I suppose you have taken this method of degrading my dead brother and me. That one of your humble origin can estimate the impression upon another of such an offer as you made to my nephew is quite beyond expectation. The Hertfords have always been gentlemen and ladies andyouwould send the last of the race, by the power of your vulgar money, to work among common labourers in order to break his spirit and pride! You are too blind, apparently, to appreciate the honour my brother paid your sister by marrying her. His personal shortcomings could not possibly outweigh the position that he gained for her when she took his name. Through all these years I have suppressed my feeling as to the matter because I have felt that you and I, working together, might place the son of your sister and my brother in a position that would reflect credit upon us both; but since you have failed to recognize your opportunity and, in sordid revenge, have sought to degrade him, I assumeallresponsibility in the future. I am, comparatively, a poor woman, but hereafterLansing Treadwelland I will share and share alike. I shall endeavour, to the best that is in me, to prove to him that it is such men as you who hold the world back! Men who over-estimate money and undervalue blood and social position are not to be envied or trusted.
Having read this aloud to Matilda, Levi dropped the closely written sheet to the floor.
"She's got the courage of her convictions," Matilda snapped.
"And an old grudge," Markham returned.
"Well, I will say this for her," Matilda added; "she's upset her kettle of fish and Lans', too."
"So it seems! So it seems!"
Levi was looking at a flaming maple tree outside and thinking of his dead sister.
It was the evening of the day of the letter that Sandy Morley, sitting rigidly in the chair that Lansing Hertford had lounged in, listened to as much of an outline of his future as Levi Markham felt he could comprehend.
"And remember," Markham warned at the end, "I want you to learn howlittlea hundred dollars is as well as how big! One is as important as the other."
"Yes, sir," Sandy returned with a vague wonder, for he had yet to learn to think in dollars.
"Can you"—Markham considerately paused before putting the next question—"do you feel able to tell me a little more about yourself than I already know? I should like to feel that you trust me."
Sandy was stronger and better for his days in Bretherton and, never having had any great consideration shown him, he looked upon Levi Markham as a veritable God especially upraised for his guidance and protection.
"I want to tell you!" he said in a low, tense voice. Leaning forward until his arms touched the opposite side of the desk, his thin, sensitive face was nearly on a level with Markham's.
"It's—this—er—way."
The shade at the broad window behind Sandy had not been lowered, and a very magnificent black night riddled with stars stood like a shield against which the boyish form and pale face rested. There was a crumbling fire on the hearth, and the lamp on the table was turned low. Markham, listening to the slow, earnest voice, became hypnotized by its quality and pure purpose. He felt the dreariness and hopelessness of the hard childhood, and the hate that Mary Morley had aroused seemed to the listener to be the first vivifying happening. He never took his eyes from Sandy's face from first to last. The years of labour, self-sacrifice and fixed purpose stirred him strangely, and the touch of spirit introduced into the boy's voice when he approached the end found an echo in Markham's heart.
"I'm going to learn and then go back and help them-all who can't help themselves," Sandy explained, "forIknow, sir. No one what does not know, could ever do it! Us-all fears strangers. I'm going to get them-all safe some day, sir. I'm going to have a right, big place to gather them in and teach them. No Hertford curse is going to kill what has called me!"
So abstracted had Levi been, so distant in thought from the Bretherton study, and his own inward trouble, that this name, falling from Sandy's lips, shocked him beyond measure.
"What—did—you—say?" he gasped; "what name did you say?"
"Hertford, sir."
"What do you know of the Hertfords?" It was all Markham could do to hold his emotions in abeyance.
Sandy told his father's story, all but that which related to the Waldens, and the listener hung on every word.
"And so, sir, don't you see, I must be what they-all, my kith and kin, couldn't be? I've got to use my chance for them as well as for me."
"It's a big proposition, boy!" Levi relaxed.
"Yes, sir." The young face was tired and worn.
"Well, then, listen"—a strange light shone in Markham's eyes—"if you prove yourself able to tackle this job, by God, I'll back you! You and I will redeem that old Hollow of yours—you with my money! We'll get Smith Crothers by the throat and throttle him; we'll clean up the Speak Easies and cut more windows in the cabins. Where did you get the notion, son, that with more light and air there would be less damnation?"
"I've lived in the cabins, sir."
"Well, we'll cut all the windows you want and have the school and"—Markham was quivering—"we'll see if the Morleys can't rise up in the land of their fathers and stamp the Hertfords under foot!"
"Yes, sir!" And then Sandy gave one of his rare, rich laughs.
