Seven years passed, leaving their traces, and upon a certain afternoon in August Levi Markham and Matilda sat on the piazza of the Bretherton home and awaited the arrival of Mrs. Olive Treadwell.
Old Bob, Sandy's collie, lay at Levi's feet. Bob was fat and full of years; he wore a heavily studded collar with perfect dignity and had, apparently, quite forgotten lean days and promiscuous kicks. Levi could now shuffle his feet with impunity. Bob never suspected ulterior motives and the sight of a broom or club had lost all terrors for him.
Markham did not look any older than he looked seven years ago. Indeed, his interest in Sandy Morley, his pride in that young man's achievement, and Sandy's absolute love and loyalty to his benefactor, had done much to relieve Markham of years instead of adding them to him. Matilda had not fared so well. She looked like fragile ware, but she never complained and with quiet courage she went her westering way thankfully.
"Levi is wonderfully softened," she often thought; "it doesn't hurt him so much these days to praise instead of blame, and naturally folks respond. It's mostly on account of Sandy. Levi does so mortally hate to lose that when he wins out he thaws out!"
The broad acres of Bretherton were rich and full of harvest as the old brother and sister waited that afternoon. At last Levi snapped his watch cover and said sharply:
"That three-fifty train is always late! Do you suppose—she—Mrs. Treadwell, will expect to be put up for the night?"
"I hope not," Matilda replied, knitting away gently with closed eyes. "I'm not one who takes pleasure in folks' disappointments and I'm glad to say the village inn is comfortable and not over crowded. Ican, if it is necessary, tell Mary Jane to put an extra plate on for the evening meal."
"Wait and see how things turn out," cautiously advised Levi.
"What time is it now, brother?"
"Two-forty-five! But I put no faith in that train."
"Was that a letter from Sandy you got in the noon mail?"
"It was, Matilda. I think it would be safe to have an extra plate put on for him."
Matilda opened her eyes.
"Levi," she said; "I'm not one to nose about much, but what is the meaning of all this?"
Levi set his lips grimly.
"I never knew that Treadwell woman to break in after a long silence but for two things," he replied; "either she wants something or she wants to get rid of something. Three years back she asked for help when she found that precious nephew of hers——"
"And ours, Levi," Matilda put in; "we can't disown him. Blood is blood even if it clots."
"Well, our nephew, then! When she found young Lansing Treadwell eating up her income, she begged for some scraps of what she pleased to term 'his mother's rights!'"
"And you gave them to her, Levi!"
"I couldn't let Caroline's boy die in a hole even if Hertford's son put him there!"
"You speak real comically sometimes, Levi. There are times when I could think Sandy was talking through your voice!"
"Well! well! every man has a streak of the dramatic in him!" Markham's lips relaxed, "and I must say that to see Sandy Morley and Lans Treadwell good friends without either sensing the true relations of birth and tradition, tickles me through and through. I guess that Treadwell woman would have done her prettiest if she had caught on. But she doesn't know where Sandy hailed from and she's covered the Hertford name out of sight for personal grudge, and those two youngsters sailed into each other as if they were steered by Fate and no one interfering. Lans Treadwell can't get anything but good out of Sandy, and there isn't a soul living—you and I included—who could draw Morley from his course, so I've looked on and chuckled considerably."
"Brother, I sometimes wonder how it is that you trust Sandy as you do—you never question."
"Not out loud, 'Tilda."
"But he does not always explain. Now his working this summer as he has! Every other summer it has been in the mills, but this summer he had to have more money than you gave him. What for, Levi? I ask you flat-footed and not casting any suspicion, but what did he want it for?"
"That's the reason I've asked him down to-night. I want to find out. I never have questioned him over much. When he said he wanted more money I took for granted that he did and so long as he didn't hint for me to give it, I sort of allowed it wasn't any of my business. He's mastered the rudiments at the mills; he's over twenty-one—just over—and I rather enjoyed seeing him take the bit in his teeth. But I sensed that Mrs. Treadwell was coming to get rid of something to-day and I thought it might be just as well for Sandy to be on hand later. Matilda, if they two lap over each other, you steer Sandy away till I march her off."
Matilda nodded and again shut her eyes while she knitted her soft wools into a "rainbow scarf." When she spoke, her thoughts had taken a sudden and new turn.
"I'll admit, Levi, that Sandy's clothes set on him as I never saw a man's clothes set. They are the making of him. He's terrible good looking—considering!"
"Considering—what?" Markham frowned at the placid face and close-shut eyes. "Considering! ugh! Why, 'Tilda, there is blood running in that boy's veins that we Americans ought to bow down before! There are times when he looks at me in his big, kind, loving fashion, that I feel as I did the first time the poor little dirty devil raised his eyes to me, only now all that went to the making of the lad seems to be saying, 'thank you, Markham, and God bless you!'"
"Levi, you're an awful good man, and time's mellowing you more than any one would have looked for."
"Thank you,'Tilda."
And then for a long time they sat in silence and thought their own thoughts. Bob grunted and turned around facing the brother and sister, blinked, grunted again, and probably thought of Sandy also.
The train that afternoon was on time, and the carriage Markham sent to the station presently appeared bearing Mrs. Treadwell.
Olive Treadwell was handsomer than ever, for her gray hair softened her features and the years had added just enough flesh to her bones to insure grace, not angularity.
"I am going back on the six-two train, Mr. Markham, if you will permit your coachman to take me to the station. Lans and I have a very important engagement this evening."
Levi gave the order and handed his visitor to a chair.
"Matilda has some iced tea for us," he said, "and then we will go inside."
Mrs. Treadwell greeted her hostess and sat languidly down, taking off, as she did so, her long dust coat and displaying an exquisite gown of pale violet.
There was a little desultory conversation, two cups of delicious tea and one of Matilda's choice sandwiches and then Markham led the way to the library.
Mrs. Treadwell took the deep leather chair, Levi lowered the awning over the west window, and courteously sat down opposite his visitor.
