Читать книгу At the Crossroads - Harriet T. Comstock - Страница 3

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Brace Northrup received the first intimation of his jog when he knocked on the door of a certain little yellow house set rakishly at the crossroads, a few miles from King’s Forest.

The house gave the impression of wanting to go somewhere but had not decided upon the direction. Its many windows of shining glass were like wide-open eyes peering cheerfully forth on life, curiously interested and hopeful. The shades, if there were any, were rolled from sight. It might have seemed an empty house but for the appearance of care and a curl of smoke from the chimney.

Northrup walked across the bit of lawn leading, pathless, to the stone step, and knocked on the door. It was a very conservative knock but instantly the door swung in––it was that kind of a door, a welcoming door––and Northrup was precipitated into a room which, at first glance, appeared to be full of sunlight, children, and dogs.

As a matter of fact there were two or three little children and an older girl with a strange, vague face; four dogs and a young person seated on the edge of a table and engaged, apparently, before Northrup’s arrival, in telling so thrilling a story that the small, absorbed audience barely noted his entrance. They turned mildly interested eyes upon him much as they might have upon an unnecessary illustration adorning the tale.

The figure on the table wore rough knickerbockers, high, rather muddy boots, a loose jacket, and a cap set crookedly on the head. When Northrup spoke, the young person turned and he saw that it was a woman. There was no surprise, at first, in the eyes which met Northrup’s––the door of the little yellow house was constantly admitting visitors––but suddenly 6 the expression changed to one of startled wonder. It was the expression of one who, never expecting a surprise, suddenly is taken unawares.

“I beg your pardon!” stammered Northrup. “I assure you I did knock. I merely want to ask the direction and distance of Heathcote Inn. Crossroads are so confusing when one is tired and hungry and–––”

Once having begun to speak, Northrup was too embarrassed to stop. The eyes confronting him were most disconcerting. They smiled; they seemed to be glad he was there; the girl apparently was enjoying the situation.

“The inn is three miles down the south road; the lake is just beyond. Follow that. They serve dinner at the inn at one.”

The voice was like the eyes, friendly, vital, and lovely.

Then, as if staged, a clock set on a high shelf announced in crisp, terse tones the hour of twelve.

“Thank you.”

That was all. The incident was closed and Northrup backed out, drawing the humorous door after him. As the latch caught he heard a thin, reedy voice, probably belonging to the vague girl, say:

“Now that he’s gone, please go on. You got to where–––”

Northrup found himself at the crossroads where, five minutes before, he had stood, and there, in plain sight of any one not marked by Fate for a turning-point, was a sign-board in perfectly good condition, stating the fact that if one followed the direction, indicated by a long, tapering finger, for three miles, he would come to Heathcote Inn, “Open All the Year.”

“The girl must take me for a fool, or worse!” thought Northrup. Then he was conscious of a feeling that he had left something behind him in that room he had just invaded. But no! His gripsack was securely fastened on his back, his walking stick was in his hand, his hat upon his head. Still he felt that lack of something.

“It’s the air!” Northrup sniffed it. “I’m as hungry as a wolf, too. Hungry as I used to be twenty years ago.” Northrup was twenty-seven. “Lord! what a day.”

7

It was a day with which to reckon, there was no doubt about that. An autumn day of silence, crispness, and colour. Suddenly, something Manly had said came hurtingly into Northrup’s consciousness: “... or a woman’s face!”

Then, because of the day and a certain regained strength, Northrup laughed and shook off that impression of having left something behind him and set off at a brisk rate on the road to the inn. He soon came to the lake. It lay to the right of the road. The many-coloured hills rose protectingly on the left. All along the edge of the water a flaming trail of sumach marked the curves where the obliging land withdrew as the lake intruded.

“I might be a thousand miles from home,” Northrup thought as he swung along.

In reality, he had been only a week on his way and had taken it easy. He had made no plans; had walked until he was weary, had slept where he could find quarters, and was doing what he had all his life wanted to do, and which at last Manly had given him courage to do: leave the self that circumstances had evolved and take to the open trail, seeking, as Manly had figuratively put it, his real self.

During his long illness reality seemed to have fallen from his perceptions––or was it unreality? He knew that he must find out or he could never again hope to take his place among men with any assurance. As far as he could he must cut himself off from the past, blot out the time-honoured prejudices that might or might not be legitimate. He must settle that score!

