They had tramped the hills together, Sandy and Lans. They had gone carefully over the plans for the factory and Home-school, had seen the growing building of the former and revelled in the dreams of the latter.
"It proves my liking for you, old chap," Lans had said, "when I can look at all this and not envy you. You see, Uncle Levi wanted to train me in the way I should go, but I got a twist in the wrong direction and—well! I never squeal. That's about all the philosophy or religion I have—I never squeal! Live your life; take your chances and squeal not! Then you remember I used to tell you that I was a big bungling giant? You've got the vision and the leading. But to think of Uncle Levi putting the reins in your hands! I can imagine him letting any one he likes hold theendof the reins—but he's leaned back and is letting you drive."
"Yes—but only because his big, wise head and loving heart tell him this is a safe road to travel."
"Oh! I don't know. Who's going to be any the better for—all this? There's a lot of Tommyrot about charity. If I were going to splurge I'd do it in the middle of the stage and make an advertisement of it at the same time. It's cheaper and more sensible. Why, if Uncle Levi would spend in Boston what he's spending up here—he'd have the world talking about his mills."
Sandy turned away. He was thinking of what Levi had said to him a few weeks before as he was ending his visit in Bretherton.
"Son"—he was "son" to the old brother and sister after that trip abroad—"son, go back to your hills and see in every ragged boy—Sandy Morley! In every little lass—your sister Molly! Gather them in, son, gather them in, and let us help them as we helped you to—come out cleaner and better. Work up there, son, as if God Almighty's eye alone was upon you. Men have forgotten the hill people, but God called you to lead them out of bondage."
"It pays to advertise," Lans was remarking.
"Yes," Sandy returned; "and Mr. Markham advertises in a most original and picturesque way."
Through all the walks and drives round about The Hollow, Sandy inwardly prayed that Cynthia might not materialize. Why he so strongly desired this he could not tell. He liked Lans; enjoyed his visit and companionship, but he hoped he would leave before Cynthia appeared. He grew restless at times and found himself longing to tell Treadwell that the Markhams were coming to The Hollow for Christmas, and the rooms occupied by Lans would be needed. But the days went by and Cynthia kept from sight. The truth was, Sally Taber had gone to Trouble Neck and spread the news and warning.
"You-all bes' stay away," she said; "dis yere Yank be right triflin' and polite. He makes us-all feel like we war dirt under his feet. I clar' I'd like to work an evil charm on him! Ole Mr. Morley he don' take naturally to the woods an' leaves them young gem'men to themselves. I keep the do' closed 'twixt them an' me—he makes me feel like there was traps set fo' my feet."
"You must be having a real gay time up there!" Marcia Lowe replied, laughing at poor old Sally's indignation.
"Well, I'se cookin' mo' an' mo' monstrous every day. If that Yank can stan' what I have in store fo' him from now on, I reckon he don' got a stummick like a beast o' burden."
"Ah! poor Sandy," Cynthia cried; "you'll kill him, too. I reckon I'll come up and bring him food at night and put it in his study."
"Not just yet, little Cyn," Marcia Lowe replied, putting a protecting arm about the girl. "Cynthia's a bit run down," she explained to Sally; "off her feed a little. We're going to have a holiday. What do you think?—Mr. Greeley is going to take us 'over the hills and far away'—about twenty-five miles away! He's going over to make a will for an old man who is dying and he's invited us to share his carriage. Take good care of the Morleys, Sally, and let's hope the stranger will leave before we return. I'm getting real Southern in my tastes and am positively suspicious of Northerners!"
And it was a few nights after the night that Tod Greeley, with Marcia Lowe and Cynthia tucked comfortably away in the back seat of his carry-all, started on their trip, that Lans Treadwell and Sandy Morley sat before the fire in the study and had their talk—the talk that illumined the path on ahead for Sandy.
"Old fellow!" exclaimed Lans, taking the cushions from the window-seat and tossing them back again from where he stood in the middle of the room; "neverplacesofa pillows—chuck 'em! Only by so doing can you give that free and easy grace that distinguishes a Frat cosy corner from a drawingroom torture chamber."
Every cushion that Treadwell tossed seemed to strike with a thud on Sandy's heart. It was as if Treadwell were hurting little Cyn as she sat in her window-seat with her dear face turned toward them.
"Come, sit down, Lans. You are as nervous as a ghost-candle."
"Thanks!" Treadwell took a chair across the hearth from his host. "There's a devil of a storm rising out of doors."