"It is years since we met, Mr. Markham," Olive Treadwell said; "but you have been very kind to me, meanwhile. I am not one to forget."
Markham nodded his head and lowered his eyes. After a decent pause Mrs. Treadwell continued, feeling her way through her remarks like a cautious person stepping gingerly over a mental ice pond. She always seemed to leave a subject open to more than one interpretation and by the lifting of Markham's eyebrows or the raising of his eyes she chose her footing. The raising of his keen eyes under the shaggy brows was very disconcerting and illuminating.
"I know, my dear Mr. Markham, that you are not as worldly as I am; I am confident that along certain lines of conventions we will differ now, as we have in the past, but, being worldly I cannot bear that an injustice should be done that would cause you to act in such a way as to defeat your own aims and ideals."
The eyebrows went up as if they were on springs, and Mrs. Treadwell leaped to a safer footing.
"Of course, when I refer to worldliness, I mean social worldliness. I have learned, I have been forced to learn, the justice of your once-proposed dealing with my Lans before he went to college. Your business sense cannot be questioned. Had the boy been placed in your hands then, I really believe his outlook on life would have been clearer and finer. He has associated with those who have coloured his views by—well, let us say, artificial lights. Still, the boy is the best of his kind—I will say that for him. I hope I can make you believe that I have come to you to-day entirely for your own best interests—not his!"
And now the steely eyes met the soft brown ones and demanded the nearest approach to truth that Olive Treadwell had to offer. She flushed and went back to her former place of safety and tried again.
"Let us resort to no subterfuge," she said with a charming smile.
"Thank you," Levi nodded and again lowered his lids.
"To be quite frank, then, what I mean is this: I recognize that you are one of the few men who regard your wealth as a trust; your capacity for acquiring wealth a talent for which you are responsible. As I said before, I feel that had I realized your true motives at the time Lans graduated from preparatory school, I would have been eager to place him in your charge to learn the great business of life and the use of wealth in your way. I made an error; I confess it willingly. Since then I have heard of your wise and private charities——"
"I never give charity, madam!"
"You are so modest! Well, your understanding helpfulness."
"Simply good business, madam."
"Very well—good business! and that brings me to my point. I have always said that if I must trust myself, my confidence, or my money to anyone, I would choose a person who, by training, instincts, and possibilities most nearly was akin to myself. I sincerely believe inheritance and blood do count. Now just suppose——" Mrs. Treadwell gingerly put her weight on the next footing; "suppose you were obliged to intrust your wealth and future interests to one of two men, would you not feel safer in the hands of the man who, for family reasons and by inherited tastes, could understand you and your ideals?"
"Certainly, madam."
"You know when a test comes you have to take a good deal for granted in one who has no tie of blood to hold him to you?"
"May I request, madam, that you tell me exactly what you mean in as few words as possible? I see that you are embarrassed by what you have been kind enough to come to tell me—I believe it will help us both if you state your facts without further explanation or preparation."
The tide had carried Olive Treadwell out into midstream—it was sink or swim now!
"I will do so. I cannot bear to see you duped by your adopted—shall I say, son?"
"I have never held the position of father to young Morley. I've helped him to find himself as I have many another young man. He has no reason to dupe me. We understand each other fairly well; better, I think than most old men and young ones."
"Exactly! That is what you think."
"It is."
"Very well, then listen. Remember I would not have come to you if I had not had evidence. You take exception to Lans and his ways of life, I have been informed that you have even called him a—a—libertine!"
"With modifications—yes!"
"I do not ask, Mr. Markham, that you try to withhold your judgments until you know all the facts about my boy. You were never fair to him; you saw him—you see him now—through his father, my poor brother!"
"Madam, for his mother's sake I have always kept in touch with his career even when I knew he was beyond any caution or judgment of mine. I know that he has shamefully compromised a young woman and quite openly flaunts his relations with her by calling them some new-fangled name. Perhaps I am a narrow-gauge man, madam. All my life I have been obliged to travel from a certain point to a certain point—I'm made that way. I have endeavoured to look about to help my fellow-men, when I could in justice do so, but I have stuck to the tracks that seem to me to lead safely through the land of my journey. I am not interested in branch roads or sidings."
Mrs. Treadwell was a bit breathless and angry but she was too far from shore yet to indulge in relaxation.
"Lans is not an evil fellow; he is high-minded and will prove himself in due time. I really am only seeking to help you be patient until he has had his opportunity, and not, in the meantime, make a fatal mistake. A new era is about to dawn when men and women, for the good of the race, will attack social conditions from a different plane from what you and I have been taught to consider right. Lans is in the vanguard of this movement—but I only implore you to give him time and while we are waiting let me ask you this—would you be more lenient to—to this protégé of yours than you are to Lans, if I could prove to you that he has been hiding his private life from you entirely? Has, apparently, laid himself bare to your confidence and good-will while, in a secret and shameful manner, he has had very disreputable relations with a young woman in Boston?"
Levi Markham took this blow characteristically: he sighed, raised his eyes to the speaker's face, and said calmly:
"I thank you, madam, for your interest in my affairs. I can readily see that you would not dare come to me with this matter unless you had facts. I appreciate your good-will toward me and Lans, but I am just wondering if this—this relationship of Sandford Morley's with a—with the young woman, might not be viewed as leniently as Lansing's—if all were known? He might call it by a new-fangled name, you know."
"Why, Mr. Markham! His intrigue is a low, vulgar thing. That is exactly what I am trying to make you understand. The difference lies right there. Lans is open and above-board; he's a gentleman. This young Morley is——"
"Well, well, madam!" Levi held up his hand calmly silencing the indignant voice. "I know Lansing has taken every one into his confidence who chose to lend an ear; we have all shared his life whether we approved or not and I will say this: young Morley has never asked any one to play confessor for him, but I am going to give him an opportunity to speak for himself if he wants to."
"He will lie, sir."
"He's the worst liar you ever saw, Mrs. Treadwell."
