“Well,” he said, getting up and stretching, “I think I’ll take a turn before I go to bed. Bank the fire, Uncle Peter; I may prowl late.”
Heathcote asked no questions, but those prowls of Northrup’s were putting his simple faith to severe tests. Peter was above gossip, but when it swirled too near him he was bound to watch out.
“All right, son,” he muttered, and ran his hand through his bristling hair.
The night was a dark one. A soft darkness it was, that held no wind and only a hint of frost. Stepping quickly along the edge of the lake, Northrup felt that he was being absorbed by the still shadows and the sensation pleased and comforted him. He was not aware of thought, but thought was taking him into control, as the night was. There would be moments of seeming blank and then a conclusion! A vivid, final conclusion. Of course Mary-Clare occupied these moments of seeming mental inaction. Northrup now wanted to set her free from––what?
“That young beast of a husband!” So much for that conclusion. If the end had come between him and Mary-Clare, Northrup wondered if he could free her from Rivers.
“What for?”
This brought a hurtling mass of conclusions.
“No man has a right to get a stranglehold on a woman. If she has, as the old darkey said, lost her taste for him, why in thunder should he want to cram himself down her throat?”
This was more common sense than moral or legal, and Northrup bent his head and plunged along. He walked on, believing that he was master of his soul and his actions at last, while, in reality, he was but part of the Scheme of Things and was acting under orders.