From that day the preparations began. A school in the mountains of New Hampshire was selected, and Sandy fitted out with everything necessary and proper.
Markham was noted for a sense of propriety. He kept his mills and lands in good condition because he was wise and sane; he housed his employees decently for the same reason, and he insisted upon their coöperation. He never let his taxes lapse, nor his money lie fallow. He had, hidden in a drawer of his desk, a valuable diamond ring that he took out in secret moments to enjoy. Occasionally the jewels were sent to Boston and put on the wheel because the artistic soul of Levi Markham demanded that through no carelessness of his should their lustre become dimmed. For much the same reasons Sandy Morley was entered upon his career in a manner befitting the hope that was in Markham for him.
The day Sandy was sent from Bretherton, Olive Treadwell and her adopted son, Lansing Treadwell, sailed for a year's stay in Europe, and Levi and Matilda Markham grimly agreed to leave things as they were.
"There's no use stirring up pudding past a certain point," Matilda said. "If you do it's apt to go heavy."
"And it's the part of wisdom to watch a rising batch of bread," Levi returned humorously. "When you can't get pudding—or when the pudding fails—look to bread and make the best of it!"
Cynthia Walden came slowly up the trail leading to the old gray house. Since the day of the flood which bore old Ivy forever from sight, she had confronted so many strange conditions that her eyes had the haunted, frightened expression common to the mountain people. The curse of the hills seemed to have settled upon her. She often said to herself, "poor whites," in order that the significance might be fully understood. Old Ivy had said that the cows were all that stood between them and the fate of others who had, through misfortune, accepted the title despised by the quality.
Well, she, Cynthia Walden, was no longer quality; of that there could be no doubt. Had Ivy and the cows been spared she might have hidden her disgrace of parentage, but now she must, in order to get food and wood, seek the help and charity of others, and she could no longer hold up her head!
At this thought the pretty, drooping head was lifted defiantly. No! she would not go down just yet, for one last motive remained. While she was at the store an hour before to buy a few necessary articles of food with the pitiful supply of money she had found in an old teapot on the kitchen shelf, a wonderful thing had occurred. Tod Greeley, weighing out some tea, remarked casually:
"I reckon, now I think o' it, Miss Cyn, there's a letter come for you. One for you and one for Mr. Morley."
"A letter!" Cynthia almost staggered. "A letter!"
Never in all her life had Cynthia received a letter, never had her imagination soared to such a height as to conceive of such a thing. Tod finished his careful weighing, then added a reckless handful and, having tied the tea up in a bulky package, wandered to the dirty row of letter boxes.
"Here it is!" he exclaimed after thumbing the morning mail over and remarking about each article.
"Yours and Mr. Morley's bear the same writing—Noo York! There ain't been a Noo York letter in this yere post-office since I came to The Hollow. It's a right smart compliment, Miss Cyn!"
Trembling and pale with excitement, Cynthia grasped the letter, tucked her little bundles under her arm and ran from the store.
The cold, crisp air of late autumn spurred her to action, and she kept on running, with the letter burning her hand like flame, so tightly did she grip it. Before she reached the broken and dilapidated fence separating the home place of Stoneledge from the trail, she paused beneath a tree to take breath and reconnoitre. She looked at the letter then for the first time, and she was sure it was from Sandy. Her heart beat painfully and her eyes widened. Looking about to make sure of privacy she tore open the envelope and lo! at the first words the gray autumn day glowed like gold, and the world was set to music. Poor Sandy, distracted by the noise and confusion of the big city, had permitted himself, when writing to Cynthia, the solace of imagination and memory.
"Dear Madam Bubble!" Why, Cynthia had almost forgotten her pretty, fascinating story-self! Her dear, slow smile had almost lost its cunning. However, it returned, now, and drew the corners of the stern young mouth up pathetically.
DEAR MADAM BUBBLE:
I am remembering everything and holding to it. I shut my eyes and I see you standing by The Way with your face like the dogwood flowers in the spring—shining and white and happy! That—er—way is how it is going always to look till I come back. No matter what happens to me; no matter how mighty hard things are, I am just going to stop short, when I feel I can't bear life, and shut my eyes and see you a-standing waiting like what you said. I've met much kindness and a great friend—it's the noise and strangeness and many folks what turn me crazy-like, but always when I shut my eyes—you come and it seemshomeagain. If I don't write, please Madam Bubble, know it's because I'm fighting hard to get something fit to bring to you when I come back. And I reckon you better not write to me—I couldn't stand it. You know how I couldn't count the money till the time came! That is the sort I am and, besides, I've got to find out what this—er—life is going to make me into. If I shouldn't be worthy to come up The Way to you—you better not know. But I will be! I will be! Thank you for what you've done for me and most for letting me think you'll wait and be ready.
