Once back in the old environment, Northrup went, daily, through the sensations of his haunting dream, without the relief of awakening. The corridor of closed doors was an actuality to him now. Behind them lay experiences, common enough to most men, undoubtedly, but, as yet, unrevealed to him.

In one he had dwelt for a brief time––good Lord! had it only been for weeks? Well, the memory, thank heaven, was secure; unblemished. He vowed that he would reserve to himself the privilege of returning, in thought, to that memory-haunted sanctuary as long as he might live, for he knew, beyond any doubt, that it could not weaken his resolve to take up every duty that he had for a time abandoned. It should be with him as Manly had predicted.

This line of thought widened Northrup’s vision and developed a new tie between him and other men. He found himself looking at them in the street with awakened interest. He wondered how many of them, stern, often hard-featured men, had realized their souls in private or public life, and how had they dealt with the revelation? He grew sensitive as to expressions; he believed, after a time, that he could estimate, by the look in the eyes of his fellowmen, by the set of their jaws, whether they had faced the ordeal, as he was trying to do, or had denied the soul acceptance. It was like looking at them through a magnifying lens where once he had regarded them through smoked glass.

And the women? Well, Northrup was very humble about women in those days. He grew restive when he contemplated results and pondered upon the daring that had assumed responsibility where complete understanding had never been attempted. It seemed, in his introspective state, that God, 228 even, had been cheated. Women were, he justly concluded, pretty much a response to ideals created for them, not by them.

Mary-Clare was having her way with Northrup!

Something of all this crept into his book for, after a fortnight at home, he set his own jaw and lips rather grimly, went to his small office room in the tower of a high building, and paid the elevator boy a goodly sum for acting as buffer during five holy hours of each day.

It was like being above the world, sitting in that eyrie nook of his. Northrup often recalled a day, years before, when he had stood on a mountain-peak bathed in stillness and sunlight, watching the dramatic play of the elements on the scene below. Off to the right a violent shower spent itself mercilessly; to the left, rolling mists were parting and revealing pleasant meadows and clustering hamlets. And with this recollection, Northrup closed his eyes and, from his silent watch tower, saw, as no earthly thing could make him see, the hideous tragedy across the seas.

Since his return his old unrest claimed him. It was blotting out all that he had believed was his––ideals; the meaning of life; love; duty; even his city––his––was threatened. Nothing any longer seemed safe unless it were battled for. There was something he owed––what was it?

Try as he valiantly did, Northrup could put little thought in his work––it eluded him. He began, at first unconsciously, to plan for going away, while, consciously, he deceived himself by thinking that he was readjusting himself to his own widened niche in the wall!

When Northrup descended from his tower, he became as other men and the grim lines of lips and jaws relaxed. He was with them who first caught the wider vision of brotherhood.

At once, upon his return, he had taken Manly into his confidence about his mother, and that simple soul brushed aside the sentimental rubbish with which Kathryn had cluttered the situation.

“It’s all damned rot, Brace,” he snapped. “You had a 229 grandmother who did work that was never meant for women to do––laid a carpet or tore one up, I forget which, I heard the story from my father––and she developed cancer––more likely it wasn’t cancer––I don’t think my father was ever sure. But, good Lord! why should her descendants inherit an accident? I thought I’d talked your mother out of that nonsense.”

Thus reassured, Northrup told Kathryn that all the secret diplomacy was to be abandoned and that his mother must work with them.

“But, Brace dear, you don’t blame me for my fright? I was so worried!”

“No, little girl, you were a trump. I’ll never forget how you stood by!”

So Helen Northrup put herself in Manly’s hands––those strong, faithful hands. She went to a hospital for various tests. She was calm but often afraid. She sometimes looked at the pleasant, thronged streets and felt a loneliness, as if she missed herself from among her kind. Manly pooh-poohed and shrugged his broad shoulders.

“Women! women!” he ejaculated, but there were hours when he, too, had his fears.

But in the end, black doubt was driven away.

“Of course, my dear lady,” Manly said relievedly, patting her hand, “we cannot sprint at fifty-odd as we did at twenty. But a more leisurely gait is enjoyable and we can take time to look around at the pleasant things; do the things we’ve always wanted to do––but didn’t have time to do. Brace must get married––he’ll have children and you’ll begin all over with them. Then I’d like to take in some music with you this winter. I’ve rather let my pet fads drop from sheer loneliness. Let’s go to light opera––we’re all getting edgy over here. I tell you, Helen, it’s up to us older fry to steer the youngsters away from what does not concern them.”

Poor Manly! He could not deafen his conscience to the growing call from afar and already he saw the trend. So he talked the more as one does to keep his courage up in grave danger.

With his anxiety about Helen Northrup removed, Manly gave attention to Brace. Brace puzzled him. He acknowledged that Northrup had never looked better; the trip had done wonders for him. Yes; that was it––something rather wonderful had been done.

He attacked Northrup one day in his sledge-hammer style.

“What in thunder has got mixed up in your personality?” he asked.

“Oh! I suppose anxiety about Mother, Manly. And the thought that I had slipped from under my responsibilities. Had she died––well! it’s all right now.”