Northrup was a tall, lean man with a slant of the body that suggested resistance. His face, too, carried out the impression. The eyes, deep set and keenly gray, brooded questioningly when the humour of a situation did not control them. The mouth was not an architectural mouth; the lines had been evolved; the mouth was still in the making. It might become hard or bitter: it could never become cruel. There was hope in the firm jaw, and the week of outdoor air and sun had done much to remove the pallor of sickness and harden the muscles.

8

With every mile that set him apart from his old environment the eyes grew less gloomy; the lines of the mouth more relaxed: in fact, Northrup’s appearance at that moment might have made Manly sympathize with the creator of Frankenstein. The released Northrup held startling possibilities.

Striding ahead, whistling, swinging his stick, he permitted himself to recall the face of the woman in the yellow house. He had taken the faces of women in the past largely for granted. They represented types, ages, periods. Only once before had he become aware of what Life, as he had not known it, could do to women’s faces: While he was writing his last book––the one that had lifted him from a low literary level and set him hopefully upon a higher––he had lived, for a time, on the lower East Side of New York; had confronted the ugly results of an existence evolved from chance, not design.

But this last face––Life had done something to it that he could not comprehend. What was it? Then Northrup suddenly concluded that Life had done nothing to it––had, in fact, left it alone. At this point, Northrup resorted to detail. Her eyes were almost golden: the lashes made them seem darker. The face was young and yet it held that expression of age that often marks the faces of children: a wondering look, yet sweetly contemptuous: not quite confident, but amused.

Now he had it! The face was like a mirror; it reflected thought and impression. Life had had nothing to do with it. Very good, so far.

“And her voice! Queer voice to be found here”––Northrup was keen about voices; they instantly affected him. “Her voice had tones in it that vibrated. It might be the product of––well, everything which it probably wasn’t.”

This was laughable.

Northrup would not have been surprised at that moment to have seen The Face in the flaming bushes by the roadside.

“I wonder if there is any habitation between that yellow house and the inn?” He pulled himself together and strode on. Hunger and weariness were overcoming moods and 9 fancies. There was not. The gold and scarlet hills rose unbroken to the left and the road wound divertingly by the lake.

There was no wind; scarcely a stirring of the leaves, but birds sang and fish darted in the clear water that reflected the colour and form of every branch and twig.

In another half hour Northrup saw the inn on ahead. He knew it at once from a picture-card he had bought earlier in the day. It set so close to the lake as to give the impression of getting its feet wet. It was a long, low white building with more windows, doors, and chimneys than seemed necessary. Everything looked trim and neat and smoke curled briskly above the hospitable house. There were, apparently, many fires in action, and they bespoke comfort and food.

Northrup, upon reaching the inn, saw that a mere strip of lawn separated it from the road and lake, the piazza was on a level with the ground and three doors gave choice of entrance to the wayfarer. Northrup chose the one near the middle and respectfully tapped on it, drawing back instantly. He did not mean to have a second joke played upon him by doors.

There was a stirring inside, a dog gave a sleepy grunt, and a man’s voice called out:

“The bolt’s off.”

It would seem that doors were incidental barriers in King’s Forest. No one was expected to regard them seriously.

Northrup entered and then stood still.

He was alive to impressions, and this second room, within a short space of time, had power, also, to arouse surprise. There was no sunlight here––the overshadowing piazza prevented that––but there were two enormous fireplaces, one at either end of the large room, and upon the hearths of both generous fires were burning ruddily.

By the one nearer to Northrup sat a man with a bandaged leg stretched out before him on a stool, and a gold-and-white collie at his side. The man was elderly, stout, and imposing. His curly gray hair sprang––no other word conveyed the impression of the vitality and alertness of the hair––above a 10 rosy, genial face; the eyes were small, keen, and full of humour, the voice had already given a suggestion of welcome.

“You are Mr. Heathcote, I suppose?”

Northrup was subconsciously aware of the good old mahogany furniture; the well-kept appearance of everything.

“You’ve struck it right. Will you set?”

“Thanks.”

Northrup took the chair opposite the master of the inn.

“My name is Northrup, Brace Northrup from New York.”

“Footing it?” Heathcote was rapidly making one of his sudden estimates; generally he did not take the trouble to do this, but some people called forth his approval or disapproval at once.

“Yes. I’ve taken my time, been a week on the way and, incidentally, recovering from an illness.”

“Pausing or staying on?”

Northrup meant to say “pausing”; instead he found himself stating that he’d like to stay on if he could be accommodated.

