“Mother, I must go!”

Helen Northrup did not tremble, but she looked white, thin-lipped.

“You have given me the twenty-four hours, son. You have weighed the question––it is not emotional excitement?”

“No, Mother, it is conscience. I’m not in the least under an illusion. If I thought of this thing as war––a mere fight––I know I would be glad to avail myself of any honourable course and remain here. But it’s bigger than war, that Thing that is deafening and blinding the world. Sometimes”––Northrup went over to the window and looked out into the still white mystery of the first snowstorm––“sometimes I think it is God Almighty’s last desperate way to awaken us.”

Helen Northrup came to the window and stood beside her son. She did not touch him; she stood close––that was all.

“I cannot see God in this,” she whispered. “God could have found another way. I have––lost God. I fear most of us have.”

“Perhaps we never had Him,” Northrup murmured.

“But there is God––somewhere.” Helen’s voice quivered. “I shall always be near you, beloved, always, and perhaps––God will.”

“I know that, Mother. And I want you to know that if this call wasn’t mightier than anything else in all the world, I would not leave you.”

“Yes, I know that, dear son.”

For a moment they stood in silence by the window and then turned, together, to the fireside.

They were in Helen’s writing-room. The room where so 238 often she had struggled to put enough life into her weak little verses to send them winging on their way. The drawers of her desk were full of sad fancies that had been still-born, or had come fluttering back to her ark without even the twig of hope to cheer her. But at all this she had never repined––she had her son! And now? Well, he was leaving her. Might never–––

Sitting in the warmth and glow the woman looked at her son. With all the yearning of her soul she wanted to keep him; she had so little; so little. And then she recognized, as women do, in the Temple where the Most High speaks to them, that if he turned a deaf ear to the best that was in him, she could not honour him.

“You have been happy, dear son? I mean you have had a happy life on the whole?”

Helen had wanted that above all else. His life had been so short––it might be so soon over, and the trivial untalked-of things rose sharply now to the surface.

“Yes, Mother. Far too happy and easy.”

“I’ve been thinking.” Helen’s thought went slowly over the backward road––she must not break! But she must go back to the things they had left unspoken. “I’ve been thinking, during the last twenty-four hours, of all the happenings, dear, that I wish had been different. Your father, Brace! I––I tried not to deprive you of your father––I knew the cost. It––it wasn’t all his fault, dear; it was no real fault of either of us; it was my misfortune, you see––he was asking what––what he had a perfect right to ask––but I was, well, I had nothing to give him that he wanted.”

Northrup went across the space between him and his mother and laid his hand upon hers.

“Mother, I understand. Lately I have felt a new sympathy for Father, and a new contempt. He missed a lot that was worth while, but he did not know. It was damnable; he might have––kept you.”

“No, Brace. It is the world’s thought. I have never been bitter. I only wish he could have been happy––after––after he went away.”

“And he wasn’t?” This had never been discussed between them.

“No, dear. He married a woman who seemed to be what he wanted. She wearied of him. He died a lonely, a bitter man. I was saved the bitterness, at least, and I had you.”

Another pause. Then:

“Brace, I know it will seem foolish, but perhaps when you are far away it won’t seem so foolish. I want to tell you, dear, that I wish I had never spoken a harsh word to you. Life hurts so at the best––many women are feeling this as I do, dear. Once––you must humour me, Brace––once, after I punished you, I regretted it. I asked your pardon and you said, ‘Don’t mention it, Mother, I understood.’ I want you to say it now, son; it will be such a comfort.”

“I believe, God hearing me, Mother, that I have understood; have always known that you were the best and dearest of mothers.”

“Thank you.”

“And now, Mother, there is one thing more. We may not have another opportunity for a real house-cleaning. It’s about King’s Forest.”

Helen started, but she stiffened at once.

“Yes, Brace,” she said simply.