Cynthia dropped the letter in her lap—for she was crouching beneath the tree. It was a badly written and much-soiled letter but no missive straight from heaven could have performed a greater miracle upon her. A radiance flooded her face from brow to chin, and her eyes glistened with the happy tears that never overflowed the blue-gray wells that held them.
"Sandy!" The familiar name passed her lips like the word of a prayer; "Sandy—'The Biggest of Them All!' I'll be a-waiting by The Way like what I said!"
There were consecration and joy in the words, and the transformation in the girl was wonderful. Gone was the look of despair and surrender. Madam Bubble was herself again!
Springing up, the girl began to dance about among the sodden autumn leaves. She sang, too, as the wild things of the woods sing. There was no tune; no sustained sound, but mad little trills and unexpected breaks. She imitated the bird-note that was Sandy's signal; she meant to practise it every day and keep it for his return lest he lost it among the noises and crowds in which he must do battle. Then Cynthia spied a hole in the trunk of the tree and with sudden abandonment she pushed her letter into it.
"There!" she panted; "and I'll put my answers in it, too, and give them all to Sandy when he comes up The Way."
But hunger and recent trouble laid restraining hands upon the girl at that moment. She sank down and shivered nervously. Between this moment and the one of Sandy's return stretched a dreary space, and how was she to keep her heart light and meet the dreary problems that confronted her? Winter was at hand; the wood pile had been swept from the door, and there were only a few dollars in the cracked teapot. Old Ivy's body, rescued a week after the flood, was buried from sight in the Walden "plot," and Ann Walden was greatly changed. Cynthia did not understand, but she was terribly afraid. Ann Walden laughed a great deal, slyly and cunningly. She never mentioned Ivy except to question where she had gone. The mistress of the Great House, too, took to pacing the upper balcony and repeating over and over:
"The hills—whence cometh my strength!"
It was quite fearful, but Cynthia had already learned to keep away from her aunt at moments of excitement; her presence always made matters worse. And once, soon after her return, Marcia Lowe had ventured to call at Stoneledge, but the outcome of her visit had been so deplorable that the little doctor was driven to despair. She had knocked at the outer door, which stood ajar, and, receiving no reply, had walked into the hall and to the library. There sat Ann Walden just as Miss Lowe had left her on the fateful afternoon of the letter. When Miss Walden raised her eyes to her unannounced caller a madness, with strange flashes of lucidity, overcame her.
"Out!" she shouted—"it was all a lie—there never was a marriage! Never! Would you kill me and the child? Leave us alone. We will not take the money or the shame! Leave me! leave me!"
Then running to the far corner of the fireplace she sank upon the floor and with outstretched hands she moaned:
"He killed her! killed her! and I damned her; leave us alone!"
At that point Cynthia rushed into the room and caught the poor, old, shrinking form in her arms; then, with flashing eyes she turned upon Marcia Lowe.
"Go!" she commanded with sudden courage and desperation. "Go! Don't you hear Aunt Ann?"
"You promised, little Cyn!" whined Miss Walden, "you promised!"
"I know—all about it!" Cynthia murmured, still keeping her fear-filled eyes upon the caller—"I, too, want you—to go away!"
Her training had fitted Marcia Lowe to understand and take alarm at what she beheld, but it also demanded that she leave at once. Since then Cynthia had never seen the little doctor, and the change in Ann Walden did not include another furious outburst such as that.
The excitement of the letter faded when the magic sheet of paper was hidden from sight, and stern necessity brought the severe lines back to the thin, pale face. It was just at that moment that Smith Crothers came down the path, crunching under his heavy boots the damp leaves and branches. Seeing Cynthia beneath the tree he paused and took off his hat. Whatever the girl felt and believed of the man was gained though indirect information—he had meant nothing personal to her before, and it was something of a surprise for her to realize that he was a good looking man and could smile in kindly fashion.
"Little Miss Walden," he said courteously, "I've just been a-hearing how you-all suffered from the storm. Mr. Greeley done told me the old lady is all around cracked!"
"Cracked!" The mountain interpretation of this word flooded Cynthia's consciousness like a flame that made plain all the subtle fear of the past few weeks. That was it, of course! "All around cracked!"