“We’ll have to consult Aunt Polly as to that,” said Heathcote. “You see I’m rather off my legs just now. Gander! Great bird, that gander. He lit out two weeks ago and cut me to the bone with his wing. He’s got a wing like a hatchet. I’ll be about in a day or two and taking command, but until then I have to let my sister have her say as to what burdens she feels she can carry.”

For a moment Northrup regarded himself, mentally, as a burden. It was a new sensation and he felt like putting up a plea; but before he could frame one Heathcote gave a low whistle and almost at once a door at the rear opened, admitting a fragrance of delectable food and the smallest woman Northrup had ever seen. That so fragile a creature could bear any responsibility outside that due herself, was difficult to comprehend until one looked into the strange, clear eyes peering through glasses, set awry. Unquenchable youth and power lay deep in those piercing eyes; there was force that could command the slight body to do its bidding.

“Polly, this is Mr. Northrup, from New York”––was there 11 lurking amusement in the tone?––“He wants to stop on; what do you say? It’s up to you and don’t hesitate to speak your mind.”

The woman regarded the candidate for her favour much as she might have a letter of introduction; quite impersonally but decidedly judicially.

“If Mr. Northrup will take pot luck and as is, I think he can stay, brother.”

Northrup had an unreasoning sense of relief. All his life his pulses quickened when what he desired seemed about to elude him. He smiled, now, like a boy.

“Thank you,” he ventured, “you’ll find me most grateful and adaptable.”

“Well, since that’s settled,” Aunt Polly seemed to pigeonhole her guest and label him as an individual, “I’ll run out and lay another plate. You just go along upstairs and pick out your room. They are all ready. The front ones open to the lake and the west; the back ones are east and woodsy; outside of that there isn’t much choice. It’s one o’ clock now, but I can put things back a spell and give you a chance to wash before dinner.”

Northrup picked up his bag and hat and started for the stairs at the far end of the room. The sense of unreality was still upon him. He felt like breathing low and stepping light. The sensation smacked of magic. So long as one could believe it, it would hold, but once you doubted, the old, grim existence would snatch you!

Upstairs the hall ran from north to south of the rambling house, on either side the doors opened, leading to small, orderly rooms, apparently alike except in detail of colour and placing of furniture. There was a hearth in every room, upon which lay wood ready to light and beside which stood huge baskets of logs giving promise of unlimited comfort. Fresh towels and water were on stands, and the beds fairly reached out to tired bodies with assurances of rest and sleep. Northrup went, still treading light and believing, from door to door, and then he chose a west room because the lapping of the lake sounded like a lullaby.

12

It was the work of a few moments to drop dust-stained garments and plunge one’s head into the icy water; a few moments more and a refreshed man emerged from a vigorous rubbing and gave a laugh of sheer delight.

“I’m in for it!” he muttered, still clinging to the mood of unreality. “I bet my last nickel that something’s going to happen and by the lord Harry! I’m going to see it through. This is one of those holes Manly prophesied about. Looks as if it had been waiting for me to come.”

He was downstairs in time to help his host to the head of his table, in the adjoining room. They made rather an imposing procession, Aunt Polly leading, the golden collie bringing up the rear.

Heathcote in a fat whisper gave some staccato advice en route: “Better call sister ‘Aunt Polly’ at once. If you don’t suggest offishness, none will be suspected. Fall in line, I say! Dog’s name is Ginger. Animals like to be tagged, more human-like. Act as if you always had been, or had come back. If there’s one thing Polly can’t abide, it’s hitting a snag.”

Devoutly Northrup vowed he’d be no snag.

He took his place on the east side of the table, so to speak, and the lake was in front of him. The lake was becoming a vital feature in the new environment.

The water was ruffled now; the reflections trembled and the lapping was more insistent.

The food was excellent. Aunt Polly had prepared it and watched, with a true artist’s eye, her guest’s appreciation of it.

“Food is just food to some folks,” she confided, casting a slantwise glance at her brother, “just what you might call fodder. But I allas have held that, viewed rightly, it feeds body and soul.”

Heathcote chuckled.

“And right you are, Aunt Polly!” Northrup said, watching the effect of his familiarity. Nothing occurred. He was being taken for granted.

Bits of history crept into the easy conversation during the 13 meal. Apparently meal-time was a function at the inn, not an episode.

Heathcote and his sister, it appeared, had come to King’s Forest for his health, fifty years before. He was twenty then; Aunt Polly eighteen.