“There is a girl, a woman there. Such things as relate to that woman and me often happen to men and women. It’s what one does to the happening that counts. I realize that my life has had much in it; but much was left out of it. Much that is common stuff to most fellows; they take it in portions. It came all at once to me, but she was strong enough, fine enough to help me; not drift with me. I wanted you to know.”

“Thank you. I understand. Is there anything you would like to have me do?”

“No. Nothing, Mother. It is all right; it had to happen, I suppose. I wanted you to know. We did not dishonour the thing––she’s quite wonderful.” A pause; then:

“She has a brute of a husband––I hope I freed her of him, 240 in a way; I’m glad to think of that now. She has a child, a little girl, and there were some dead children.”

This detail seemed tragically necessary to tell; it seemed to explain all else.

“And now, Mother, I must go around to Kathryn’s. Do not sit up, dear. I’ll come to your room.”

“Very well.” Then Helen stood up and laid her hands on his shoulders. “Some sons and daughters,” she said slowly, convincingly, “learn how to bear life, in part, from their parents––I have learned from my son.”

Then she raised her hands and drew his head down to hers and rested her cheek against his. Without a word more Northrup left the house. He was deeply moved by the scene through which he and his mother had just passed. It had consisted of small and trivial things; of overwhelmingly big things, but it had been marked by a complete understanding and had brought them both to a point where they could separate with faith and hope.

But as Northrup neared Kathryn’s house this exalted feeling waned. Again he was aware of the disloyal doubt of Kathryn that made him hesitate and weigh his method of approach. He stood, before touching the bell of the Morris house, and shook the light snow from his coat; he was glad of delay. When at last he pushed the button he instinctively braced. The maid who admitted him told him that he was to go to the library.

This was the pleasantest room in the house, especially at night. The lighting was perfect; the old books gave forth a welcoming fragrance and, to-night, a generous cannel coal fire puffed in rich, glowing bursts of heat and colour upon the hearth. Kathryn was curled up in the depths of a leather chair, her pretty blonde head just showing above the top. She did not get up but called merrily:

“Here, dear! Come and be comfy. This is a big chair and a very little me.”

Northrup came around in front of the chair, his back to the fire, and looked down upon the small figure. The blue blur of the evening gown, the exquisite whiteness of arms, 241 neck, and face sank into his consciousness. Unconsciously he was fixing scenes in his memory, as one secures pictures in a scrap-book, for the future.

“Been dining out, dear?”

The dress suggested this, but Kathryn was alert.

“Don’t be a silly old cave thing, Brace. One cannot throw an old friend overboard in cold blood, now can one? Sandy is going away for a week, but I told him to-night that never, never again would I dine with him alone. Now will you be good?”

Still Northrup did not smile. He was not concerned about Arnold, but he seemed such a nuisance at this moment.

Kathryn, regarding Northrup’s face, sat up and her eyes widened.

“What’s the matter, Brace?” she asked, and the hard, metallic ring was in her voice. Northrup misunderstood the change. He felt that he had startled her. He sat down upon the arm of the chair.

“Poor little girl,” he whispered. Kathryn also misunderstood, she nestled against him.

“Big man,” she murmured, “he is going to be nice. Kiss me here––close behind my right ear––always and always that is going to be just your place.”

Northrup did not seem to hear. He bent closer until his face pressed the soft, scented hair, but he did not kiss the spot dedicated to him. Instead he said:

“Darling, I am going away!”

“Away––where?” Kathryn became rigid.

“Overseas.”

“Overseas? What for, in heaven’s name?”

“Oh! anything they’ll let me do. I’m going as soon as I can be sent––but–––”

“You mean, without any reason whatever, you’re going to go over there?”

“Hardly without something that stands for reason, Kathryn.”

“But no one, not even Doctor Manly, thinks that it is our fight, Brace. The men who have gone are simply adventurers; 242 men who love excitement or men who want to cut responsibilities and don’t dare confess it.”