Just how to take this Olive Treadwell did not know. She was distracted. She felt that Markham was playing with her! Perhaps he knew all about Morley's escapades and preferred them to Lans' newer ideals.
"You will investigate for yourself?" she pleaded; "in justice to Lans?"
"In my own way, Madam."
"You mean——"
"That I will look to my own interests as I always have. When all is said and done, ma'am, there's no law in the State that confines me to leaving my savings to any particular young man. I have still, I hope, a few years to my credit. I promise you I will devote them to securing the best possible good for thetrust, as you so well put it, in my keeping. You are quite right also in saying that I consider the power of money-making a talent. It is my only talent and I do not underestimate it."
"You are a—hard man, Markham. Time has not softened you."
"I will still endeavour to be just, madam. I will tell you this—if I discover that I have been duped, I'll give, outright, a good sum of money to you in trust for Lansing!"
"You think I—I have simply tried to blacken Morley's character for personal gain?"
"No, no, Mrs. Treadwell. I ascribed the best possible motives to you!"
"Levi Markham—I cannot understand you."
"Why should you try, madam?"
Olive Treadwell got up and paced the room.
"You humiliate me!" she said angrily. "Of course I desire my brother's son to inherit rightfully. He will have all that I die possessed of. I am seeking his interests but only justly and humanly. When he first came in contact with this—this investment of yours—as you call him, it was astutorto this Morley. Consider!tutor, my brother's son, to your—your waif! And the dear, noble fellow—my Lans, fell in love with him. Has trusted and helped him socially. Why, he made his college life easy for him by his own popularity. Quite by accident I discovered the vulgar intrigue of this—this Morley. I saw him go into a house where a little seamstress of mine lives! I inquired; I found him out; and—and, not for any low gain, but gain in the larger, higher sense I pocketed my pride and came to you as helpless women do come to strong men and you make me feel like a—village scandal-monger!"
"I beg your pardon, madam. I am sorry that my manner suggests this to you. But can you not see that I must master this situation in my own way? I cannot sell out my interest in my investment without reason. Give me a—week—no forty-eight hours!"
"Thank heaven!" Olive Treadwell exclaimed, "there is the carriage. No matter what the outcome of this is, Levi Markham, I reckon you'll live to thank me for putting you on the right track."
"I'm still on my narrow gauge, madam." Markham smiled not unkindly and put out his hand.
"Please bid your sister farewell. I shall not return to Bretherton, I imagine. I will never willingly abase myself again, not even for Lans!"
When she had gone Markham sank into the big leather chair and looked blankly before him. His eyes were fixed across the desk where he himself generally sat, and a kind of pity moved him for the part of him that no one ever knew or suspected. In Sandy Morley, he had realized nearer his yearning and ambition than he ever had before. His paternal instincts had been, to a certain degree, gratified. The boy had seemed so entirely his; had responded so splendidly to his efforts for him. They had grown so close together during the past years in their silent, undemonstrative fashion. Could it be possible that he had been deceived?
And then Markham pulled himself together and went around the desk to his revolving chair. It was as if the stern man of affairs took control and demanded of the doubting creature opposite, common sense and plain justice. "Hold your horses, Levi," he cautioned; "bide your time. Don't get scared off. Do you remember that old mine that no one else took stock in? It bought and feathered your first nest! Just you hold to that and keep your mind easy until you get onto the job yourself!"
Sandy came down from Boston that evening, tired-eyed and dusty. He walked up from the station because he had taken an earlier train and he wanted the walk through the quiet, sweet woods and fields before he met the two friends from whom he always kept his worries and troubles. By the time he entered the house on the hill he would be himself again!
And what had the seven years done for and with Sandy Morley? Outwardly they had wrought wonders with him. He was over six feet tall, broad and good to look upon. His clean-cut dark face was rather stern and serious, but his eyes had caught and held the light and kindness the world had shown him since he left Lost Mountain. When Sandy smiled you forgot his sternness; he could look very joyous, but recent happenings had set a seal upon his brighter side. Well dressed and well cared for he strode ahead, taking a cut be knew well through the woods and pastures leading up to the farmhouse, and for the first time in years the homesickness for Lost Hollow surged over him. Always in his deeper, more thoughtful moods the old home-place had a part. For years he rarely ate a meal, when he was hungry, without a grip of memory taking a flavour from the food. His hours of ease and pleasure were haunted by grim recollections of toil and dreariness which he had once endured, and which others, like him, were still undergoing. He never forgot, never became callous; but as time went on and success became more certain, he learned to estimate the value of utilizing his chances and economizing his strength and powers. As in the old days of preparation among the hills, he put in safe keeping his earnings, never counting them; never trusting himself to the encouragement or depression of their amount for good or ill—he awaited his hour and call. And, too, as in the old days he mistrusted and feared Molly, so now there were moments when he, superstitiously, expected some one or some thing to defeat him in his aims and ideals. For never had his vision faltered. He was still preparing to help Lost Hollow and all them who dwelt therein.
There had been times in the past when, strange to say, with good food in plenty about him, he had yearned with hungry longing for the rough ash cakes and sour milk of his early home; and there would always be hours when he would raise his eyes in soul-sickness and pray for a glimpse of Lost Mountain—the one lofty thing in his one-time little world. And the first few springs after his leaving his home he was ill when he saw the dogwood blossoms—they called to the depths of his nature and the depths answered not! He had kept the vow made to himself—he would neither write nor seek word from the hills until he were ready to go back to his own.
The first days at school were tortured experiences, but he mastered them first by physical courage, then by sheer fineness of character. He made great strides after the second year, and when he graduated from the New Hampshire Preparatory he was ready, with some tutoring, to enter Harvard. Oddly enough Lansing Treadwell became his tutor, neither knowing more of the other than the circumstances demanded. Again Sandy's rare disposition won for him a place in Treadwell's good will and liking. The young tutor prided himself upon his own popularity and social position; he made a virtue of his necessity for earning money and, in good natured, lordly fashion, blazed a trail for his uncle's protégé with a laugh of indifference at his own defeat with his austere relative.