"They're right common this season of the year. About six or seven years ago there was one up here that came mighty near ending the existence of a good many—it did carry one poor old darky woman away."
"That's cheerful! Sand, forgive me if I seem brutal, but do you know I believe the cooking up here is giving me indigestion. I wouldn't mind this if I didn't have your anatomy in mind, too. Those—what do you call them?"
"Ash cakes?"
"Yes. They were, to put it mildly, damnable."
Sandy laughed.
"They were right ashy," he admitted. "Sally is old and careless."
"She'll murder you, if you don't look out."
Sandy kicked a log farther back on the hearth and the room was filled with rosy light and warmth.
"Your father doesn't seem particularly drawn to me, Sand. Does he always retire to his chamber as soon as he has finished his—his evening meal? Somehow it looks pointed!"
Lans was not his usual, sunny self. The rising storm, his own thoughts, and the evil ash cakes were having their way with him.
"I never question father, Lans. He is old. I want him to do exactly as he chooses. You must not take offence."
"Certainly not. Only I do not want to feel I drive him away or deprive you of his companionship. Ever since I told the joke about that bottle of perfumery he seems to avoid me."
"Father hasn't a sense of humour," Sandy ventured, striving to keep the bitterness of resentment from his voice.
"The devil!" ejaculated Lans. "That log spits like a hag. A spark fell straight on my ankle."
"Excuse it," Sandy murmured, smiling as Lans nursed his silk-enclosed ankle.
"Hang it all, Sand! I've got to get back to civilization!"
Sandy bent over the fire to conceal his feelings. "Not to-night, surely," he said.
"No, but in a day or so. Morley, I—I want to tell you something. Tell you why I cut and came up here right in the middle of things at home."
The storm outside pounded on the windows; the fire flared and chuckled crisply. Sandy thought about Cynthia, wondered where she was, and then he became conscious of something Treadwell was saying.
"There was a time, Sand, when I couldn't have come to you with this. I thought you were such an infernal puritan—but Aunt Olive has told me of that—that little affair of yours which ended so—well so happily tragical, and it has made you seem more human. Of course there could have been no better way out for you and—her, and Uncle Levi was a brick to overlook it. I've liked him better for it, but my affair is another matter."
Sandy gazed dumbly at Treadwell and could not frame words to call the other to a halt. Not comprehending what Lans knew or misunderstood, having no intention of explaining—he simply stared and then turned to mend the fire.
"My affair—is different. You know about it—partially?"
"I've heard something. It was none of my business." A sternness crept into Sandy's voice which Treadwell entirely misunderstood.
"Well, because it was possible for me to come to you; because of all my friends, you seemed in this hour of trouble, the only one Icouldcome to, I want you to make it your business, Sand."
The low-pitched, pleading voice awoke sympathy. It was that tone and manner which had caused people to straighten out the snarls of Lans Treadwell's life from babyhood up. There was capitulation. It was as if he had said: "I deserve no pity, no comfort, but—give them to me!" It awoke all the spontaneous desire for his happiness in every tender-hearted person who knew and liked him.
"I'm not indifferent, Lans. I only meant that in your friendship and mine there have always been reservations. You took me up because of your generous friendliness; you helped me mightily. I never felt the slightest inclination to penetrate into your private life, and my own was of such a nature that I was obliged to live it alone. My years away from the mountains were years of preparation to come back. Every hand held out to me was but a power to help me on my course. I have never—except recently with the Markhams—ever taken anything personally. I have always recognized that I was called to serve my people; I have been grateful, but I have never appropriated."
Treadwell looked hard at the fine, dark face touched now to vivid beauty by the rich glow of the fire.
"And I know few fellows who have won out as you have," he said admiringly. "You have that in you, about you, that attracts and compels. People trust you, like you—need you when a pinch comes."
"Thank you, Lans."
"And God knows I want you, need you, now!"
Sandy put out his hand, Treadwell gripped it, then both leaned back in their chairs and the story came, set to the wild strains of the mountain storm.
"She was one of those little creatures born to be the plaything of Fate. When she was seventeen she married Jack Spaulding—he was part genius, but more fool. He was caught by the girl's spirituality and brightness and he couldn't any more comprehend her than a raw-boned Indian could understand a water sprite. To him she was a woman he wanted—nothing more. He got her and when he wasn't lost in the maze of invention he permitted her—Good God!—he permitted her to supply the needs and yearnings of the—the man in him. Poor, little entrapped soul! She struggled between duty and loathing until her Guardian Angel saved her. When Spaulding was going through his ups and downs of fortune she stood by him. His downs were oftener and longer than his ups and she was pure grit and a bully little sport. Then he got on his feet with a vengeance. He could give her anything and, like a big, blundering savage he began to load her down withthingsand make his demands for payment and she—up and left him!"