Kathryn’s face flamed hot.

“Their lives must be pretty damnable,” Northrup broke in, “if they take such a method to fling them aside. Do try to understand, dear; our women must, you know.” There was pleading in the words.

Then by one of those sudden reversions of her nimble wits, Kathryn recalled things she had heard recently––and immediately she took the centre of her well-lighted stage, and horrible as it might seem, saw herself, a ravishing picture in fascinating widow’s weeds! While this vision was holding, Kathryn clung to Northrup and was experiencing actual distress––not ghoulish pleasure.

“Oh! you must not leave me,” she quivered.

“You will help me, Kathryn; be a woman like my mother?” Again Northrup pleaded. This was unfortunate. It steadied Kathryn, but it hardened her.

“You want me to marry you at once, Brace?” she whispered.

“No, dear. That would not be fair to you. I want you to understand; I want to know that you will––will keep Mother company. That is all, until I come home. I could not feel justified in asking a woman to marry such a––such a chance as I am about to be.”

Now there was cause for what Kathryn suddenly felt, but not the cause she suspected. Had Northrup loved deeply, faithfully, understandingly, he might, as others did, see that to the right woman the “chance,” as he termed himself, would become her greatest glory and hope, but as it was Northrup considered only Kathryn’s best good and, gropingly, he realized that her interests and his were not, at the present, identical.

But Kathryn, her ever-present jealousy and apprehension rising, was carried from her moorings. She recalled the evidences of “duty” in Northrup’s attitude toward her since his return from King’s Forest; his abstraction and periods of low spirits.

“He cannot stand it any longer,” she thought resentfully; “he’s willing to do anything, take any chance.”

A hot wave of anger enveloped Kathryn, but she did not speak.

“Kathryn”––Northrup grew restive at her silence––“haven’t you anything to say to me? Something I can remember––over there? I’d like to think of you as I see you now, little, pretty, and loving. The blue gown, the jolly fire, this fine old room––I reckon there will be times when my thoughts will cling to the old places and my own people rather fiercely.”

“What can I say, Brace? You never see my position. Men are selfish always, even about their horrible fights. What do they care about their women, when the call of blood comes? Oh! I hate it all, I hate it! Everything upset––men coming back, heaven only knows how! even if they come at all––but we women must let them go and smile so as to send them off unworried. We must stay home and be nothings until the end and then take what’s left––joyfully, gratefully––oh! I hate it all.”

Northrup got up and stood again with his back to the fire. He loomed rather large and dark before Kathryn’s angry eyes. She feared he was going to say the sentimental regulation thing, but he did not. Sorrowfully he said:

“What you say, dear, is terribly true. It isn’t fair nor decent and there are times when I feel only shame because, after all these centuries, we have thought out no better way; but, Kathryn, women are taking part in this trouble––perhaps you–––”

“You mean that I may go over into that shambles––if I want to?” With this Kathryn sprang to her feet. “Well, thanks! I do not want to. I’m not the kind of girl who takes her dissipation that way. If I ever let go, I’ll take my medicine and not expect to be shielded by this sentimentality.”

“Kathryn, how can you? My dear, my dear! Say what you want to about my folly––men’s mistakes––but do not speak so of your––sisters!”

“Sisters?” Kathryn laughed her mirthless but musical laugh. “You are funny, Brace!”

Then, as was her way when she lost control, Kathryn made straight for the rocks while believing she was guided by divine intuition. She faced Northrup, looking up at him from her lower level.

“I think I understand the whole matter,” she said slowly, all traces of excitement gone. “I am going to prove it. Will you marry me before you go?”

“No, Kathryn. This is a matter of principle with me.”

“You think they might not let you go––you’d have to provide for my protection?”

“No, I am not afraid of that. You’d be well provided for; I would go under any circumstances, but I will not permit you to take a leap in the dark.”

“That sounds very fine, but I do not believe it!”