But this did not satisfy Manly.

“Hang it all, I don’t mean anxiety,” he blurted out. “The natural stuff I can estimate and label. But you look somehow as if you had been switched off the side track to the main line.”

“Or the other way about, old man?” Northrup broke in and laughed.

“No, sir; you’re on the main line, all right; but you don’t look as if you knew where you were going. Keep the headlight on, Brace.”

“Thanks, Manly; I do not fully understand just where I may land, but I’m going slow. Now this––this horror across seas–––” Always it was creeping in, these days.

“Oh! that’s their business, Northrup. They’re always scrapping––this isn’t our war, old man,” Manly broke in roughly, but Northrup shook his head.

“Manly, I cannot look at it as a war––just a plain war, you know. I’ve had a queer experience that I will tell you about some day, but it convinced me that above all, and through all, there is a Power that forces us, often against our best-laid plans, and I believe that Power can force the world as well. Manly, take it from me, this is no scrap over there, it’s a soul-finder; a soul-creator, more like. Before we get through, a good many nations and men will be compelled to look, as you once did, at bare, gaunt souls or”––a pause––“set to work and make souls.”

Manly twisted in his seat uneasily. Northrup went on.

“Manly”––he spoke quietly, evenly––“do you remember our last talk in this office before I left?”

“Well, some of it. Yes.”

“Jogs, you know. Mountain peaks, baby hands, women faces, and souls?”

“Oh! yes. Sick talk to a sick man.” Manly snapped his fingers.

“Manly, what did you mean by saying that you had once seen your soul?” Northrup was in dead earnest. Manly swung around in his swivel chair.

“I meant that I saw mine once,” he said sharply, definitely.

“How did it look?”

“As if I had neglected it. A shrunken, shivering thing.” Manly stopped suddenly, then added briefly: “You cannot starve that part of you, Northrup, without a get-back some day.”

“No. And that’s exactly what I am up against––the get-back!”

After that talk with Manly, Northrup, singularly enough, felt as if he had arrived at some definite conclusion; had received instructions as to his direction. He was quietly elated and, sitting in his office, experienced the peace and satisfaction of one who spiritually submits to a higher Power.

The globe of light on the peak of his tower seemed, humorously, to have become his headlight––Manly’s figures of speech clung––its white and red flashes, its moments of darkness, were like the workings of his mind, but he knew no longer the old depression. He was on the main line, and he had his orders––secret ones, so far, but safe ones.

Kathryn grew more charming as time passed. She did not seem to resent Northrup’s detachment, though the tower room lured him dangerously. Once she had hinted that she’d love to see his workshop; hear some of his work. But Northrup had put her off.

“Wait, dear, until I’ve finished the thing, and then you and I will have a regular gorge of it, up in my tower.”

Kathryn at this put up her mouth to be kissed while behind her innocent smile she was picturing the girl of King’s Forest 232 in those awful muddy trousers! She had heard the book in the making; she had not been pushed aside.

More and more Mary-Clare became a stumbling block to Kathryn. She felt she was a dangerous type; the kind men never could understand, until it was too late, and never forgot. And Brace was changed. The subtle unrest did not escape Kathryn.

“I wonder–––” And Kathryn did wonder. Wondered most at the possibility of Mary-Clare ever appearing on the surface again. For––and this was a humiliating thought to Kathryn––she realized she was no match for that girl of the Forest!

However, Kathryn, as was her wont when things went wrong, pulled down the shade mentally, as once she had done physically, against the distasteful conditions Brace had evolved.

And there was much to be attended to––so Kathryn, with great efficiency, set to work. She must make provision for her aunt’s future. This was not difficult, for poor Anna was so relieved that any provision was to be considered, that she accepted Kathryn’s lowest figure.

Then there was Arnold. Sandy, at the moment, was disgusted at Northrup’s return. It interfered with his plans. Sandy had a long and keen scent. The trouble overseas had awakened a response in him, he meant to serve the cause––but in his own way. Secretly he was preparing. He was buying up old vessels, but old vessels were expensive and the secrecy prevented his borrowing money. He wanted to get married, too. Kathryn, with only his protection and he with Kathryn’s little fortune, would create, at the moment, a situation devoutly to be desired.

Kathryn had to deal with this predicament cautiously. Sandy was so horribly matter-of-fact––not a grain of Northrup’s idealism about him! But for that very reason, in the abominably upset state of the world, he was not lightly to be cast on the scrap-heap. One never could tell! Brace might act up sentimentally, but Sandy could be depended upon always––he was a rock!

So Kathryn, embroidering her wedding linen––for she meant to be married soon––prayed for guidance.

On the whole, the situation was most gratifying. No wonder Kathryn felt well pleased with herself and more fully convinced that, with such wits as hers, life was reduced to a common factor. Once married she would be able to draw a long breath. Marriage was such a divine institution for women. It gave them such a stranglehold––with the right sort of men––and Brace was the right sort.

To be sure he was not entirely satisfying at the present moment. His attentions smacked too much of duty. He could not deceive Kathryn. He sent flowers and gifts in such profusion that they took on the aspect of blood money. Well, marriage would adjust all that.

Helen urged an early date for the wedding and even Manly, who did not like Kathryn, gripped her as the saviour of a critical situation.

King’s Forest had had a sinister effect upon Manly; it made him doubt himself.

And so life, apparently, ran along smoothly on the surface. It was the undercurrents that were really carrying things along at a terrific rate.

It was in his tower room that most of Northrup’s struggle went on. Daily he confronted that which Was and Had To Be! With all his old outposts being taken day by day, he was left bare and unprotected for the last assault. And it came!

It came as death does, quite naturally for the most part, and found him––ready. Like the dying––or the reborn––Northrup put his loved ones to the acid test. His mother would understand. Kathryn? It was staggering, at this heart-breaking moment, to discover, after all the recent proving of herself, that Kathryn resolved into an Unknown Quantity.

This discovery filled Northrup with a sense of disloyalty and unreality. What right had he to permit the girl who was to be his wife, the mother of his children, to be relegated to so ignominious a position? Had she not proved herself 234 to him in faithfulness and understanding? Had she not, setting aside her own rights, looked well to his?

The days dragged along and each one took its toll of Northrup’s vitality while it intensified that crusading emotion in his soul.

He did not mention all this to those nearest him until the time for departure came, and he tried, God knew, to work while he performed the small, devotional acts to his mother and Kathryn that would soon stand forth, to one of them at least, as the most courageous acts of his life.

He had come to that part of his book where his woman must take her final stand––the stand that Mary-Clare had so undermined. If he finished the book before he went––and he decided that it might be possible––his woman must rise supreme over the doubts with which she had been invested. But when he came to the point, the decision, if he followed his purpose, looked cheap and commonplace––above everything, obvious. In his present mood his book would be just––a book; not the Big Experience.

This struggle to finish his work in the face of the stubborn facts at moments obliterated the crusading spirit; the doubts of Kathryn and even Mary-Clare’s pervading insistence. He hated to be beaten at his own job.

Love’s supreme sacrifice and glory, as portrayed in woman––must be man’s ideal, of course!

The ugly business of the world had to be got through, and man often had to set love aside––for honour. “But, good Lord!” Northrup argued, apparently to his useless right hand, what would become of the spiritual, if woman got to setting up little gods and bowing down before them? Why, she would forego her God-given heritage. To her, love must be all. Above all else. Why, the very foundations of life were founded upon that. What could be higher to a woman? Man could look out for the rest, but he must be sure of his woman’s love! The rest would be in their own hands––that was their individual affair.

And then, at this crucial moment, Mary-Clare would always intrude.

“It’s what one does to love!” That was her stern ultimatum. “Love’s best proof might be renunciation, not surrender!”

“Nonsense!” Northrup flung back. “How then could a man be sure? No book with such an ending would stand a chance.”

“You must not harm your book by such a doubt. That book must be true, and you know the truth. Women must be made glad by it, men stronger because someone understands and is brave enough to say it.”

But Northrup steeled his heart against this command. He meant to finish his book; finish it with a flaming proof that, while men offered their lives for duty, women offered theirs for love and did not count the cost, like misers or––lenders.

One afternoon Northrup, the ink still wet upon the last sheet of his manuscript, leaned back wearily in his chair. He could not conquer Mary-Clare. He let his eyes rest upon his awakening city. For him it rose at night. In the day it belonged to others––the men and women, passing to and fro with those strange eyes and jaws. But when they all passed to their homes, then the lone city that was his started like a thing being born upon a hill.

It may have been at one of these strained moments that Northrup slept; he was never able to decide. He seemed to hold to the twinkling lights; he thought he heard sounds––the elevator just outside his door; the rising wind.

However that may be, as clearly as any impression ever fixed itself upon his consciousness, he saw Mary-Clare beside him in her stained and ugly garb, her lovely hair ruffled as if she had been travelling fast, and her great eyes turned upon him gladly. She was panting a bit; smiling and thankful that she had found him, at last in his city!

It was like being with her on that day when they stood on the mountain near her cabin and talked.

Northrup was spellbound. He understood, though no word passed between him and the girl so close to him. She did not try to touch him, but she did, presently, move a step 236 nearer and lay her little work-worn hand upon the pile of manuscript in that quaint way of hers that had so often made Northrup smile. It was a reverent touch.

Standing so, she sealed from him those last chapters! She would not argue or be set aside––she claimed her woman-right; the right to the truth as some women saw it, as more would see it; as, God willing, Northrup himself would see it some day! He would know that it was because of love that she had turned him and herself to duty.

Northrup suddenly found himself on his feet.

The little room was dark; the city was blazing about him––under him. His city! His hand lay upon his manuscript.

Quietly he took it up and locked it in his safe. Slowly, reverently, he set the bare room in order without turning on the electricity. He worked in the dark but his vision was never clearer. He went out, locked the door, as one does upon a chamber, sacred and secret.

He did not think of Mary-Clare, his mother, or Kathryn––he was setting forth to do that which had to be done; he was going to give what was his to give to that struggle across the ocean for right; the proving of right.

All along, his unrest had been caused by the warring elements in himself––there was only one way out––he must take it and be proved as the world was being proved.