Sandy felt that the heat of the room was oppressive, but he held his position and flinched not.
"Poor, little white-souled girl! She left him and tackled life with her wits and her two pretty hands. I met her during my senior year. She was reporting for a Boston paper, getting starvation wages; living like a bird in two rooms of a high-pitched house off in a desolate corner of town and thanking God for her—escape and freedom. Well, I lost my heart to her and you know how I and my set feel about certain things. Laws are all right for the—herd; a present help for the helpless; protection for the happy, and all the rest, but they should be handled wisely and discriminately by the intelligent minority. She—Marian Spaulding held the same views!"
"Why—didn't she divorce him—her husband?" Somehow the question sounded crude and unnecessary on Sandy's lips.
"For form's sake, she tried. Spaulding would not let her. He was an ugly devil and he just couldn't understand any woman snapping her fingers at his big money. He meant to starve her out, but he—well, he got left!
"I took rooms out near Cambridge. At first we were—friends! I wanted her to have time and quiet to think it out her own way. Learn to trust me; come to me of her own accord and because she was large enough to choose the braver course."
The heat was stifling Sandy, but he gripped the arms of his chair and kept still.
"She—she came to me willingly—three months ago! I've known and she has known, Sand, such bliss as only free, untrammeled souls can know who have gone through hell fire and proven themselves!"
Sandy almost sprang up. "You won't mind," he said jerkily, "if I raise the window? The room is like a furnace."
When he came back to his place, Lans, head bent forward in clasped hands, was ready for him.
"Women are all alike in some ways. They never dare let go entirely and plunge! They hold on to something, get frightened, and scurry back to tradition. Three weeks ago Spaulding sent for her—for Marian. He'd lost everything; was ill and needed her. She went! I found a note—that's all."
"Well!" Then having said that one word, Sandy sought about in his confused mind for another. Again he said, "Well!" and waited.
"I—I cannot be happy without her. The longer I stay away the stronger her claim seems to me. I must go back and—try again."
"Try—what?"
Sandy felt the cool, wet outer air touch his face as he leaned forward, for at last Lans Treadwell had aroused him. He was not, however, thinking of Lans and his yearnings; he was thinking of a little, unknown woman who was following the gleam of her conscience, while love, selfish love, was ready to spring upon her with its demands, before she had wrestled with and solved her own problem.
"Try—what?"
"To get her away from Spaulding; get her back to me and—happiness. We were happy, God knows we were!"
"If you—if she were happy, then her going proved something stronger than happiness called her."
"Women are like that. They hold the world back by their conventions and conservations. They ask for freedom and—and equality, and then they cling to tradition in spite of all."
"I reckon," Sandy's eyes were troubled and tender, "I reckon we-all better keep our hands off for a while and watch out to see them, the women, solve what is their business. They-all may want freedom and the rest—but it must be—as they see freedom and equality, Lans. I'm mighty sure in every woman's heart there is the beginning of a path leading—out and up, that they can find better alone. Why don't you wait until—until this little"—Sandy dropped into the sweet "lil"—"this little woman comes to you."
"She'd never come!" Lans half groaned; "you do not know how tradition would hold her there. She'd starve rather than to call me now."
Sandy was thoughtful a moment. He saw that Treadwell probably was right there, but a strange sense of protection rose in his heart. He felt he must protect that distant, strange woman from Lans in his present mood.
"Then I reckon you better stand off and watch unseen, Lans." Sandy made a bold stroke: "Are you thinking of her only? I'm mighty sure, Treadwell, in a case like this you ought not, you—dare not think of any one but her!"
The bald, rigid reasoning struck Lans Treadwell like the cold draught from the open window.
"Good God! Sand," he ejaculated, "let me shut that sash down. The cold gets into your heart as if it were driven by some infernal machine."
Sandy got up and pulled the glass down sharply, but he could not, thereby, bring comfort to Lans' conscience.
"What do you mean by a case like this, Sand? No case between man and woman can be separated that way. Her need is my need; mine is hers!"
"Is it?"
"Thunder! Sand, of course it is."