When in due time Morley graduated with honours from college none was more generous with praise and pride than Lansing Treadwell.
"By Jove! my friend," he said, "I'm nothing but a big, bungling giant without genius or talent. Let me set you on my shoulders and you'll conquer the world—our nice, little world of Boston!"
But Sandy had no social ambitions. When his summer work in the mills was over, he found his greatest pleasure at Bretherton with Markham and Matilda and old Bob. And then, when sudden necessity lashed him to unexpected endeavour, he went to young Treadwell and said simply:
"I am not going to work in the mills this vacation; Mr. Markham has offered me a trip somewhere, but I have need of money for personal uses and I must—earn some. Can you help me?"
And again Lansing Treadwell, with a grin of amused understanding, put Sandy in the way of tutoring a rich man's sons.
And now, Morley, tired, sad at heart, needing what he was too generous and unselfish to ask for, was responding to Markham's summons and was on his way to Bretherton.
Of course neither Markham nor his sister could understand his need of sympathy and tenderness. Proudly he had withheld his private cares and troubles. He accepted from others only what he might some day hope to return; he never drew a check on the bank of sympathy without taking account of his savings!
When Sandy came in sight of the beautiful old house on the hill, and when but a meadow lay between him and it, he gave a long, sweet bird-call and waited. A second time he called and then he saw Bob loping over the front lawn and, with upraised sniffing nose, caper about. A third trill settled the dog's doubts, and with an abandon that age could not overcome he ran and jumped to the unseen friend.
"Good old fellow!" cried Sandy when Bob drew near; "good old pal!" And then the dog was in the young fellow's arms. After a few moments they sedately went on their homeward way together—Sandy's hand resting upon the uplifted yellow head.
"Sandy, you look thin!" Matilda remarked at dinner as she eyed him over her spectacles. "You make me think of the lean days after your fever seven years ago."
"I reckon I am still growing, Miss Markham."
Levi scanned the young face.
"Mill work never used you up," he said slowly.
"It's not work, sir. It's been right hot in town, and you know the city a ways stifles me."
"Umph!" said Markham.
After Matilda had gone to bed that evening Levi sat on the broad piazza with Sandy, while a late yellow-red moon rode majestically in the sky and lighted the dew-touched meadow land.
"Looks hot," Levi murmured; "hot and dry."
"Yes," agreed Sandy. Then quite suddenly Markham asked:
"Sandford, I wish you to tell me exactly why you wanted extra money this summer. I say wish, because I know I have no right to demand your confidence, but I do think I have a right to protect you against—well, against yourself when it comes to personal injury. You trusted me seven years ago with your confidence; you've talked pretty openly to me during your school and college years. Reports speak louder than words—but we've kept in touch with each other. I make no claims, but I'd like to think you know I am your friend."
Just then the moonlight shifted to Sandy's face and lay across it in brilliant clearness.
"I can tell you better to-night, sir, than I could have a week ago, for the need is past now. I have only kept it to myself because it has never seemed right that I should ask more of you than you offered to give—and this was my affair—mine alone."
"I see!" muttered Markham, and his jaw set, not with doubt of Sandy, but with detestation of the woman who earlier in the day had driven him to attack this boy's sacred privilege of independence and privacy.
"It began, sir, when I was in the midst of class work in June. I was having a particularly good time, you may remember, when, one night, a messenger came to my rooms and said some one wanted to see me near the gate of the Square. It was a girl, sir, though she looked a woman; a poor, sad, sick creature from my home—my half sister, Molly! I did not know her at first. She was right little and pretty when I last saw her, but cruelty and want had turned her into——"
Levi's eyes were riveted on the still, white face of the speaker, and his heart hurt him for very pity. He could not let the boy say the word.
"And she—what did she want?" he asked so sternly that Sandy, even with his reverence for Markham, took up arms in his sister's defence.
"Don't judge her harshly, sir; you do not know our hills. Molly was a mighty weak little girl, and when temptation came to her, she hadn't strength to resist, and they who should have defended her—sold her! I was not there, so I cannot be hard upon her, though she thought I meant to be at first. You see I was so shocked and surprised, and amid all the happenings I had almost forgotten. She threatened me, sir. It was right pitiful. She said every one was dead—her mother; our father——" Sandy's voice faltered—"she was alone. She hadn't forgotten her old ways either. You remember that I told you how as a little girl she had threatened the—the treasure under the rock beyond the Branch?" Markham nodded.
"Well—she threatened the treasure of to-day. She was for finding you out and begging—so—well, I bought her off! for I would not have you haggled and be made to repent your helping of me. I have kept her, sir, in a little room in a corner of Boston all summer. It was a neat and comfortable place, with a tree at the window. After a time she trusted me! At first it was hard for her to keep—well!—I reckon when one let's go as poor Molly did—it is right difficult to hold on long to a new and safer course. But—she died four days ago! She was alone, sir, with her head on the window sill; her poor little face set toward the tree. I had had a doctor for her—she had been feeling ill—it was heart trouble—she went without pain. I saw her buried to-day—some time in the future I am going to take her body to Lost Mountain. She'll really rest there, I reckon."
The moonlight passed from the white, tired face and Levi's aching eyes closed, taking the vision of Sandy with them. He recalled the boy's manner through the closing scenes of his college life; the outward calmness and grateful appreciation while the hideous trouble was eating the joy from the hours of triumph he had so bravely won. He reflected upon the following weeks of toil and lonely labour with that poor, dying girl in the background taking his life blood as once she had taken his hard-earned money. Then when he could bear no more Levi Markham got up and walked over to Sandy. He laid a trembling hand on his shoulder and by stern effort controlled his voice.