"Oh!" came in a shuddering cry; "oh! oh! oh!"
"Now don't take on that-er-way," comforted Crothers, coming nearer. "Us-all mean to stand by you. I expect you-all ain't over-rich either, and we-all can help in a right practical way. What do you say, little Miss Cyn, to coming down to the factory and doing light work and getting mighty good pay?"
A new horror shook Cynthia's pallid face; but Crothers met it with a laugh.
"Don't take on without reason," he soothed. "Ain't I done something for the mountings?" he asked; "I know what some folks think about me, little Miss Cyn, but you be a right peart miss, and I ask you straight and true—wouldn't things be worse, bad as they be, if I didn't take folks and pay 'em? Chillun is better 'long o' their mothers, when all's said and done, and they don't have to come if they don't want to, and when they do come the work don't hurt them. Just 'nough to keep 'em from mischief and me a-paying their parents for what is play to the young-uns."
Cynthia thought of Sandy's moan over the baby-things of the factory and her eyes filled. She did not know, perhaps Sandy did not understand, but once he had said to her during a flight of fancy:
"Some day I'm going to gather them-all away from old Smith Crothers and save them!"
"Come and see for yourself, little Miss Cyn."
The tone was friendly and kind, and the actual necessity of the future gripped Cynthia.
"Come and see. I know what is due to you and your folks, Miss Cynthia; I don't ask you to work 'long of the others. I have work for you right in my office where I can have an eye to your comfort and pleasure. Just copying letters and addressing envelopes and I will give you"—Crothers paused; his sudden desire was carrying him perilously near the danger point of being ridiculous—"I'll give you three dollars every week. Three whole dollars!"
With vivid memory Cynthia recalled the long years that it had taken to earn the three dollars for Sandy's venture and she gave a little gasp.
"Three whole dollars! And you can get down to the factory after you make the old lady comfortable, and I can let you have a little mule—all for yourself—to tote you to and fro."
"It's—it's very kind of you, Mr. Crothers," Cynthia panted; "I'll ask——" Then of a sudden she recollected that there was no one to ask. For the first time in her life she was confronted by an overpowering condition that she must meet alone! Just then a sharp touch of cold struck her as the changing wind found the thin place in her coarse gown.
"I'll—I'll come, and thank you, Mr. Crothers," she said in shaking voice. "I'll come, next week!"
"Good!" cried Crothers, "and I'll send up the mule—we'll put its feed in saddle bags—I'll throw that in and——" the smile on the man's face almost frightened Cynthia, though the words that followed seemed to give it the lie.
"I'm going to have one of the men stack wood for you, too, and lay in some winter vegetables. I don't want you to think badly of me, little Miss Cyn. I want to help you-all."
When he had gone Cynthia drew a long breath, and shivered as though some evil thing had threatened or touched her in passing, but an hour later she was thankful her sudden impulse had led her to accept Crothers' offer, for the wind changed and brought from its new quarter a biting warning of winter. Fires had to be kindled to warm the damp, dreary rooms, and Ann Walden, crouching by the blaze, looked gratefully up into Cynthia's face and laughed that vacant, childish laugh that aroused in the girl the fear that youth knows, and the pity that woman learns. And late that afternoon the little doctor, astride her rugged horse, rode up to the cabin of Sally Taber, and made a business proposition.
Sally was gathering wood behind her cabin with a fervour born of fear and knowledge. She knew what the change of wind meant and her wood pile was far from satisfactory. Long before Marcia Lowe came into sight the old woman stood up and listened with keen, flashing eyes alert.
"Horse!" she muttered, and then rapidly considered "whose horse?"
Not the old doctor's from The Forge, for he never used up horseflesh in that reckless fashion. His circuit was too far and wide for such foolish extravagance.
"It's coming this-er-way!" Sally concluded, and since there was no other human habitation on that particular route but her own she rightfully appropriated the approaching visitor. With a quickness of motion one would not have suspected in such an old body, the woman ran into her cabin and, as a society belle might have rushed for her toilet table, Sally made for a closet in the corner of her living room. From there she brought forth a can of vaseline and daubed some of the contents artistically around her lips; then she tied over her shabby gown a clean and well-preserved apron and smoothed her thin, white hair.
"Now," she muttered, composedly taking her knitting and sitting before her hastily replenished hearth-fire; "now, I reckon who-sumever it may be, will think I've had a po'ful feast o' po'k chops, judging from my mouf, an' no quality ain't mo' comfortable than I be?"