“Just like silly pioneers,” Polly broke in, “but we found health and work and we grew to love the place. We feel toward it as one does to an adopted child, less understanding, but more responsible. Every once so often, when we got into ruts, God Almighty made us realize that He was keeping His hand on the reins,” the dear old soul chuckled happily. “Peter got himself made into a magistrate and that was something to work with. We made a home and friends, but the Forest isn’t an easy proposition. It ain’t changed much. It’s lazy and rough, and I often tell Peter that the place is like two old folks over on the Point, Twombley and Peneluna. Still and scroogy, but keeping up a mighty lot of thinking. If anything ever wakes the Forest up it’s going to show what it’s been cogitating about.”

“Is there a village?” Northrup asked.

“There’s one seven miles from here,” Heathcote replied; “stores, post office, a Methodist minister––necessary evils, you know,” this came with a fat chuckle, “but the Forest ain’t anything but the Forest. Houses sorter dropped down carelesslike where someone’s fancy fixed ’em. There used to be a church and school. The school burned down; the church, half finished, stands like a hint for better living, on a little island a half mile down the line. There’s the Point where the folks live as can’t get a footing elsewhere. There’s always a Point or a Hollow, you know. And there’s the Mines, back some miles to the south. Iron that used to be worked. Queer holdings!”

Peter paused. Sustained conversation always made him pant and gave Polly an opportunity to edge in.

“As I was saying,” she began calmly, “every once so often God Almighty made us realize that He had His hand on the reins. When me and Peter got to acting as if we owned things, someone new happened along and––stuck.

14

“First there was old Doctor Rivers. We never rightly knew where he came from, or why. By and by we got to feeling we best showed our love and respect by not wondering about him.

“Then after the doctor did his stint and left his mark, Maclin came. We’re studying over Maclin yet. He bought the Mines and kinder settled down on us all like a heavy air that ain’t got any set of the wind.”

Aunt Polly was picturesque. Peter eyed her admiringly and gave his comfortable chuckle.

“Sister holds,” he explained, “that the Forest isn’t the God-forsaken place it looks to be, but is a rich possibility. I differ, and that is what queers Maclin with us. His buying those wore-out mines and saying he’s going to make the Forest is damaging evidence against him. He ain’t no fool: then what is he? That’s what we’re conjuring with. Maclin ain’t seeing himself in partnership with the Almighty, not he! One-man firm for Maclin.”

“Now, brother!” Polly remarked while Heathcote was catching his breath, “I say give a good doubt to a man till you have to give a bad one. We’ve no right to judge Maclin yet, he’s only just begun to have his say-so out loud, and put out feelers.”

“And now”––Peter put his plate down for the faithful Ginger to lap clean, and prepared to rise––“and now, you’ve come, stranger. When you hesitated a time back as to whether you was pausing or staying on, I just held my breath, and when you slapped out, ‘staying on,’ I thought to myself, ‘Now, which is he, a dispensation of Providence or just a plain passer-by?’”

Northrup smiled grimly. This all fitted into his own vague mood of unreality.

“You mustn’t take me seriously,” he said, going around the table to help his host. “I’m as ordinary as the majority. I like the looks of things here. I stop and enjoy myself, and pass on! That’s the usual way, isn’t it?”

“Yes”––Polly began gathering the dishes––“it’s what happens while one stops, that counts. That, and what one 15 leaves behind, when he passes on. It’s real queer, though, to have any one staying on this season of the year.”

During the afternoon Northrup wandered in the woods which rose abruptly from behind the house. So still was the brilliant forest that a falling leaf startled him and a scurrying creature among the bushes set his nerves tingling. Then it was that the haunting face and voice of the girl in the little yellow house rose again with an insistence that could not be disregarded. It dominated his thought; it was part of this strange sense of shadowy and coming events; it refused to be set aside.

It did not mock him––he could have dealt with that phase––it pleaded. It seemed to implore him to accept it along with his quickened pulses; the colour of the autumn day; the sweetness of the smell of crushed leaves; the sound of lapping water; the song of birds.

“I wonder who she is, and why she looks as she does?”

Northrup ceased to scoff at his fancy; he wooed it. He pictured the girl’s hair loose from the rough cap––curly, rather wild hair with an uplift in every tendril. What colour was it? Gold-brown probably, like the eyes. For five minutes he tried to decide this but knew that he would have to see it again to make sure.

The face was a small face, but it was strong and unutterably appealing. A hungry little face; a face whose soul was ill-nourished, a contradictory face.

Northrup called himself to order just here. He wasn’t going to be an ass, not if he could help it!

“Strange voice!” he thought on. “It had calls in it. I am an ass!” he admitted, and in order to get the better of the situation he turned sharply and went back to the inn.

16