"My boy!" he murmured; "my—boy! words come hard; I'm not an easy talker—but—you and I are both tuckered out. I have never had a vacation in my life—a real vacation. I've always packed business and worry in my satchel. Will you come across the water with me, lad? Let us try to see if there is any play in us. Let's have a look at some regular mountains and some second-rate cities—and when we get back I want you to travel up to that tumble down Hollow you hailed from, and take my money along; we'll begin repairs at once—you bossing, I paying the bills. We'll set it going some—you and I! As to this trip abroad we'll take 'Tilda along to keep us straight and—and make us comfortable, Sandy!"
But Sandy's head was bowed on his clasped hands and the first tears he had shed in years were trickling through his fingers.
"You'll come, Sandy Morley?"
"Yes, sir."
"And—I want to tell you, my boy—that I'm satisfied with my flyer of an investment. Come! Come! You've acted the part of a man before you've been a boy. You and I have earned—a vacation."
An hour later Markham tapped at Matilda's door and the prompt, "Come in, Levi," caused him a moment's uneasiness.
"Insomnia?" he asked, drawing a chair close to his sister's bed.
"Just a little wakefulness, brother. Now don't get fidgetty. I'm real satisfied to lie here and think of my blessedness and comfort. It's gratifying to recall all your possessions in the night. They say worries stand out clearest then, but with me it's the other way. My troubles just vanish and every living, breathing pleasantness comes to the fore. Now, you, for example, Levi. I was praising God about you as you knocked. You're a changed man, brother. You were always a good man, but to be flat-footed I must say that there was a time when conversation with you was like jogging along over a stony road. One got so many bumps that it didn't seem worth while. I used to get terrible lonely at times, for I wouldn't take pleasures and leave you out—it always has seemed to me that you never got therightchange for what you spent, and I wanted to do my share in keeping you company if you ever felt the lack. And then that poor little fellow came tumbling into our lives same as if God had sent him rolling down the mountain to our door. If ever there was a blessing in disguise, it was Sandy! I tell you he's a pretty comforting creature to hold to when you lie awake nights. A minute ago I was saying over and over—"thank God for Sandy!" He gets closer to you than you think, Levi—it's his way and he's the strongest, gratefullest fellow. Every time I look at him lately I think of the saying—strength of the hills."
And now Levi sought and found the thin, blue-veined hands folded peacefully upon the white coverlid.
"Sandy found the starved mother and father in us, Matilda. His need met ours, and God blessed us all."
"That's a true word, brother. You and I were real pinched in our aims and longings in the offset. Do you remember how you always wanted learning and college, and how I actually was besotted about traipsing around the world? Such dreams as we managed to make up! I have the old geography now with pin points all up the side of the Alps where you and I counted the height and then said we didn't believe it! Well, you've found success without college, and I've found peace without travel."
Levi patted the cool, old hands tenderly. Sandy's story had somehow made Matilda very precious.
"But lands, Levi! We are all old children and go on with our foolish dreams till we're tucked in at last for good and all. Maybe I ought to be ashamed to own to this, but I lie here nights and actually make believe I'm Sandy's mother. Mother's an awful comforting word to women as well as children."
"Well, Matilda, I'll own up to the same side play." Levi laughed softly; "the night he graduated I closed my eyes and listened to him reading off that fine stuff and—for a spell I fathered him and got real thrilled. But what I came to say to you to-night, 'Tilda, is no dream unless you can class it as a dream come true. Beginning to-morrow morning, I want that you should go into town and shop."
"Shop, Levi?" Matilda leaned up on her thin elbow and scanned her brother's face in the white light of the moon. "Shop, Levi? Shop for what?"
"Why—things! Have all the help you can get and take a reasonable time, but I'd like to have you get real stylish fixings. I'd like real well for you to have a lavender frock, something like that Treadwell woman wears. You and Sandy and I are going vacationing!"
"Lands, Levi! Vacationing just as canning time is coming?"
"That's about the size of it. What's the fun in a vacation if you ain't running away from plain duty?"
"Why, Levi, I do declare! Where are we going?"
The dear old face was shining in the ghostly gleam.
"Oh! we're going to see mountains that will make Mt. Washington and Lost Mountain look foolish."
"Levi, don't trifle lightly with God's handiwork. I've always held that scenes of nature ought not be compared—it's real presumptious."
"Well, then, Matilda, we're going to do the grand tour!"
"Levi, you surely are romancing."
"I'm going to buy tickets to-morrow for about the middle of September!"
"You can't be serious, brother?"
"I am going to spend money—fornothingonce in my life! I'm going to get what we want and not count the change!"
"It sounds scandalous, Levi!"
"It's going to be a—scandal."
"What a sight we three will be, Levi." The dear old soul chuckled. Like a child she had at last caught the contagion of Markham's humour. "I just know them foreigners will think we are a pair of fond parents with our one chick and child. Do you think we need tell right out that we ain't, Levi? When it isn't necessary, couldn't we keep ourselves to ourselves and—make believe, with the ocean between us and them that know, that Sandy is ours?"
"We can, Matilda. And I want that Sandy should get his fill of paintings. Did you ever know how he leans to art? Why, he's got about a square acre of sketches among his belongings—he's shown me some, and while I do not set myself up for a critic I do say that there is feeling in his stuff."
"I've seen that dogwood one he carries about with him," Matilda answered, leaning back on her pillow. "It gives me the creeps. Times are when I fancy there is a ghost of a girl face in the flowers. Sandy laughs at me—but I've caught the sight more than once in certain lights and its real upsetting."
"Well, I want that he should take all the art in that he's capable of digesting, and I want you to see mountains and what not that you've hungered after all your days and I want to see—Paris!"
"It's a real outlandish city for morals, Levi."
"Well, it will make me glad to get back to Boston, Matilda," Levi chuckled. "Now lie down and try to sleep."
"I feel real drowsy, Levi. My! how much I have got to be grateful for. You are a good man, brother. Time was when I feared success might harden you."
Levi did not rest well that night. Alone in his prim, old-fashioned chamber he lay and made plans for the future.