A smile of content spread over the old face as this vision of respectability enfolded the poor soul. At that moment Marcia Lowe jumped from her horse, tied it to a tree and came rapidly up to the open door. There was an anxious look in her eyes and the corners of her lips drooped a trifle more than they did when she first rode up The Way. The life of The Hollow was claiming her as it had her uncle before her. As she looked in the cabin and saw the composed figure of the mistress a gleam of humour lighted her face and she secretly rebelled at the sensation of lack of ease which often overcame her in the presence of these calm, self-possessed "poor whites."
"They are so inhumanly superior!" she thought, and then a kindlier feeling came.
"Good afternoon, Miss Taber."
Sally looked up with an assumed surprise worthy of her race and tradition.
"If it ain't Miss Lowe!" she exclaimed, coming forward cordially. "It sho' am, Miss Lowe! Come in, ma'am and rest yourself."
Sally's idioms savoured of darky dialect and her mountain quaintness:
"I'll brew a dish o' tea, ma'am."
Marcia Lowe refused this attention and stayed Sally by her first words.
"Miss Taber, I want you to help me out with a very difficult matter. No one can help me—but you!"
People might think what they cared to about this stranger from Trouble Neck—the men still distrusted her—but the women were rapidly being won to her.
"I 'low you can count on me, ma'am. I says to myself often, says I—Sally Taber, jes' so long as you can make a friend or do a 'commodation job, you is useful to de community—when yo' can't—why—den!" And with that Sally gave a "pouf!" as if blowing away a feather.
Marcia Lowe could not keep her eyes from the shining, greased lips; she was becoming acquainted with mountain peculiarities, but she was perplexed by the neat Sally's daubed face.
"It's about—Miss Walden," she said softly, moving her chair closer to Sally.
"What's happened 'long o' her?" An anxious look crept into Sally's eyes.
"I fear—she is not exactly right."
"It's in the family," Sally murmured; "when things go awry 'long o' them, they jes' naturally take to queerness. The ole general, Miss Ann's father, he done think he was God-a'mighty, long toward the last. I kin see him now a-coming up The Way blessing us-all. They ain't none o' them dangerous, jes' all around cracked, ma'am."
"But the little girl, Miss Taber, she ought not to be alone there with Miss Walden. You see I have studied medicine and I know—it is dangerous and—it mustn't be. See here! I cannot do anything without making more trouble. I'm not one of them, but you could go and—well, just take control! Say that you—need shelter and help—you know Miss Walden would do anything for her friends; put it that way and then"—here Marcia Lowe laid some money in the old shrivelled hands, "there will always be money for you to buy what is necessary for the comfort of you all."
The keen eyes glittered, and the quick mind was caught by the subtlety of the suggestion. Here was a chance to play great lady; to return favours that long had been conferred upon her, and at the same time retain her respectability and dignity. It was a master stroke and Marcia Lowe felt a glow of self-appreciation.
"You can care for her, Miss Taber; you can see that Cynthia is properly looked after, and you can give Miss Walden the joy of her life in thinking that she is able to help you. It is a pardonable bit of deceit, but will you assist me?"
After a decent show of hesitation, Sally decided that she would and, at the close of the afternoon, was seated behind the little doctor—with her pitiful store of clothing, jogging in a bundle at her back, on the way to Stoneledge. Miss Lowe set her down at the trail leading up to the old crumbling house, with these words:
"If ever my uncle did a kind deed, for you, Miss Taber, do this for him now."
Toting up the hill, Sally's thoughts wandered back to Theodore Starr and settled on a certain dark, cold night when he sat in her cabin piling the wood on her fire, while she lay shivering with chill upon her wretched bed. All the charms had failed, the rabbit foot, under the dripping of the north end of the roof had not eased a single pang, and hope was about gone when Starr chanced by. He had meant to ask for a bite and a night's shelter, for he was worn by travel and service, but instead he sat beside her the night through and fought death by the bravery of his spirit and the homely task of keeping warm the shivering body. He had put his coat over her and aroused her to interest and courage.
"The Lord does not let one of us off until our day's work is done," he had said even when he himself feared Sally's duties were over.
"Ah' mighty right He war'," Sally now muttered, panting up the last rise. "I reckon I got something yet to do."
Her advent at Stoneledge was nothing less than consummate acting. Knocking at the kitchen door she responded to the call from within and stood before Ann Walden crouching by the fire, and Cynthia awkwardly trying to evolve an evening meal from some materials on the table.
"Miss Ann, I've come to ax mercy o' you."
