CHAPTER XIII
Northrup decided to turn back at once to his own place in life after that revealing afternoon with Mary-Clare. He was not in any sense deceived by conditions. He had, after twenty-four hours, been able to classify the situation and reduce it to its proper proportions. As it stood, it had, he acknowledged, been saved by the rare and unusual qualities of Mary-Clare. But it could not bear the stress and strain of repeated tests. Unless he meant to be a fool and fill his future with remorse, for he was decent and sane, he could do nothing but go away and let the incidents of King’s Forest bear sanctifying fruits, not draughts of wormwood.
Something rather big had happened to him––he must not permit it to become small. He recalled Mary-Clare’s words and face and a great tenderness swept over him.
“Poor little girl,” he thought, “part of a commonplace, dingy tragedy. What is there for her? But what could I have done for her, in God’s name, to better her lot? She saw it clear enough.”
No, there was nothing to do but turn his back on the whole thing and go home! Shorn of the spiritual and uplifting qualities, the situation was bald and dangerous. He must be practical and wise, but deciding to leave and actually leaving were different matters.
The weather jeered at him by its glorious warmth and colour. It held day after day with occasional sharp storms that ended in greater beauty. The thought of the city made Northrup shudder. He tried to work: it was still warm enough in the deserted chapel to write, but he knew that he was accomplishing nothing. There was a gap in the story––the woman part. Every time Northrup came to that he felt 167 as if he were laying a wet cloth over the soft clay until he had time finally to mould it. And he kept from any chance of meeting Mary-Clare.
“I’ll wait until this marvellous spell of weather breaks,” he compromised with his lesser––or better––self. “Then I’ll beat it!”
Looking to this he asked Uncle Peter what the chances were of a cold spell.
“There was a time”––Peter sniffed the air. He was husking golden corn by the kitchen fire––“when I could calculate about the weather, but since the weather man has got to meddling he’s messed things considerable. He’s put in the Middle States, and what-not, until it’s like doing subtraction and division––and by that time the change of weather is on you.”
Northrup laughed.