"I—I do not know. Things come so slowly, but I'm trying to learn for the sake of my people. The women and children, Lans, have got a clutch on me; they must always come first. Even when we want women happy, we want to give them happiness; give them the libertywethink is good for them. Treadwell, I'm mighty sure there are times when we-all better get out and leave them alone! We only make matters worse. You do not know these hills as I do—I don't want to preach, heaven knows! As I talk I am only feeling my own way, not pointing yours; but I know my hill people, and the women and children tug right hard at my heart. When love—such love as our mountain men know—takes a woman into a cabin—it generally shuts God out! I know this, and the children that come into life by way of our cabins are—well! I was a cabin boy, Lans! Women need God oftener than we-all do. Love puts a claim on them that it never does on us-all. Love demands suffering of them; responsibility that man never knows. Treadwell, we men must never clog up the trail that leads woman to her God. I know I'm right there! But tell me, are women and men different, so different in the lowlands and highlands?"
Treadwell was bent over, his face hidden in his hands. He made no answer.
"That little woman—down there"—Sandy's eyes were far and away from the warm, rude comfort of the room which held him and that stricken figure by the hearth—"is battling for what she believes is right. Something in her was strong enough to take her from you, your love, and the safety you stand for in her life. She has gone back to—what has stood for hell in her past. Do you, can you, understand her, Treadwell?"
"No!"
"Then, keep away until God, as she knows God, has had His way with her. Stand off and watch. Be ready, but let her fight her fight and come to you, if that is the end—with clean soul!"
And now Lans Treadwell was weeping as only men and children can weep when they are defeated by a stronger will they cannot understand, and cannot resist.
The great logs crackled and the wind roared in the chimney. Above, the shambling steps of Martin Morley sounded as he made his preparations for bed. Suddenly Sandy started up and listened.
"There's a call of distress from The Way," he said, getting upon his feet. Then he stood waiting for the next sound. Treadwell pulled himself together and listened also.
No call came, but presently steps were heard outside—a tap on the door of the room which led directly to the open.
"Come!" said Sandy, and in walked Marcia Lowe and Cynthia Walden. They were rain-soaked and wind-blown. Their faces shone and their eyes danced.
"This is the end of our holiday," Marcia said with a laugh. Neither she nor Cynthia paid attention to the man in the chair; he was hardly visible behind the high back. "Tod Greeley's shaft broke just as we were coming into The Way from the cross cut. We called and called, but finally we decided to find where we were—it is as black as a pocket out of doors—we were all completely lost. Cynthia and I felt our way along, while Greeley stayed with the horse—the beast acted like a fiend—and then we saw a light: your light! No other man in The Hollow wastes oil like you—and here we are!"
At this Treadwell made himself evident. Turning sharply, he met the big, lovely eyes of the girl beside the talkative little woman. The fair, damp face was inframed by tendrils of light hair under a hood of dullish red; the long, coarse, brown coat clung to the slim figure, and the mouth of the girl was smiling. Treadwell had never seen a mouth smile so before.
Sandy introduced his friend and then said: "Lans, make the ladies comfortable; I'll lend Greeley a hand."
Lance Treadwell did not leave the mountains the next day. The storm poured, and Sandy's words sunk deep in his light mind.
"Yes," he thought to himself virtuously, "I'll let Marian have it out with her conscience or whatever it was that took her from me. I'll write and tell her I'm waiting up here!"
In the meanwhile Treadwell took a new interest in the mountains, especially in that part of them known as Trouble Neck. Marcia Lowe and her "charm" appealed to him hugely.
"Why, it's been introduced in many other places," he said to the little doctor; "why can't you get your representative at Washington to get an appropriation for you?"
Marcia Lowe laughed long and merrily at this. "I really do not know who represents us at Washington," she replied; "it is some distant man, like as not, with axes galore of his own to grind, with these mystic votes of the mountains to help along. Doubtless he has a soul above names, and if a petticoat doctor should go to him and plead her cause for these people he would probably have me shut up as a maniac. The Forge doctor is making himself very unpleasant. He told me the other day that if I persisted in working my charm on many more people he would have me—investigated! Just fancy! investigating me! He used to laugh at me; it's got past the laughing stage now. When professional people step on each other's toes the atmosphere is apt to be electric. The Forge doctor has at last concluded that I am not a joke. A woman, to that sort of man, is either a joke or a menace."
Treadwell laughed gayly. Marcia Lowe was a delight to him; besides, Cynthia Walden was always present when he visited Trouble Neck, and Cynthia was bewitching. Treadwell did not talk of the girl to Sandy. He had no special reason for not doing so, but, having posed as a tragic creature—a man confronting a great soul-problem—he did not like to come down from his pedestal and stand revealed as a human being interested in a mountain girl.
"Her smile," he said to Marcia Lowe one day when Cynthia had left the room for a moment—"how do you account for that?"
"I never account for Cynthia," the little doctor replied. "I just take her and thank God. She and I live our beautiful little life with mists all about us. It's very fascinating and inspiring. She is such a child, and until there is some call to do otherwise, I am going to play with her. We actually have dolls! Of course there are all sorts of bones in the cupboard to pass out to the darling, but I'm waiting until she is hungry."
And so Cynthia played her part and smiled and dreamed. Things just were! There was no perspective, no contrast—the sun was always flooding her hours with the one small, white cloud of Sandy's marked passage in the "Pilgrim's Progress," to sail across her sky now and then. Treadwell did not surprise or shock her. He seemed a big, splendid happening from the world beyond the mountains. He was strong and pleasant and made one laugh, but he would go presently and they would talk about him as they talked about Sheridan's raid and Smith Crothers' fire—he was not part of Lost Mountain!
Cynthia, nevertheless, walked with Lans Treadwell through the trails, and once they had followed the Branch and come upon the new factory near The Forge. The girl told Treadwell of the fire, but she eliminated herself utterly from the story. She understood better now than she once had—her part in that snowy night. Then they spoke of Sandy and his hopes.
It was a gray, still day when they so freely discussed Sandy, and they were strolling up from Trouble Neck to the Morley cabin; Miss Lowe and Sandy were to meet them there later, coming from an opposite direction.
"Yes, Sandy is right noble," Cynthia said softly; "he was born, I reckon, to do a mighty big thing. When he was little it seemed like God said, 'Sandy Morley, I choose you!' There never was any one like Sandy."
Treadwell scanned the face near him, but saw only admiration and pride, detached and pure.
"We-all just waited like we were holding our breaths till he came marching up The Way. I can laugh now, Mr. Lans, but the morning I saw him first I was standing right there"—she pointed to the tree by the road where she had listened to Sandy's bird call—"and he came along, and when I knew that that big man was—my Sandy that went all raggedy down The Way years before—I expect I hated him! It seemed like he had stolen the nice boy, eaten him up and swallowed him! But no one hates Sandy. We-all want to do something big and fine. Why, every time I look at him, Mr. Lans, I feel like I must show him how glad I am he—well, he didn't swallow the old Sandy whole!"
Treadwell laughed delightedly.
"He's mighty good to get near to when you feel—troubled," Cynthia added; "and, too, you feel like you wanted to keep him from hurting himself!"
"How well you put it!" Treadwell's face grew serious. He recalled his hour of confession in Sandy's study and felt an honest glow of appreciation.
"When I was a right little girl," Cynthia went on, "I lived up at Stoneledge with Aunt Ann; she was my real aunt. I had a mighty queer life for a little girl and I reckon I would have fared mighty bad if I hadn't had a secret life!"
"You bad child!" Treadwell cried, shaking his finger at her; "a double life, eh?"
"Yes." The sweet smile gave Lans a bad moment. "Yes. In that-er-life I had all the things I wanted; all the folks I liked, and it just kept me—going! Sometimes I wish, oh! how I wish, that Sandy had a nice little other life, free of work and worry and loneliness, where he could—let go! Sandy does hold on so!"
"I wish I could have been in your 'other life'," Lans whispered.
"Oh! real folks never got there!"
"Well, if it will comfort you any," Treadwell broke in with an uncomfortable sense of being an off-mountaineer, "Sandy has—another life."
"Really?" Cynthia flushed and curiosity swayed her. She had never had so good an opportunity to know the man Sandy; she might never have again. "Really? and folks, right magic folks to—to play with?"
Treadwell thought of the Markhams and grinned; then he thought of Sandy's secret relations with the girl his aunt had told him of and he grew imaginative. "Yes. Now there is a man in Sandy's other world, a grim, rather stern man, but he has a magic wand that he lets Sandy wave now and then—it's great fun!"
"Oh! you mean the Company?"
"Exactly. That's his pet name. And there is a nice old fairy godmother who brews wonderful mixtures for Sandy and darns his socks and makes believe, when no one is listening, that she is his mother."
"I should love her, the honey!"
Treadwell stopped and gave a big, hearty laugh. Matilda Markham as a "honey" was about the most comical thing he had ever dreamed of.
"And is there"—the drawling sweetness of Cynthia's voice was moving Treadwell dangerously—"is there something young and pretty and mighty bright, too?"