"And after we come back," he thought, "I'm going to send Sandy up to the hills with blank checks in his pocket. I'm going to see what he can do in the way of redeeming Lost Hollow. He'll never be happy away from that God-forsaken place—it's in his soul and system. There's that land, too, I bought seven years ago! That oughtn't to be lying fallow."
Then his roving thoughts settled on his sister. "Matilda must consent to more help here in the house—she looks peaked."
A sharp pang brought him to an upright position. He seemed to be beside lonely Sandy as he had stood that very day by an obscure grave—somewhere in a shabby little graveyard.
"Matilda has been one sister in ten thousand and she's asked precious little. Caroline got things quite naturally while she lived at home—'Tilda took the leavings always and patched, somehow, a thankful, beautiful life out of them. She's going to get whole pieces of cloth from now——" he muttered, "with Sandy thrown in."
Perhaps it was the spring air; perhaps it was the turn in the tide of Cynthia Walden's life, but whatever it was it roused her and gripped her from early morning. At six o'clock on that May day she awoke in her shabby room of Stoneledge and looked out of the vine-covered window, heard a bird sing a wild, delicious little song, and then sat up with the strange thrill of happiness flooding her heart and soul.
It was a warm morning, more like late June than late May, and both the bird and the girl felt the joy in the promise of summer.
At nineteen Cynthia, like the spring morn, bore the mark of her coming fulfillment of beauty. She was very lovely, tall, slim, slightly bending, like a reed that had bowed to the wind instead of resisting. The child look, full of question and waiting, was still in her clear blue-gray eyes; the well-formed mouth had not forgotten its pretty, slow smile, and the pale, exquisite whiteness of the smooth skin was touched with a delicate tan and colour that did credit totally Taber's care and culinary art.
"I feel," whispered the girl, tossing the braids of her smooth gold-brown hair back from her face; "I declare I feel as if something was going to happen long o' me!"
Not for a moment did Cynthia imagine anything ill. Out of a barren, isolated life she had evolved and held to the strict philosophy she had once confided to Marcia Lowe in the little church. If trouble overtook her, she shielded herself as well as possible, smiled pleadingly and stepped aside. At such courtesy Trouble had obligingly gone on leaving the girl of nineteen as trusting and hopeful as a child. The old house had crumbled and tottered. Ann Walden had sunk into positive imbecility—but Cynthia had kept her faith and love. Sally Taber still ruled the Great House under the disguise of grateful dependent. She slept in the loft over the kitchen, made life a possible thing for a helpless woman and a young girl, and asked nothing for herself in return.
"If that woman doesn't have a crown studded two deep with jewels some day," Marcia Lowe confided to Tod Greeley, "I'll miss my guess."
And Tod, for various reasons, did what he could to show his appreciation of the old woman's nobility.
"Yo' sho' do give proper weight to us-all." Sally often told him. "Things do las' mor'n one could expect, fo' de money."
"I ain't goin' to run the risk of any pesky government investigation," Greeley replied. "Better be on the safe side, I reckon."
And now Cynthia again remarked to the pretty May morning:
"I feel as if something was going to happen 'long o' me."
Then she got up and made her simple toilet. The shining braids were wound coronet-style about the shapely head, and some moments were devoted to the choice of a gown. There were three hanging on nails behind the door leading to the hall; a checked gingham, brown, ugly and serviceable; a faded pink chambray, and a new, dull blue linen. This last was a gift from Marcia Lowe. It was the longest, most modern garment Cynthia possessed, and the colour filled her awakening artistic sense with delight.
"This one!" she murmured, and smiled at her own senseless extravagance.
"I reckon it's right silly," she said; "but it's mighty good fun to wear your Sunday frock on a Thursday!"
Then arrayed and glowing with pride Cynthia contemplated herself in her tiny mirror.
"If something happens 'long o' me," she nodded in friendly fashion into the glass, "it will find me ready."
After breakfast she meant to go to Trouble Neck and help Marcia Lowe with her "school." The little doctor's school was the newest and most exciting innovation in The Hollow. The student list was elastic and all embracing. Every department of life was taught, as and how it were possible. The timid, blighted little folks were lured to the cabin by all means at Miss Lowe's command and fed such crumbs as their poor wits could comprehend.
"Let's flip out the grains, Cynthia, dear," the little doctor urged; "perhaps some chick can swallow them. We must make hay while the sun shines. Crothers' new factory is looming up and when that whistle blows, good-bye to the Trouble Neck Academy!"
It had taken nearly seven years for Smith Crothers to collect his insurance, recover his health, and begin his business career again. He had left The Forge for two years, and since his return had gone slowly about his work of rebuilding and entering the arena. Whatever he thought or remembered of the night when his factory was burned, no one, but himself, knew. From a grim shadow of his former self he regained his health and looks; he nodded to Cynthia when he met her on The Way and the girl tossed her head at him indifferently. Only Marcia Lowe was anxious.
"Cynthia," she said, "promise me that you will not wander in the woods alone!"
"Not without a pistol," the girl replied. "I'm a mighty good shot, dear Cup-of-Cold-Water Lady!"
But Marcia Lowe shook her head.
When Cynthia went downstairs that May morning, Sally Taber had the plain breakfast on the dining-room table, and her face looked drawn and worried.
"Miss Cyn," she said, when she had set the corn bread and milk before the girl, "las' night ole Miss war right troublesome."
"You have been up a good deal, Sally?"
"I sho' have. Ole Miss took to wandering and nothing would suit her but de libry. I done made a fire there and let her play. She done dig at the hearthstone an' laughed and babbled 'til long 'bout three o'clock, then I carried her upstairs and laid her in her bed same as if she was a lil' tired out babby."
"Dear Sally!" Cynthia's eyes shone. "I'll stay home to-day and let you sleep."
"I reckon you will do nothin' like that! Ole Miss will be good for mos' the mornin' an' I'se goin' to patch up the libry. If ole Miss takes a fancy to that-er-room, she goin' to have what she wants! If she wants to pick 'long o' the hearthstone, she is goin' to do that; I'll loosen it up."