The black wings that poor Jan-an had suspected under Kathryn’s fine plumage were flapping darkly now. Kathryn was awed by Northrup’s silence and aloofness. She was afraid, but still angry. What was filling her own narrow mind, she believed, was filling Northrup’s and she lost all sense of proportion.

“Is she going over there?” she asked.

Northrup, if possible, looked more bewildered and dazed.

“She––whom do you mean, Kathryn?”

“Oh! I never meant to tell you! You drive me to it, Brace. I always meant to blot it out–––”

Kathryn got no further just then. Northrup came close to her and with folded arms fixed his eyes upon her flushed face.

“Kathryn, you’re excited; you’ve lost control of yourself, but there’s something under all this that we must get at. Just answer my questions. Whom do you mean––by ‘she’?”

Kathryn mentally recoiled and with her back to her wall replied, out of the corner of her mouth:

“That girl in King’s Forest!”

From sheer astonishment Northrup drew back as from a blow. Kathryn misunderstood and gained courage.

“I forgave it because I love you, Brace.” She gathered 245 her cheap little charms together––her sex appeals. “I understood from the moment I saw her.”

“When did you see her? Where?”

Northrup had recovered himself; he was able to think. He knew he must act quickly, emphatically, and he generously tried to be just.

Keen to take advantage of what she believed was guilt, Kathryn responded, dragging her lures along with her.

“Please, dear Brace, do not look at me so sternly. I could not help what happened and I suffered so, although I never meant to let you know. You see, I walked in the woods that day that I went to King’s Forest to tell you about your mother. A queer-looking girl told me that you lived at the inn, but were then in the woods. I went to find you; to meet you––can you not understand?”

The tears stood in Kathryn’s eyes, her mouth quivered. Northrup softened.

“Go on, Kathryn. I do understand.”

“Well, I came to a cabin in the woods, I don’t know why, but something made me think it was yours. You would be so likely to take such a place as that, dear. I went in––to wait for you; to sit and think about you, to calm myself––and then–––”

“Yes, Kathryn!” Northrup was seeing it all––the cabin, the silent red-and-gold woods.

“And then––she came! Oh! Brace, a man can never know how a woman feels at such a moment––you see there were some sheets of your manuscript on the table––I was looking at them when the girl came in. Brace, she was quite awful; she frightened me terribly. She asked who I was and I told her––I thought that would at least make her see my side; explain things––but it did not! She was––she was”––Kathryn ventured a bolder dash––“she was quite violent. I cannot remember all she said––she said so much––a girl does when she realizes what she must have realized. Oh! Brace, I tried to be kind, but I had to take your part and she turned me out!”

In all this Northrup felt his way as one does along a narrow 246 passage beset on either side with dangers. Characteristically he saw his own wrong in originally creating the situation. Not for an instant did he doubt Kathryn’s story; indeed, she rose in his regard; for he felt for her deeply. He had, unwittingly, set a trap for her innocent, girlish feet; brought her to bay with what she could not possibly understand; and the belief that she had been merciful, had accepted, in silence, at a time when his trouble absorbed her, touched and humiliated him; and yet, try as he did to consider only Kathryn, he could not disregard Mary-Clare. He could not picture her in a coarse rage; the idea was repellent, but he acknowledged that the dramatic moment, lived through by two stranger-women with much at stake, was beyond his powers of imagination. The great thing that mattered now was that his duty, since a choice must be made, was to Kathryn. By every right, as he saw it, she must claim his allegiance. And yet, what was there to be done?

Northrup was silent; his inability to express himself condemned him in her eyes, and yet, strangely enough, he had never been more desirable to her.

“Marry me, dear. Let me prove my love to you. No matter what lies back there, I forgive everything! That is what love means to a woman like me.”

Love! This poor, shabby counterfeit.

