But in that Mary-Clare had had courage to escape from hell––and Northrup had pictured it all from memories of his boyhood––roused him to admiration.
She was of the mettle of his mother. She might be bent but never broken. She was treading a path that none of her little world had ever trod before. Alone in the Forest she had taken a stand that she could not hope would be understood, and how superbly she was holding it!
Knowing what he did, Northrup compared Mary-Clare with the women of his acquaintance; what one of them could defy their conventions as she was doing, instinctively, courageously?
“But she ought not to be permitted to think all men are like Rivers!”
This thought grew upon Northrup, and it was the first step, generously taken, to establish higher ideals for his sex. With the knowledge he had, he was in a position of safety. Not to be seen with Mary-Clare while the silly gossip muttered or whispered would be to acknowledge a reason for not meeting her––so he flung caution to the winds.
There were nutting parties for the children––innocent enough, heaven knew! There were thrilling camping suppers 140 on the flat ridge of the hills in order to watch the miracle of sunset and moonrise.
No wonder Jan-an cast her lot in with those headed, so the whisper ran, for perdition. She had never been so nearly happy in her life; neither had Mary-Clare nor Noreen nor––though he did not own it––Northrup, himself.
No wonder Maclin, and the outraged Larry, saw distinctly the ridge on which the wreck was to occur.
But no one was taking into account that idealism in Mary-Clare that the old doctor had devoutly hoped would save her, not destroy her. Northrup began to comprehend it during the more intimate conversations that took place when the children, playing apart, left him and Mary-Clare alone. The wonder grew upon him and humbled him. It was something he had never encountered before. A philosophy and code built entirely upon knowledge gained from books and interpreted by a singular strength and purity of mind. It piqued Northrup; he began to test it, never estimating danger for himself.
“Books are like people,” Mary-Clare said one day––she was watching Northrup build a campfire and the last bit of sunlight fell full upon her––“the words are the costumes.” She had marked the surprised look in Northrup’s eyes as she quoted rather a bald sentiment from an old book.