singing, laughing child. And now, just out of sight, Noreen was singing.

There was a rich gurgle in the flute-like voice; it came floating along.

"Oh! tell it again, please! I want to learn it for Motherly. It is awfully funny--and make the funny face that goes with it--the crinkly-up face."

"All right. Here goes!

"Up the airy mountain, Down the rustly glen--

that's the way, Noreen, scuffle your feet in the leaves--

"We daren't go a-hunting For fear of little men.

Wee folk, good folk Trooping all together, Green jacket, red cap, And white owl's feather--

Here, you, Noreen, play fair; scuffle and keep step, you little beggar!"

"But I may step on the wee men, the good men," again the rich chuckle.

"No, you won't if you scuffle and then step high; they'll slip between your feet."

Then came the tramp, tramp of the oncoming pair. Big feet, little feet. Long strides and short hops.

So they came in view around the turn of the rough road--Northrup with Noreen holding his hand and trying to keep step to the swinging words of the old song.

And Northrup saw Mary-Clare, saw her with a slanting sunbeam on her radiant face. The romance of Hunter's Point was in her soul, and the wonder of her child's happiness. She stood and smiled that strange, unforgettable smile of hers; the smile that had its birth in unshed tears.

Northrup hurried toward her, taking in, as he came, her loveliness that could not be detracted from by her mud-stained and rough clothing. The feeling of knowing her was in his mind; she seemed vividly familiar.

"Your little daughter got homesick, or mother-sick, Mrs. Rivers"--Northrup took off his hat--"Aunt Polly gave me the privilege of bringing her to you. We became friends from the moment we met. We've been making great strides all day."

"Thank you, Mr.----"

"Northrup."

"Thank you, Mr. Northrup. You have made Noreen very happy--and she does not make friends easily."

"But, Motherly," Noreen was flushed and eager. "_He_ isn't a friend.

Jan-an told me all about him. He's something the wild-wind brought.

You are, aren't you, Mr. Sir?"

Northrup laughed.

"Well, something like that," he admitted. "May I walk along with you, Mrs. Rivers? Unless I go around the lake, I must turn back."

And so they walked on, Noreen darting here and there quite unlike her staid little self, and they talked of many things--neither could have told after just what they talked about. The conversation was like a stream carrying them along to a definite point ordained for them to reach, somewhere, some time, on beyond.

"How on earth could she manage to be what she is?" pondered Northrup.

"She's read and thought to some purpose."

"What does he mean by being here?" pondered Mary-Clare. "This isn't just a happening."

But they chatted pleasantly while they pondered.

When they came near to the yellow house, Noreen, who was ahead, came running back. All the joyousness had fled from her face. She looked heavy-eyed and dull.

"She's tired," murmured Mary-Clare, but she knew that that was not what ailed Noreen.

And then she looked toward her house. Larry stood in the doorway, smoking and smiling.

"Will you come and meet my husband?" she asked of Northrup.

"I'll put off the pleasure, if you'll excuse me, Mrs. Rivers. I have learned that one cannot tamper with Aunt Polly's raised biscuits. It's late, but may I call to-morrow?" Northrup stood bareheaded while he spoke.

Mary-Clare nodded. She was mutely thankful when he strode on ahead and toward the lake.

It was while they were eating their evening meal that Larry remarked casually: