Kathryn Morris had her plans completed, and if the truth were known she had never felt better pleased with herself––and she was not utterly depraved, either.

She was far more the primitive female than was Mary-Clare. She was simply claiming what she devoutly believed was her own; reclaiming it, rather, for she sagely concluded that on this runaway trip Northrup was in great danger and only the faith and love of a good woman could save him! Kathryn believed herself good and noble.

Mary-Clare had her Place in which she had been fed through many lonely, yearning years, but Kathryn had no such sanctuary. The dwelling-places of her fellow creatures were good enough for her and she never questioned the codes that governed them––though sometimes she evaded them!

After her talk with Helen Northrup, Kathryn did a deal of thinking, but she moved cautiously. She had never forgotten the address on Northrup’s letter to his mother and she believed he was still there. She again looked up road maps, located King’s Forest, and made some clever calculations. She could go in the motor. The autumn was just the time for such a trip. It would be easy to satisfy her aunt, Kathryn very well knew. The mere statement that she was going to meet Northrup and return with him would account for everything and relieve the situation existing at present with Sandy Arnold in daily evidence. “And if Brace is not playing in some messy puddle in his old Forest, I can get on his trail from there,” she reasoned secretly.

But, for some uncanny cause, Kathryn was confident that Northrup was at his first address. It was so like him to creep into a hole and be very dramatic and secretive. It was his 185 temperament, Kathryn felt, and she steeled herself against him.

On the morning that Northrup staggered over the rubbish of Hunter’s Point toward Twombley’s, Kathryn took her place in her limousine––her nice little travelling bag at her feet––and viewed with complacency the back of her Japanese chauffeur who had absorbed and digested all her directions and would be, henceforth, a well-oiled, safe-running part of the machinery, without curiosity or opinions.

They stopped for luncheon at a comfortable road-house, rested for an hour, and then went on. It was mid-afternoon when the yellow house at the crossroads made its appeal to be questioned.

“I’ll run in and ask the way,” Kathryn explained, and slowly went up to the door that once opened so humorously to Northrup’s touch. Again the door responded, and a bit startled, Kathryn found herself in the presence of a dull-faced girl seated by the table apparently doing nothing.

“I beg your pardon. Really, I did knock––the door just opened.” Kathryn was confused and stepped back.

In all her dun-coloured life Jan-an had never seen anything so wonderful as the girl on the doorstep. She was not at all sure but that she was one of Noreen’s fiction creatures. There was a story that Northrup had told Noreen about Eve’s Other Children, and for an instant Jan-an estimated the likelihood of the stranger being one––she wasn’t altogether wrong, either!

“What you want?” she asked cautiously. Jan-an was, as she put it, “all skew-y,” for the work of the evening before had brought her to a more confused state than usual.

The world was widening––she included Northrup now in her circle of protection and she wasn’t sure what Eve’s Other Children were capable of doing.

“I want to find out the way to the inn, Heathcote Inn.” Kathryn smiled alluringly.

“Why don’t you look at the sign?” There was witchery about that sign, certainly.

“I did not see the sign. Please excuse me.” Then, “Do 186 you happen to know if there is a Mr. Northrup at the inn?”

“He sleeps there!” Jan-an looked stupid but honest. “Days, he takes to the woods.”

Jan-an meant, as soon as the unearthly visitor departed, to find Northrup and give the alarm. Kathryn thanked the girl sweetly and returned to her car. As she did so she saw the sign-board as Northrup had before her, and felt a bit foolish, but she also recalled that Northrup might be in the woods!

“You may go on to the inn,” she said to her man, “and make arrangements. I am going to remain over night and start back early to-morrow morning. Explain that I am walking and will be there shortly.”

The quiet man at the door of the car touched his cap and took his place at the wheel.

This was to Kathryn a thrilling adventure. The silence and beauty were as novel as any experience she had ever known, and her pulses quickened. The solitude of the woods was not restful to her, but it stimulated every sense. The leaves were dropping from the trees; the sunlight slanted through the lacy boughs in exquisite design, and the sky was as blue as midsummer. There was a smell of wood smoke in the crisp air; the feel of the sweet leaves, underfoot, was delightful. Kathryn “scruffed” along, unmindful of her high heels and thin silk stockings. She did not know that she could be so excited.

She crossed the road and turned to the hill. An impish impulse swayed her. If she came upon Northrup! Well, how romantic and thrilling it would be! She fancied his surprise; his–––Here she paused. Would it be joy or consternation that would betray Northrup?

Now, as it happened, Mary-Clare had given her morning up to the business of the Point and she was worn and super-sensitive. An underlying sense of hurry was upon her. When she had done all that she could do, she meant to go to her Place and lay her tired soul open to the influence that flooded the quiet sanctuary. All day this had sustained her. 187 She would leave Noreen at the inn; send Jan-an back there, and would, after her hour in the cabin, seek Larry out and give him what he asked––the Point.

Through the hours at the inn she had feared Northrup’s appearance, but when she learned that he had been away all night, she feared for him. Her uneventful days seemed gone forever, and yet Mary-Clare knew that soon––oh, very soon––there would be to-morrows, just plain to-morrows running one into another.

She was distressed, too, that Larry was to have the Point. Aunt Polly had shaken her head over it and remarked that it seemed like dropping the Pointers into Maclin’s mouth. But Peter reassured her.

“I see your side, child,” he comforted. “What the old doc said goes with you.”

“But it was Larry, not the doctor, as specified the Point,” Polly insisted.

“All right, all right,” Peter patted Polly’s shoulder. “Have it your own way, but I see it at this angle. Give Larry what he wants; Maclin has Larry, anyway, but if he keeps him here where we can watch what’s going on, I’ll feel easier. He’ll show his hand on the Point, take my word for it. Larry gallivanting is one thing, Larry with Twombley and Peneluna, not to mention us all, is another. You let go, Mary-Clare, and see what happens.”

“Well, I hold”––Aunt Polly was curiously stubborn––“that Larry Rivers don’t want that Point any more than a toad wants a pocket.”

“All right, all right!” Peter grew red and his hair sprang up. “Put it as you choose. This may bring things to a head. I swear the whole world is like a throbbing and thundering boil––it’s got to bust, the world and King’s Forest. I say, then, let ’em bust and have done with it.”

At four o’clock the business of the day was over and Mary-Clare was ready to start. Then Noreen, with the perversity of children, complicated matters.

“Motherly, let me go, too,” she pleaded.

“Childie, Mother wants to be alone.”

“Why for?”

“Because, well, I must think.”

“Then let me stay home with Jan-an.”

“Dearie, I’m going to send Jan-an back here.”

“Why for?”

“Mary-Clare,” Peter broke in, “that child is perishing for a paddling.”

Noreen ran to Peter and hugged him.

“You old grifferty-giff!” she whispered, falling into her absurd jargon, “just gifferting.”

Then she went back to her mother and said impishly:

“I know! You don’t want me to see my father!” Then, pointing a finger at Mary-Clare, she demanded: “Why didn’t you pick a nice father for me when you were picking?”

The irrelevancy of the question only added to its staggering effect. Mary-Clare looked hopelessly at her child.

“I didn’t have any choice, Noreen,” she said.

“You mean God gave him to you?”

“See here, Noreen”––Polly Heathcote rose to the call––“stop pestering your mother with silly talk. Come along with me, we’ll make a mess of taffy.”

“All right!” Noreen turned joyously to this suggestion, but paused to add: “If God gave my father to us, I s’pose we must make the best of it. God knows what He is doing––Jan-an says He even knew what He was doing when He nearly spoiled her.”

With this, Aunt Polly dragged Noreen away and Mary-Clare left the house haunted by what Noreen had said. Children can weave themselves into the scheme of life in a vivid manner, and this Noreen had done. In her dealings with Larry, Mary-Clare knew she must not overlook Noreen.

Now, if fools rush in where angels fear to tread, surely they often rush to their undoing. Kathryn followed the trail to the cabin in the woods, breathlessly and in momentary danger of breaking her ankles, for she teetered painfully on her French heels and humorously wished that when the Lord was making hills He had made them all down-grade; but at 189 last she came in sight of the vine-covered shack and stood still to consider.

It was characteristic of Kathryn that she never doubted her intuitions until she was left high and dry by their incapacity to hold her up.

“Ho! ho!” she murmured. “So this is where he burrows? Another edition of the East Side tenement room where he hid while writing his abominable book!”

Kathryn went nearer, stepping carefully––Northrup might be inside! No; the strange room was empty! Kathryn recalled the one visit she had made to the tenement while Northrup was writing. There had been a terrible woman with a mop outside the door there who would not let her pass; who had even cast unpleasant suggestions at her––suggestions that had made Kathryn’s cheeks burn.

She had never told Northrup about that visit; she would not tell him about this one, either, unless her hand were forced. In case he came upon her, she saw, vividly, herself in a dramatic act––she would be a beautiful picture of tender girlhood nestling in his environment, led to him by sore need and loving intuition.

Kathryn, thus reinforced by her imagination, went boldly in, sat down by the crude table, smiled at the Bible lying open before her––then she raised her eyes to Father Damien. The face was familiar and Kathryn concluded it must be a reproduction of some famous painting of the Christ!

That, and the Bible, made the girl smile. Temperament was insanity, nothing less!

Kathryn looked about for evidences of Northrup’s craft.

“I suppose he takes his precious stuff away with him. Afraid of fires or wild beasts.”

This latter thought wasn’t pleasant and Kathryn turned nervously to the door. As she did so her arm pushed the Bible aside and there, disclosed to her ferret glance, were the pages of Northrup’s manuscript, duplicate sheets, that Mary-Clare had been rereading.

“Ho! ho!” Kathryn spread them before her and read greedily––not sympathetically––but amusedly.

There were references to eyes, hair, expressions; even “mud-stained breeches.” With elbows on the table, daintily gloved hands supporting her chin, Kathryn read and thought and wove her plot with Northrup’s words, but half understood, lying under her gaze.

Suddenly Kathryn’s eyes widened––her ears caught a sound. Never while she lived was Kathryn Morris to forget her sensations of that moment, for they were coloured and weighted by events that followed rapidly, dramatically.

In the doorway stood Mary-Clare, a very embodiment of the girl described in the pages on the table. The tall, slim, boyish figure in rough breeches, coat, and cap, was a staggering apparition. The beauty of the surprised face did not appeal to Kathryn, but she was not for one instant deceived as to the sex of the person on the threshold, and her none-too-pure mind made a wild and dangerous leap to a most unstable point of disadvantage.

The girl in the doorway in some stupefying fashion represented the “Fight” and the “Puddle” of Northrup’s adventure. If Kathryn thought at all, it was to the effect that she had known from start to finish the whole miserable business, and she acted upon this unconscious conclusion with never a doubt in her mind. The two women, in silence, stared at each other for one of those moments that can never be measured by rule. During the palpitating silence they were driven together, while yet separated by a great space.

Kathryn’s conclusion drove her on the rocks; Mary-Clare’s startled her into a state of clear vision. She recovered her poise first. She smiled her perturbing smile; she came in and sat down and said quietly:

“I was surprised. I am still.”

Kathryn felt a wave of moral repugnance rise to her assistance. The clothes might disguise the real state of affairs––but the voice betrayed much. This was no crude country girl; here was something rather more difficult to handle; one need not be pitiful and condoning; one must not flinch.

“You expected, I suppose, to find Mr. Northrup?”

When Kathryn was deeply moved she spoke out of the 191 corner of her mouth. It was an unpleasant trick––her lips became hard and twisted.