"I will watch her to-night, then!" Cynthia said, "and I'll be back right early this evening, Sally."
Just as Cynthia reached The Way, she met Martin Morley.
"Good morning, lil' Miss Cyn," he greeted; "seems like you be part of this yere pretty day."
"Good morning, Mr. Morley. You look right smart and dandified."
Morley was neatly and decently attired and his calm, clear eyes were steady and full of purpose. The "charm" had held good with him, and ever since the well-fought battle in the little doctor's lean-to chamber, he had gradually worked his way back to self-respect and content. Mary and Molly had drifted from his life so effectually that he had accepted the inevitable and never mentioned their names.
"Where you going, Mr. Morley?"
"I am going down to The Forge," Martin answered. "They-all say the young manager for that company what's going to build a factory up higher has come, and I'm going to try and get a job."
"Do you believe thereisgoing to be a factory, Mr. Morley? Do you believe Smith Crothers would let any one have a factory so near his?"
"They-all do say, Miss Cynthia, that that-er company what sends this young man, is powerful rich and upperty. They-all do say that-er company ain't so much as consulted with Smith Crothers."
"It must be a mighty brave company!" The slow smile touched the sweet lips.
"Mr. Morley, I wonder if you will ever hear from Sandy?"
"Sho'! Miss Cynthia, you-all make me right creepy. I woke up this-er morning from a dream 'bout Sandy. It was a right techersome dream, but dreams be techersome. I dreamed that Sandy was daid, and yet I woke up right cheerful. I've reasoned it out this-er-way. Sandyisdaid to me, lil' Miss Cynthia, but alive out in a bigger, wider life and sho' a right minded father should be mighty glad of that. I'm willing to give Sandy to a better life."
The old face twitched. "It's 'bout all I can do for my son."
"Oh! Mr. Morley, you're right noble but I don't believe Sandy's like that. He's just waiting 'till he has a mighty fine something to bring back to us-all, and then we'll see him coming up The Way as brave and smiling as can be."
Martin shook his head slowly.
"I don' doubt it, lil' Miss Cynthia. It's seven long years now! I've taken a right smart heap of comfort mending up the cabin and painting it and planting vines and flowers about. It has been the happiness I've allowed myself—getting ready for Sandy that ain't never coming! Good morning, just wish me luck 'bout the job. The getting ready means something even if you don't ever get what you're making ready for."
And with this Martin Morley went down The Way toward The Forge to seek his luck with the stranger who had arrived a few days before to begin operations on a certain piece of land which had been bought by a man—no one could recall his name—seven years ago!
Cynthia stood under the trees by the road after Martin left and fell into a reverie. It was early. By walking a little faster she could reach Trouble Neck in time for the possible pupils, and the lure of the morning held her. Looking up to catch more distinctly the note of a bird, she noticed how white and splendid the dogwood flowers were on the tree under which she stood.
"They certainly do look like stars!" she whispered. The day seemed pulsing with thoughts of Sandy Morley! Not for years had he been so in her mind. To be sure the hole in the tree near Stoneledge was quite filled with letters written to an imaginary somebody called, for convenience, Sandy—the "Biggest of Them All." But Cynthia's ideal bore little likeness to the actual Sandy, and her letters had become but the outpourings of a heart that must create its own Paradise or perish. Sandy Morley had faded into an indistinct blur, but the romance he had awakened bore the girl far and away from the common life of The Hollow.
"I thought," the uplifted face glowed rosily; "I thought I heard—a new note! Some strange bird!" Then, with a toss of the head which threw the broad brimmed hat back on the shoulders, "I must be getting right daffy! That's the bird Sandy Morley used to copy mighty cleverly. I could do it myself once—I wonder!" The pretty lips curved deliciously, and an effort was made to reproduce the sound. Sweetly, faintly it trilled and ended in a light laugh.
From the underbrush lower down beside The Way, a young man looked at the upraised face under the dogwood tree; listened to the answer to his call and felt his heart throb with such force that his lips drew close with the pain of joy. For a few moments he gazed and struggled for self-control but great waves of happiness and delight overpowered him. He dared not move, but he sent a swift prayer to heaven—a prayer for guidance in a new life amid the old home-scenes for which his faithful heart had yearned while he had wandered far.
Cynthia's quick ears caught the rustle of the bushes across The Way and instantly her face changed and her hand gripped something in a little bag at her side. The stranger thought it wisest to step out. This he did with a laugh of understanding.
"Oh!" exclaimed Cynthia Walden, "I certainly do beg your pardon. I—thought—I thought you were Smith Crothers."
The sudden fear wrung this candid confession from the girl. "I reckon you don't know Smith Crothers."
"I—I've heard of him recently."
"I expect," Cynthia was full of interest now. "I expect you are the man from the North."
"You are quite right."
"Now I'm right sorry you didn't get here fifteen minutes ago."
The stranger's face flushed under its tan and the broad felt hat, in the right hand, shook perceptibly.
"Mr. Martin Morley has gone down The Way to see you. He reckons you will give him a job."
At this the man leaned heavily against a pine tree and stared at the girl. Had he heard aright? For months he had believed Martin Morley was dead—long dead!
"Yes, Mr. Morley was just here talking about the new factory up in the mountain."
To hear Cynthia say mountain was to love the high places better all the days of your life. So lingeringly and tenderly did the soft voice deal with the vowels and consonants that they suggested all the beauty and strength of the hills. The man opposite closed his eyes from sheer delight while the word sank into his consciousness and filled the empty places of his heart.
"He'll miss you, I reckon, but could you save a job for him?"
"I can and—will." The man opened his eyes and courageously walked across The Way and stood still, hat in hand, before the girl. He was tall and broad and good to look upon and youth went out to youth cordially and frankly.
"I reckon"—the homely word took the place of the Yankee "guess" naturally, "I reckon you are—Miss Cynthia Walden?"
"Yes." Cynthia's eyes shone. "Who—told you?"