With a sickening sense of repulsion Northrup drew back, and maddeningly his book, not Kathryn, seemed to fill his aching brain. With this conception of love revealed––how blindly he had misunderstood. He tried to speak; did speak at last––he heard his words, but was not conscious of their meaning.

“You are wrong, child. Whatever folly was committed in King’s Forest was mine, not that girl’s. I suppose I was a bit mad without knowing it, but I will not accept your sacrifice, Kathryn, I will not ask for forgiveness. When I come home, if you still love me, I will devote my life to you. We will start afresh––the whole world will.”

“You are going at once?” Kathryn clutched at what was eluding her.

“Yes, my dear.”

“And you won’t marry me? Won’t––prove to me?”

“No.”

“Oh! how can you leave me to think–––”

“Think what, Kathryn?”

“Oh! things––about her. It would be such a proof of what you’ve just said––if only you would marry me now.”

“Kathryn, I cannot. I am––I wish that you could understand––I am stepping out into the dark. I must go alone.”

“That is absurd, Brace. Absurd.” A baffled, desperate note rang in Kathryn’s voice. It was not for Northrup, but for her first sense of failure. Then she looked up. All the resentment gone from her face, she was the picture of despair.

“I will wait for you, Brace. I will prove to you what a woman’s real love is!”

So, cleverly, did she bind what she intuitively felt was the highest in Northrup. And he bent and laid his lips on the smooth girlish forehead, sorrowfully realizing how little he had to offer.

A few moments later Northrup found himself on the street. The snow was falling thicker, faster. It had the smothering quality that is so mysterious. People thudded along as if on padded feet; the lights were splashed with clinging flakes and gleamed yellow-red in the whiteness. Sounds were muffled; Northrup felt blotted out.

He loved the sensation––it was like a great, absorbing Force taking him into its control and erasing forever the bungling past. He purposely drifted for an hour in the storm. He was like a moving part of it, and when at last he reached home, he stood in the vestibule for many moments extricating himself––it was more that than shaking the snow off. He felt singularly free.

Once within the house, he went directly to his mother’s room. She was lying on a couch by the fire. In the shelter of her warm, quiet place Helen seemed to have gained what Brace had won in the storm. She was smiling, almost eager.

“Yes, dear?” she said.

Northrup sat down in the chair that was his by his mother’s hearth.

“Kathryn wanted to marry me, Mother, at once.”

“That would be like her, bless her heart!”

“I could not accept the sacrifice, Mother.”

“That would be like you––but is it a sacrifice?”

“It seems so to me.”

“You see, son, to many women this is the supreme offering. All they can give, vicariously, at this great demanding hour.”

“Women must learn to stop that rubbish, Mother. We men must refuse it.”

“Why, Brace!” Then: “Are you quite, quite sure it was all for Kathryn, son?”

“No, partly for myself; but that must include and emphasize Kathryn’s share.”

“I see––at least I think I do.”

“But you have faith, Mother?”

“Yes, faith! Surely, faith.”

After a silence, broken only by the sputtering of the fire and that soft, mystic pattering of the snow on the window glass, Northrup asked gently:

“And you, Mother, what will you do? I cannot bear to think of you waiting here alone.”

Helen Northrup rose slowly from the couch; her long, loose gown trailed softly as she walked to the fireplace and stood leaning one elbow on the shelf.

“I’m not going to––wait, dear, in the sense you mean. I’m going to work and get ready for your return.”

“Work?” Northrup looked anxious. Helen smiled down upon him.

“While you have been preparing,” she said, “so have I. There is something for me to do. My poor little craft that I have pottered at, keeping it alive and praying over it––my writing job, dear; I have offered for service. It has been accepted. It is my great secret––I’ve kept it for you as my last gift. When you come home, I’ll tell you about 249 it. While you are away you must think of me, busy––busy!”

Then she bent and laid her pale fine face against the dark bowed head.

“You are tired, dear, very, very tired. You must go to bed and rest––there is so much to do; so much.”