Miss Walden laughed foolishly.
"Everything is plumb gone an' I got to tell some one o' my misery. Nothing to eat; nothing to hold onto 'cept a trifle o' money what I'se afraid to let any one know I'se got. Miss Ann, chile, there ain't any one goin' to be s'prised at money coming from the Great House, so jes' let me bide long o' you an' lil' miss, for God's sake, ma'am."
The old tie between the family and its dependents held true now even through the growing mists of Ann Walden's brain.
"Cyn," she commanded, "get Ivy—where is Ivy? Tell her to make up a bed for Sally in the loft over the kitchen."
And then again she laughed that meaningless laugh.
Life in the Morley cabin was tense and dangerously vital. The cold had settled down now with serious intent; the door was permanently closed except of entrances and exits and the two small sliding windows in the front and back of the living-room were never opened, and they were coated with grease and dirt until even the brightest day filtered through but dimly.
Martin was depressed and forlorn, he took what was offered him, asked no questions and seemed far and away from any hope of reasserting himself. He brought water and wood indoors; he made and kept the fire; he slept on the settle before the hearth and always he was dreaming or thinking of Sandy. The letter that had, after many weeks, drifted to him, had been read to him by The Forge doctor who happened to be riding by when Martin tremblingly pleaded with him for help.
"It's this-er-way," Morley had explained, striving to hide the depths of his illiteracy; "my eyes don' gone back on me. I reckon I better go down to The Forge and get specs, but jes' now I'd like to have light on this yere letter."
The doctor read poor Sandy's effusion with some emotion. With broader experience he saw the effort the boy had made to withhold his own lonely state from the father. There was an attempt at cheer in the words weighted, as the reader saw, with homesickness and longing.
"Now, Morley," he cautioned, when the letter was ended, "you keep your hands off that boy. If there is a spark of love for him in your heart, let him fight his battle off there alone. He's found a good friend and it's his one chance. If you want to do anything for him keep yourself above water; have the family respectable for him to come back to. I'm not much on prophesying, but remembering what you once were and what his mother was, I have hopes of Sandy."
No one knew or could have guessed that poor Martin was heeding the doctor's words, but he was. He had stopped drinking. Not a drop of liquor had passed his lips for weeks, and the craving was stronger at times than Martin could endure. At such moments he stole to the outshed and, gripping a certain little ragged jacket, which still hung there, to his twitching face, would moan: "Oh! God, help me for Sandy's sake." Not for his own—but for Sandy's sake always. And God heard and upheld the weak creature.
Then came the night when Mary and Molly aroused Martin from his sleep as they came in about midnight. Martin had supposed them upstairs long before. He had come in at nine o'clock from the shed where he had wrestled with his craving and, by the help of God, had come out victorious once again. He had fallen asleep soon after and a vivid and strange dream had held him captive by its power. Sandy had come to him clearly, and comfortingly; had sat close to him and laid his hand in his. They had talked familiarly, and then suddenly the boy had asked:
"Dad, how about Molly? She belongs to us-all, you said. I've been thinking about Molly; where is she?"
Just then the dream faded; the man on the hard settle pulled himself up, looked dazedly at the almost dead fire and—listened! Some one was fumbling at the door; some one was coming in! Martin's heart stood still for, with the dream fresh in his mind, he thought it was Sandy, and even through his sick longing for the boy a fear seized him. But Mary came into the dim room with Molly clinging to her. They tiptoed across the floor toward the stairway and had almost reached it when Martin flung a log of wood on the fire, and in the quick flash of light that followed stood up and asked in a clear, forceful voice:
"Whar you-all been?"
The strangeness and surprise took Mary off her guard, and she faltered:
"What's that to you, Mart Morley?"
Martin threw another log on the fire, as if by so doing he could illuminate more than the cold black room.
"What yo-all been doing? Molly, come here."
Frightened and trembling the girl came forward. She looked far older than her years. Her bold, coarse beauty had developed amazingly during the past few months, and the expression on her face now roused all the dormant manhood in Morley's nature. Ignoring the woman by the stairway, he gripped Molly by the shoulders, and holding her so that the lurid light of the flaming logs fell upon her, he drove his questions into the girl's consciousness and brought alarmed truth forth before a lie could master it.
"Whar yo' been, Molly?"
"Up to—to Teale's."
"What—doing?"
"Dancing for 'em."
Martin's eyes flashed. It was quite plain to him now—the hideous, drunken orgy, and this little girl fanning ugly passions into fire by her youth and beauty!
