Читать книгу At the Crossroads - Harriet T. Comstock - Страница 9

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The storm had kept Northrup indoors for many hours each day, but he had put those hours to good use.

He outlined his plot; read and worked. He felt that he was becoming part of the quiet life of the inn and the Forest, but more and more he was becoming an object of intense but unspoken interest.

“He’s writing a book!” Aunt Polly confided to Peter. “But he doesn’t want anything said about it.”

“He needn’t get scared. I like him too well to let on and I reckon one thing’s as good as another to tell us. I lay my last dollar, Polly, on this: he’s after Maclin; not with him. I’m thinking the Forest will get a shake-up some day and I’m willing to bide my time. Writing a book! Him, a full-blooded young feller, writing a book. Gosh! Why don’t he take to knitting?”

Northrup also sent a letter to Manly. He realized that he might set his conscience at rest by keeping his end of the line open, but he wanted to have one steady hand, at least, at the other end.

“Until further notice,” he wrote to Manly, “I’m here, and let it go at that. Should there be any need, even the slightest, get in touch with me. As for the rest, I’ve found myself, Manly. I’m getting acquainted, and working like the devil.”

Manly read the letter, grinned, and put it in a box marked “Confidential, but unimportant.”

Then he leaned back in his chair, and before he relegated Northrup to “unimportant,” gave him two or three thoughts.

“The writing bug has got him, root and branch. He’s burrowed in his hole and wants the earth to tumble in over him. Talk about letting sleeping dogs lie. Lord! they’re nothing to the animals of Northrup’s type. And some darn 57 fools”––Manly was thinking of Kathryn––“go nosing around and yapping at the creatures’ heels and feel hurt when they turn and snap.”

And Northrup, in his quiet room at the inn, slept at night like a tired boy and dreamed. Now when Northrup began to dream, he was always on the lookout. A few skirmishing, nonsensical dreams marked a state of mind peculiarly associated with his best working mood. They caught and held his attention; they were like signals of the real thing. The Real Thing was a certain dream that, in every detail, was familiar to Northrup and exact in its repetition.

Northrup had not been long at the inn when the significant dream came.

He was back in a big sunny room that he knew as well as his own in his mother’s house. There he stood, like a glad, returned traveller, counting the pieces of furniture; deeply grateful that they were in their places and carefully preserved.

The minutest articles were noted. A vase of flowers; the curtains swaying in the breeze; an elusive odour that often haunted Northrup’s waking hours. The room was now as it always had been. That being assured, Northrup, still in deep sleep, turned to the corridor and expectantly viewed the closed doors. But right here a new note was interjected. Previously, the corridor and doors were things he had gazed upon, feeling as a stranger might; but now they were like the room; quite his own. He had trod the passage; had looked into the empty rooms––they were empty but had held a suggestion of things about to occur.

And then waking suddenly, Northrup understood––he had come to the place of his dream. The Inn was the old setting. In a clairvoyant state, he had been in this place before!

He went to the door of his room and glanced down the passage. All was quiet. The dream made an immediate impression on Northrup. Not only did it arouse his power of creation, strengthen and illumine it; but it evolved a sense of hurry that inspired him without worrying him. It was like the frenzy that seizes an artist when he wants to get a bit of beauty on canvas in a certain light that may change in 58 the next minute. He felt that what he was about to do must be done rapidly and he knew that he would have strength to meet the demand.

He was quickened to every slight thing that came his way: faces, voices, colour. He realized the unrest that his very innocent presence inspired. He wondered about it. What lay seething under the thick crust of King’s Forest that was bubbling to the surface? Was his coming the one thing needed to––to–––

And then he thought of that figure of speech that Manly had used. The black lava flowing; oozing, silently. The whole world, in the big and in the little, was being awakened and aroused––it was that, not his presence, that confused the Forest.

The habits of the house amused and moved him sympathetically. Little Aunt Polly, it appeared, was Judge and Final Court of Justice to the people. Through her he felt he must look for guidance and understanding.

There were always two hours in the afternoons set aside for “hearings.” Perched on the edge of the couch, pillows to right and left, eyeglasses aslant and knitting in hand, Aunt Polly was at the disposal of her neighbours. They could make appointments for private interviews or air their grievances before others, as the spirit urged them. Awful verdicts, clean-cut and simple, were arrived at; advice, grim and far-reaching, was generously given, but woe to the liar or sniveller.