“Oh! no, I did not, nor anyone else.” The name seemed to hurt and Mary-Clare leaned back. “May I ask who you are?” she said. Mary-Clare was indignant at she hardly knew what; hurt, too, by what was steadying her. She knew beyond doubt that the woman near her was one of Northrup’s world!

“I am Miss Morris. I am engaged to be married to Mr. Northrup.”

It were better to cut deep while cutting, and Kathryn’s nerve was now set to her task. She unrelentingly eyed her victim. She went on:

“I can see how this must shock you. I sent my car on to the inn. I wanted a walk and––well! I came upon this place. Fate is such a strange thing.”

Kathryn ran her words along rather wildly. The silence of her companion, the calm way in which she was regarding her, were having an unpleasant effect. When Kathryn became aware of her own voice she was apt to talk too much––she grew confidential.

“Mr. Northrup’s mother is ill. She needs him. The way I have known all this right along is simply a miracle.”

How much more Kathryn might have said she was never to know, for Mary-Clare raised a hand as though to stay the inane torrent.

“What can you possibly mean,” she asked, and her eyes darkened, “by knowing this all along? I do not understand––what have you known?”

Then Kathryn sank in a morass.

“Oh! do be sensible,” she said, and her voice was hard and cold. “You must see I have found you out––why pretend? When a man like Mr. Northrup leaves home and forgets his duties––does not even write, buries himself in such a place as this and stays on––what does it mean? What can it possibly mean?”

Mary-Clare was spared much of what Kathryn was creating because she was so far away––so far, far away from the 192 true significance of it all. She was seeing Northrup as Kathryn had never seen him; would never see him. She realized his danger. It was all so sudden and revolting. Only recently had she imagined his past, his environment; she had taken him as a wonderful experience in her barren, sterile life, but now she considered him as threatened from an unsuspected source. A natural revulsion from the type that Kathryn Morris represented for a moment oppressed her, but she dared not think of that nor of her own right to resent the hateful slurs cast upon her. She must do what she could for Northrup––do it more or less blindly, crudely, but she must go as she saw light and was given time.

“You are terribly wrong about––everything.” Mary-Clare spoke quietly but her words cut like bits of hail. “If you are going, as you say, to be Mr. Northrup’s wife, you must try and believe what I am saying now for your own sake, but more for his.”

Kathryn tried to say “Insolence!” but could not; she merely sat back in her chair and flashed an angry glance that Mary-Clare did not heed.

“Mr. Northrup is writing a beautiful book. The book is himself. He does not realize how much it is–––”

“Indeed!” Kathryn did utter the one word, then added: “I suppose he’s read it to you?”

“Yes, he has.”

“Here, I suppose? By the fire, alone with you?”

“No, under the trees, out there.”

Mary-Clare turned and glanced at the pure, open woods. “It is a beautiful book,” she repeated.

“Oh! go on, do! Really this is too utterly ridiculous.” Kathryn laughed impatiently. “We’ll take for granted the beauty of the book.”

“No, I cannot go on. You would not understand. It does not matter. What I want you to know is this––he could not do an ugly, low thing. If you wrong him there, you will never be forgiven, for it would hurt the soul of him; the part of him that no one––not even you who will be his wife––has a right to hurt or touch. You must make him believe in women. 193 Oh! I wish I could make you see––that was the matter with his beautiful book––I can understand now. He did not know women; but if you believe what I am saying, all will be right; you can make him know the truth. I can imagine how you might think wrong––it never occurred to me before––the woods, the loneliness, all the rest, but, because everything has been right, it makes him all the finer. You do believe me! You must! Tell me that you do!”

Mary-Clare was desperate. It was like trying to save someone from a flood that was carrying him to the rapids. The unreality of the situation alone made anything possible, but Kathryn suddenly reduced the matter to the deadly commonplace.