"You——" Morley rarely swore, but the eloquent pause was more thrilling than the word he might have spoken. While he clutched Molly, his infuriated eyes held Mary like something tangible, and drew her forth from her shadows.
"She's—mine!" the woman panted. For the first time in her life she was awed by Morley; "she's mine and—the devil's. That was the bargain and no questions asked. The devil pays good wages, Mart. We'll—we'll share with you!"
The woman was actually whining and seeking to propitiate the man.
"I've been true to you, Mart. Sure as God hears me, and 'taint cause I'm old and unsought either. I'll look after her, Mart—but—we-all have got to live!"
Morley tried to control himself before he spoke, and finally managed to say, not unkindly:
"Molly, you go upstairs. Shut—shut and lock the door!"
"Mart!" Genuine terror rang in Mary's tones. "Mart—she's mine and——"
"Go!" commanded Morley, and the child almost ran to do his bidding. Then alone the man and woman faced each other. Desperation gave courage to Mary. If all were lost but her physical strength and bravado, then she must use them.
"You did what you wanted to do with him as was yours," she panted; "you helped him away, and left us-all to starve. You leave—Molly to me and——"
"Stop!" cried Morley, unable to hear the brutal repetition. "You would sell the—the child to Teale and his kind?"
"It's the only way, Mart. I'll keep my hold on her—they——"
"You!" And then, driven by the outraged virtue of the suppressed and forgotten past, Morley gave expression to his emotions in the language of The Hollow. For the first time in his life he struck a woman!
Once the deed was done he reeled back, calmed at once into frozen horror. Mary staggered and fell. In falling she struck her head against the andirons on the hearth and lay quite, quite still while a stream of blood from a cut behind the left ear mingled with the ashes and turned them dark and moist. It seemed hours that Morley looked and looked before he could master himself and move toward the woman upon the floor. Finally he listened to her heart, but his own pulsing ears deceived him; he tried to raise her up, but his strength was gone, and he let the lifeless body drop again on the hearth. Then a craven desperation overcame him. Gone were his courage and power, like a maddened criminal he strode to the stairway and wrenched the locked door from its hinges and sprang up to where Molly, sobbing and moaning, crouched in the far corner.
"Come," he whispered; "come!"
"Where's—mother?"
"Her's gone—to—Teale!" The lie rang out fiercely, boldly. Then wrapping an old bedspread about Molly and keeping her close to him, he made his way down the stairs and out of the house. Molly did not turn to look into the lower room, she believed Martin, and she was numb with terror.
"Whar we-all going?" she panted, as Martin dragged her on. This question roused Morley. Up to that instant he had not considered where he was going; he only felt the necessity of flight.
"To—to Trouble Neck," he answered as if some one else were speaking through him.
"To her as—as they call the Cup-o'-Cold-Water Lady."
Molly did not speak again, but the answer had stilled somewhat her fear and anguish. By the time she and Martin reached the Trouble Neck cabin her uncanny shrewdness and cunning were well to the fore.
The little clock on the mantelshelf had just struck two when Marcia Lowe raised her tired eyes from the book spread out on the table before her.
The one large room of the cabin was kitchen, dining-room, parlour, library; all that was not included in bed-chamber. The lean-to was Marcia Lowe's sleeping apartment and a tiny room above reached only by a ladder from outside, served as a trim, cleanly resting-place for a chance guest or a needy traveller.
The little doctor lifted her aching eyes and took in the rude comfort of her home-place with a deep sigh.
"Oh!" she whispered—for she had adopted the compromise of the lonely woman and talked aloud to herself—"oh! if they could forget my sex!"
She was thinking of a conversation she had had with The Forge doctor that very day.
"I—I wish you would work with me," she had pleaded; "they would accept you; obey what you say and—give me a chance."
The doctor had laughed good-naturedly. Miss Lowe amused him hugely. She seemed to him like a child playing with sugar and bread pills.
"My dear young lady," he had said; "they'd shoot me, and with good reason, if I let any petticoat Saw Bones tamper with them; no insult intended—only compliment, dear lady! Your books read like fairy stories; I'm too old a hand to be taken in. The revised Bible, ma'am, is dangerous for souls, and new ideas in physic are about the same for bodies. I read when I can—but I'm too human to experiment on my kind. A few old remedies and a good stiff bluff are all that are needed up-er-here. Now as to you, my dear young miss, I'd have to put you under lock and key or buy you a return ticket to that fly-in-the-face-of-Providence state of yours if you tampered with the bodies of these people. That uncle of yours juggled considerable in his day, but souls are one thing; bodies, another."