A curious sort of understanding grew up between Northrup and the little woman concerning these conclaves. Polly sensed his interest in all that went on and partly comprehended the real reason for it. She had been strangely impressed by the knowledge that her guest was a writer-man and therefore conscientious about the mental food she set before him. She did not share Peter’s doubts. Some things she felt were not for Northrup and that fast-flying pen of his! But there were other glimpses behind the shields of King’s Forest that did not matter. To these Northrup was welcome.

59

When the hour came for court to sit, it became Northrup’s habit to seek the front porch for exercise and fresh air. Sometimes the window nearest to Aunt Polly’s sofa would be left open! Sometimes it was closed.

In the latter emergency Northrup sought his exercise and fresh air at a distance.

One day Maclin called. Northrup had not seen him before and was interested. Indirectly he was concerned with the story in hand for he was the mysterious friend of Larry Rivers and the puller of many strings in King’s Forest; strings that were manipulated in ways that aroused suspicion and would be great stuff in a book.

Northrup had seen Maclin from his room window and, when all was safe, quietly took to the back stairs and silently reached the piazza.

The window by Aunt Polly’s couch was open a little higher than usual and the words that greeted Northrup were:

“I call it muggy, Mr. Maclin. That’s what I call it, and if the draught hits the nape of your neck, set the other side of the hearth where there ain’t no draught.”

This, apparently, the caller proceeded to do. Outside Northrup took a chair and refrained from smoking. He wanted his presence to be unsuspected by the caller. He was confident that Aunt Polly knew of his proximity, and he felt sure that Maclin had come to find out more about him.

From the first Northrup was aware of a subtle meaning for the call and he wondered if the woman, clicking her needles, fully comprehended it! The man, Maclin, he soon gathered, was no ordinary personage. He had a kind of superficial polish and culture that were evident in the tones of his voice. After having accounted for his presence by stating that he was looking about a bit and felt like being friendly, Maclin was rounded up by Aunt Polly asking what he was looking about at?

Maclin laughed.

“To tell the truth,” he said, as if taking Aunt Polly into his intimate confidence, “I was looking at the Point. A darned dirty bit of ground with all those squatters on it.”

60

“We haven’t ever called ’em that, Mr. Maclin. They’re folks with nowhere else to live.” Aunt Polly clicked her needles.

“They’re a dirty, lazy lot. I can’t get ’em to work over at the mines, do what I will.”

“As to that, Mr. Maclin, folks as are mostly drunk on bad whiskey can’t be expected to do good work, can they? Then again, if they are sober, I dare say they are too keen about those inventions of yours that must be so secret. Foreigners, for that purpose, I reckon are easier to manage.”

Maclin shifted his position and put the nape of his neck nearer the window again and Northrup lost any doubt he had about Aunt Polly’s understanding of the situation.

Maclin laughed. It was a trick of his to laugh while he got control of himself.

“You’re a real idealist, Miss Heathcote; most ladies are, some men are, too, until they have to handle the ugly facts of life.”

Peter was meant by “some men,” Northrup suspected.

“Now, speaking of the whiskey, Miss Heathcote, it’s as good over at my place as the men can afford, and better, too. I don’t make anything at the Cosey Bar, I can assure you, but I know that men have to have their drink, and I think it’s better to keep it under control.”

“That’s real human of you, Mr. Maclin, but I wish to goodness you’d keep the men under control after they’ve had their drink. They certainly do make a mess of the peace and happiness of others while they’re indulging in their rights.”

A silence, then Maclin started again. “Truth is, Miss Heathcote, the men ’round here are shucks, and I’m keeping my eye open for the real interest of King’s Forest, not the sentimental interest. Now, that Point––we ought to clean that up, build decent, comfortable cottages there and a wharf; keep the men as have ambition and can pay rents, and get others in, foreigners if you like, who know their business and can set a good example. We’re all running to seed down here, Miss Heathcote, and that’s a fact. I don’t mind telling you, 61 you’re a woman of a thousand and can see what’s what, I am inventing some pretty clever things down at my place and it wouldn’t be safe to let on until they’re perfected, and I do want good workers, not loafers or snoopers, and I do want that Point. It’s nearer to the mines than any other spot on the Lake. I want to build a good road to it; the squatters could be utilized on that––the Pointers, I mean. You and your brother ought to be keen enough to work with me, not against me. Sentiment oughtn’t to go too far where a lot of lazy beggars are concerned.”

The clicking of the needles was the only sound after Maclin’s long speech; he was waiting and breathing quicker. Northrup could hear the deep breathing.

“How do you feel about it, Miss Heathcote?”

“Oh! I don’t let my feelings get the better of me till I know what’s stirring them.”

Northrup stifled a laugh, but Maclin, feeling secure, laughed loudly.