“No, I do not believe you,” she said bitterly. “I am a woman of the world. I hate to say what I must, but there is so little time now, and there will be no time later on, so you’ll have to take what you have brought upon yourself. This whole thing is pitifully cheap and ordinary––the only gleam of difference in it is that you are rather unusual––more dangerous on that account. I simply cannot account for you, but it doesn’t really interest me. When Mr. Northrup writes his books, he always does what he has done now. It’s rather brutal and cold-blooded but so it is. He has used you––you have been material for him. If there is nothing worse”––Kathryn flushed here––“it is because I have come in time. May I ask you now to leave me here in Mr. Northrup’s”––Kathryn sought the proper word––“study?” she said lamely. “I will rest awhile; try to compose myself. If he comes I will meet him here. If not, I will go to the inn later.”

Kathryn rose. So did Mary-Clare. The two girls faced each other. The table lay between them, but it seemed the width of the whole world.

“I would have helped you and him, if I could.” Mary-Clare’s voice sounded like the “ghost wind” seeking wearily, in a lost way, rest. “But I see that I cannot. This is not Mr. Northrup’s Place––it is mine. I built it myself––no foot but mine––and now yours––has ever entered here. I have always come here to––to think; to read. I wonder if 194 I ever will be able to again, for you have done something very dreadful to it. You will do it to his life unless God keeps you from it.” Mary-Clare was thinking aloud, taking no heed of her companion.

“How dare you!” Kathryn’s face flamed and then turned pale as death.

Mary-Clare was moving toward the door. When she reached it she stood as a hostess might while a guest departed.

“Please go!” she said simply, but it had the effect of taking Kathryn by the shoulders and forcing her outside. With flaming face, dyeing the white anger, she flung herself along. Once outside she turned, looking cheap and mean for all the trappings of her station in life.

“I want you to understand,” she said, “that you are dealing with a woman of the world, not a sentimental fool.”

Mary-Clare inclined her head. She did not speak. She watched her uninvited guest go down the trail, pass out of sight. Then she went back to her chair to recover from the shock that had dazed her.

The atmosphere of the little cabin could not long be polluted by so brief an experience as had just occurred, and presently Mary-Clare was enfolded by the old comfort and vision.

She could weigh and estimate things now, and this she did bravely, justly. Like Northrup in Larry’s cabin the night before, she became more a sensitive plate upon which pictures flashed, than a personality that was thinking and suffering. Such things as had now happened to her, she knew, happened in books. Always books, books, for Mary-Clare, and the old doctor’s philosophy that gave strength but no assurance. The actual relation existing between Northrup and herself became a solid and immovable fact. She had not fully accepted it before; neither had he. They had played with it as they had the golden hours that they would not count or measure.

Nothing mattered but the truth. Mary-Clare knew that the wonderful thing had had no part in her decision as to Larry––others would not believe that, but she must not 195 be swayed; she knew she had taken her steps faithfully as she had seen them––she must not stumble now because of any one, anything.

“It’s what you do to love that counts!” Almost fiercely Mary-Clare grasped this. And in that moment Noreen, Northrup’s mother, even Larry and the girl who had just departed, put in their claim. She must consider them; they were all part with Northrup and her.

“There is nothing for me to do but wait.” Mary-Clare seemed to hear herself speaking the words. “I can do nothing now but wait. But I will not fear the Truth.”

The bared Truth stood revealed; before it Mary-Clare did not flinch.

“This is what it has all meant. The happiness, the joy, the strange intensity of common things.”

Then Mary-Clare bowed her head upon her folded arms while the warm sunlight came into the doorway and lay full upon her. She was absorbed in something too big to comprehend. She felt as if she was being born into––a woman! The birth-pains were wrenching; she could not grasp anything beyond them, but she counted every one and gloried in it.

The Big Thing that poor Peneluna had known was claiming Mary-Clare. It could not be denied; it might be starved but it would not die.

Somewhere, on beyond–––

But oh! Mary-Clare was young, young, and her beyond was not the beyond of Peneluna; or if it were, it lay far, far across a desert stretch.