Marcia Lowe now clasped her hands behind her tired head and raised her eyes to the low ceiling.
"Just for one faithful soul!" she murmured; "no, one faithful body that would trust itself to me for—a month; a month! A few days of starvation; a magic little pill; a spell of patient waiting and then—a miracle."
But no response came from the stillness of the night and Miss Lowe was about to make preparations for bed when a sound outside stayed her. Then came a knock on the door! She went to the small window beside the door, drew aside the dainty white curtain, opened it halfway and asked:
"Is that you, Hope?" She had promised Liza to bide with her when her hour came, but it was not Hope who replied:
"This is Martin Morley, ma'am. Me and lil' Molly."
The door was opened at once and closed after the two.
"Now," said the little doctor, stirring the fire to greater effort and seeing that her callers had the easiest chairs in the room, "now, then, Mr. Morley."
Molly followed every motion of Marcia Lowe with unchildlike interest. Fear was gone from the girl's face, but an alert sharpness marked it.
"Can you give her," Martin nodded toward Molly, "a bed for—for to-night? I have something to tell you."
Marcia Lowe sensed that something serious lay behind the request, and rose at once and went to Molly.
"Come into my bedroom," she said; "I can make you very comfy, I'm sure. Will you sleep with me?"
Molly nodded and followed meekly. After a time Marcia Lowe came back and, standing in front of Morley, said quickly:
"What is it?"
The haggard, haunted face was raised to her.
"I've—I've done killed Mary!" he said simply.
The little doctor shuddered, but controlled her features; her eyes did not fall from the wretched man's face.
"Tell me!" was all she said. Then Martin slowly in a hushed voice, described all that had passed, even the vision of Sandy.
"The Lord-a'mighty, He knows I didn't mean to kill," Martin quivered; "but who-all will believe that? I meant to stay clean and fair for the boy's coming back, Miss Lowe, ma'am, deed I did, and now he'll come back to——" Martin could not frame the hideous truth in words; he gulped miserably and went on; "please, ma'am, keep—her, Molly, from Teale and them-all!"
"And you?" So simply did the question come that the man replied in kind.
"I—I can't let them-all cotch me, ma'am. Come morning, I'll be past hurting any one, more."
The childlike pathos in this criminal's voice and attitude confused the listener. For the life of her she could not deal with the situation in any ordinary fashion; it seemed like a dramatic incident bungled by amateurs. Presently she asked gently:
"Are yousureshe is dead, Mr. Morley?"
The unreality held Martin, too.
"I reckon she is," he faltered; "I—I couldn't hear her heart—and she laid right still. I expect she is dead."
The ludicrous overpowered even the turn of possibility, and the little doctor said:
"You just mustn't kill yourself or harm Sandy unless it is necessary, you know. If you will go out and harness my horse to the buggy, you and I will make sure."
By the time Morley had mechanically fulfilled these commands, Marcia Lowe had decided, from the sound of Molly's breathing, that she might safely be left alone, and, cloaked and hooded, joined Martin outside.
It was a dreary ride, and the two spoke seldom.
"You are to be no coward, Morley," Marcia Lowe had said; "you're to face your future like a man—like Sandy's father. He will well understand. I will stand by you and see fair play for you; I'll pay for a good lawyer, and you will take your medicine, whatever it is, and be clean and decent for your boy and girl. I'll take care of Molly."
After a time Martin agreed to this, but from the shivering of the form beside her, the little doctor realized the struggle.
And so they reached Morley's cabin and entered, like ghosts, into the fear-haunted place. Mary was gone. The fire was smouldering in the last flashes, the damp ashes were drying—but Mary had made a bodily escape.
"So!" whispered Marcia Lowe. "It was better to make sure. Go upstairs, see if she is there."
Mary was not there.
"Now come back."
Through the chill of the early morning the two drove silently back to Trouble Neck and with strange foreboding the little doctor made her way at once to the lean-to bed-chamber—Molly, too, was gone! She had made her way to Teale's, Miss Lowe felt sure.
The next morning the news spread fast, garbled by many tongues.
Teale's place had been raided! Teale had escaped and the Morleys had accompanied him.
"Well!" said Sally Taber to Cynthia; "I 'spect Mart Morley had to get his livin' somehow. The yaller streak's got the best of him."
Cynthia made no reply. Oddly enough in her fancy she was gazing upon the portrait of "The Biggest of Them All."