“It’s like asking me, Mr. Maclin, to get stirred up and set going by a pig in a poke.” Aunt Polly’s voice was thin and sharp. “I always see the pig before I get excited, maybe it would be best kept in the poke. Now, Peter and me have a real feeling about the Point––it belonged, as far as we know, to old Doctor Rivers, and all that he had he left to Mary-Clare and we feel sort of responsible to him and her. We would all shield anything that belonged to the old doctor.”

“Is her title clear to that land?” Maclin did not laugh now, Northrup noted that.

“Land! Mr. Maclin, anything as high-sounding as a title tacked on to the Point is real ridiculous! But if the title ain’t clear, I guess brother Peter can make it so. Peter being magistrate comes in handy.”

“Miss Heathcote”––from his tones Northrup judged that Maclin was coming into the open––“Miss Heathcote, the title of the Point isn’t a clear one. I’ve made it my business to find out. Now I’m going to prove my friendliness––I’m not going to push what I know, I’ll take all the risks myself. I’ll give Mrs. Rivers a fair price for that land and everything will 62 be peaceful and happy if you will use your influence with her and the squatters. Will you?”

Aunt Polly slipped from the sofa. Northrup heard her, and imagined the look on her face.

“No, Mr. Maclin, I won’t! When the occasion rises up, I’ll advise Mary-Clare against pigs in pokes and I’ll advise the squatters to squat on!”

Northrup again had difficulty in smothering his laugh, but Maclin’s next move surprised and sobered him.

“Isn’t that place under the stairs, Miss Heathcote, where the bar of the old inn used to be?”

“Yes, sir, yes!” It was an ominous sign when Aunt Polly addressed any one as “sir.” “But that was before our time. Peter and I cleaned the place out as best we could, but there are times now, even, while I sit here alone in the dark, when I seem to see shadows of poor wives and mothers and children stealing in that door a-looking for their men. Don’t that thought ever haunt you, Mr. Maclin, over at the Cosey Bar?”

They were sparring, these two.

“No, it never does. I take things as they are, Miss Heathcote, and let them go at that. Now, if I were to run this place, do you know, I’d do it right and proper and have a what’s what and make money.”

“But you’re not running this inn, sir.”

“Certainly I’m not now, that’s plain enough, or I’d make King’s Forest sit up and take notice. Well, well, Miss Heathcote, just talk over with your brother what I’ve said to you. A man looks at some things different from a woman. Good-bye, ma’am, good-bye. Looks as if it were clearing.”

As Maclin came upon the piazza he stopped short at the sight of Northrup by the open window. He wasn’t often betrayed into showing surprise, but he was now. He had come hoping to get a glimpse of the stranger; had come to get in an early warning of his power, but he wanted to control conditions.

“Good afternoon,” he muttered. “Looks more like clearing, 63 doesn’t it? Stranger in these parts? I’ve heard of you; haven’t had the pleasure of meeting you.”

Northrup regarded Maclin coolly as one man does another when there is no apparent reason why he should not.

“The clouds do seem lifting. No, I’m not what you might call a stranger in King’s Forest. Some lake, isn’t it, and good woodland?”

“One of the family, eh? Happy to meet you.” Maclin offered a broad, heavy hand. Northrup took it and smiled cordially without speaking. “Staying on some time?”

“I haven’t decided exactly.”

“Come over to the mines and look around. Nothing there as yet but a dump heap, so to speak, but I’m working out a big proposition and while I have to go slow and keep somewhat under cover for a time––I don’t mind showing what can be shown.”

“Thanks,” Northrup nodded, “I’ll get over if I find time. I’m here on business myself and am rather busy in a slow, lazy fashion, but I’ll not forget.”

Maclin put on his hat and turned away. Northrup got an unpleasant impression of the man’s head in the back. It was flat and his neck met it in flabby folds that wrinkled under certain emotions as other men’s foreheads did. The expressive neck was wrinkling now.

Giving Aunt Polly time to recover her poise, Northrup went inside. He found the small woman hovering about the room, patting the furniture, dusting it here and there with her apron. Her glasses were quite misty.

“I hope you kept your ears open,” she exclaimed when she turned to Northrup.

“I did, Aunt Polly! Come, sit down and let’s talk it over.”

Polly obeyed at once and let restraint drop.

“That man has a real terrible effect on me, son. He’s like acid sorter creeping in. I don’t suppose he could do what he hints––but his hints just naturally make me anxious.”

“He cannot get a hold on you, Aunt Polly. Surely your brother is more than a match for any one like Maclin.”