"I heard about you." This was very lame, but it answered.
"And you—sir?"
"Oh, I am—the man from the North."
"You sound like you had Southern blood."
"My father and mother were Southerners."
"From round this-er-way?"
Again the man closed his eyes; the sweet voice and dear familiar expressions were almost more than he could bear.
"Not very far away."
A very little seemed enough to pacify the girl's curiosity.
"I reckon the North's mighty big," she ventured presently.
"It's—it's—tremendous."
"Do you know anything about—Massachusetts?"
"I came from there."
"Oh! And is that—so mighty big?"
"Not so big as the whole North. Though some still think it is."
"Did you ever hear——" Cynthia paused and clasped her hands together; "of a—a boy named Sandy Morley? He went from here to there—long ago?"
It was a wild question, but the day was so haunted by Sandy that the words came of their own volition.
"I've met him; yes, I know him slightly."
The colour rose and faded in Cynthia's face and her breath came quick and hard.
"Oh! tell me about him. He came from this—Hollow! He went away years and years ago. Tell me—what has he become?"
Yearning, curiosity and honest interest marked the words, but the face of the girl was a child's face, not a woman's. "He must be a right big boy now!"
The man standing in The Way could not repress a smile. He saw that Cynthia Walden had in fancy enshrined the boy Sandy, but would she welcome the man Sandy had become? Fearfully, dreading the test that must be made, he drew nearer, and with lowered eyes bowed, and said:
"I am Sandy Morley!"
Cynthia gave a frightened glance at the tall, dark stranger in the road. She noticed, as if for the first time, his high laced boots, his corduroy trousers fastened in them, his flannel shirt and felt hat. All was fine and different, oh! so different from the ragged ugliness of the hills. That a stranger should be so clad did not interest her, but that her childhood's friend and slave should wear this livery of position shattered the beautiful portrait of the "Biggest of Them All" by one cruel blow.
"No! You cannot be Sandy—not Sandy Morley." Cynthia stepped back with outstretched hands as if to ward off an attack. The light faded from Sandy Morley's face and his eyes grew dark and pleading.
"I've been right homesick all the years," he faltered. "I've tried to make myself worthy to come back. Always I have dreamed of you standing as you stand now under the dogwoods, to welcome me, but now that I have come up The Way I find myself a—stranger!"
Cynthia was clutching the bough of a tree for support; her eyes were strained and pathetic.
"I—I do not know what I have expected," she whispered, her eyes clinging to his; "but it is this-er-way. I have made a different Sandy, and I've kept him so long in my dreams and fancies, that to see him aman, hurts. Oh! it hurts here!"
The clasped hands touched the panting bosom. Then Sandy came close to her and laid his firm, thin hand upon hers. The touch, the contact, brought sharply to the girl the memory of their parting when, beside The Way, she had asked him to marry her some day and Sandy had kissed her!
"Little Cynthia, try to make a place in Lost Hollow for the man Sandy, who has come home a lonely stranger."
He seemed old and detached, but his nearness and the memory of their last interview composed Cynthia. She drew back and the withdrawal hurt Sandy more than she could know.
"I—I must go!" she panted and turned, as in the old parting, and ran without one backward look.
Sandy stood and gazed after her with yearning eyes. Outwardly she was all his faithful heart could have asked. Her face, as he had seen it a few moments ago under the dogwoods, seemed placed there by some kind and good Providence to welcome him to his own after all the waiting years; the child, Cynthia, he had lost while he tarried afar. Manlike he was ready to accept the woman. But Cynthia was not a woman, and her immature nature was shocked and betrayed by him who had come claiming what she had ready, only for the boy of her childish faith and love.
Sad at heart, Sandy, after a few moments of readjustment, went mournfully up the trail leading to the old home-cabin. One bright gleam, alone, cheered him. There had been some mistake. Martin Morley was evidently alive and to him Sandy must look for welcome and the renewing of old ties.
The change in the cabin was startling. Empty, but neat and pleasant, the living-room stood open to the fair spring day. Flowers were standing in the windows in dented tin cans; the hearth was swept free of ashes and there was a small garden in the rear of the house, nicely laid out and planted. It seemed so like his own old garden that Sandy gazed upon it with strange emotions. He relived sharply the starved years of preparation, the cruelty and neglect. He went inside finally and sat down upon the settle by the hearth and, with bowed head, gave himself up to memory.
An hour passed and then a step outside roused him, but he did not turn.
"Sir, I reckon you be the boss of the new factory. I was a-going down to The Forge to seek you out and ask for work, but Tansey Moore, down to the store, 'lowed that 'twas you who had passed up this-er-way. If you be the boss could you——"
But he got no further. Sandy could not run the risk of another clash of words.
"Father!" he said, standing up and stretching his arms out pitifully to Martin. "Father!"
Morley recoiled for an instant and his eyes, old and dim, struggled to see clearly the figure and face before him. But it was not the mortal eyes of the man that saw and knew. It was thefatherthat reached out with unerring instinct to its own! Martin had never had his dreams of what his boy was to become; he was there to accept whatever God in His mercy sent to him.
"Sandy! lil' Sandy! My boy!"
And then the tottering old frame was gathered in the strong young arms.
"Dad, dear old Dad. I've got a right good job for you!"
That was all. For a few minutes the clock on the high shelf ticked so loudly that it seemed to fill the room with noise. Neither man spoke, but they clung desperately. Presently a shadow fell across the floor and Sandy turned his head. Old Bob had found his way up from The Forge and panting and wheezing began to sniff around the room. Almost blind, yet guided by that sense we cannot understand, he had sought his own and found them. With a soft cry he crouched close to the two standing by the hearth and whined piteously. Martin aroused and stood upright.
"It's—it's Bob!" he cried. "Oh, Bob! Oh, Bob!" Then falteringly: "It's all right, Bob, she won't trouble you now—she's gone for good and all!"
That was the only reference to Mary, and Sandy did not tell Martin of little Molly's fate for many a day.