"Yes." Treadwell's laugh was gone.
"A—girl—I reckon?"
"Yes, a girl—just girl enough, you know, to keep him—like—well—like other fellows."
"Oh!" Cynthia smiled, but her eyes grew as gray as the day; the blue faded from them. "I hope she is a mighty nice, upperty girl."
"I'm only playing, you know," Lans broke in. "I am imagining a life for Sandy something like your old secret life. It's all fun."
"You mean—Sandy has an—an imagination?"
"Precisely."
But the "girl" part of the make-believe remained in Cynthia's memory. Sandy had had his pretty story down there, away from Lost Hollow! Now he had come back; had left it all behind him! She saw it quite clearly. Perhaps when he was on that recent visit he had looked upon all the dear playthings as she used to look at her "Pilgrim's Progress," the portraits on the walls of the Interpreter's House, and her letters to her soul. Perhaps Sandy had played with the wand of the grim old Company; had tasted the brews of the dear Fairy Godmother and he had—bidden good-bye to the pretty girl-thing! It was very plain now; Sandy had accepted his life of duty in the hills, he had shut the door between him and his playroom.
Just then Smith Crothers crossed The Way, lifting his hat as he did so, to Cynthia. So silently had he come, so suddenly had he materialized, that Cynthia was taken off her guard. Her hand went to her side—but the pistol was not there! In her safer, saner life she often forgot the dangerous thing. A shudder ran through her body and she drew nearer Treadwell. The soft, gray day grew dark, and Crothers, like something evil, seemed to pervade everything. Instinctively Lans put his hand out and laid it protectingly on the shoulder beside him. The touch shared the taint, too.
"Oh! do not do that," pleaded Cynthia recoiling. "I was only startled because—he—the man came so suddenly."
"But I—I only wanted you to know you have—nothing to fear with me here."
Cynthia made an effort to smile, but it was a sad, little shadowy wraith of a smile.
The touch, the resentment, began their work from that moment. As Cynthia's shudder at Crothers' touch in the past had fanned the evil passions of the man, so her recoil now drew Treadwell's attention to the fact that she was not a child—but a woman; a woman who recognized him as man! The thought thrilled and interested him. It made him forget to write that letter to Marian Spaulding; it made him conscious that he did not care to talk about his many visits to Trouble Neck with Sandy Morley.
And Sandy, during the days of the prolonged visit, was often absent from home. The factory and the Home-school claimed his care and presence. He feared, at first, that Treadwell would have a dreary time by himself, but there were books, and Lans repeatedly told him the rest and quiet were doing him a world of good. Then—and the desire confused Sandy—he wished Treadwell would cut his visit short. The confession in the study had not drawn Treadwell nearer; it had driven him farther away. It was as if, by keener insight, Sandy had been cruelly disillusioned; had discovered that he, not Lans, was bound to bear a new burden of responsibility. Having confided in his friend, Treadwell, apparently, was eased and comforted; while Sandy was constantly thinking of a certain, vague, little suffering creature who, by a word of his, was left to a hard fight with no help at hand.
"Why in thunder!" Sandy thought as he and Martin worked with the men over at the factory; "why in thunder doesn't he go home and—stand by?"
But Lans did not go away, and more than Sandy grew restive. Martin had taken a deep dislike to the visitor and was only held in check by Sandy's reasoning and demands.
"Why, Dad, Lans had nothing to do with the old misunderstanding. He has really done us a good turn by throwing light on the past."
"He—he laughed!" muttered Martin. "They-all laugh that-er-way. Big things is little to them-all; and little things is—big! Them Hertfords be—no-count! They all sound upperty and look upperty, but they-all is—trash!"
"Come, come, Dad! Lans isn't trash. He's done me more than one good turn."
"I reckon he'll do you a right smart bad one some day, son."
"Dad!"
"Yes, son. Now, why didn't the old general come an' tell us-all 'bout the joke? Why didn't he give us-all a chance to jine in the laugh? Then this lad's father—why didn't he come back to Lost Hollow and find out 'bout—Queenie Walden, as was?"
Martin's voice sank into a whisper, but the words had a terrific effect upon Sandy. So naturally had he accepted the life of The Hollow again, so happily had he permitted his hills to draw close about him, shutting away the noises and interpretations of the big outer world, that the old doubt about Cynthia's poor mother, the loyal outward holding to the story Ann Walden had told of her birth, had escaped him. Now it came thundering through Martin's whisper like a heavy blow.
If that hushed belief were true, then—Sandy could not stand; he sat down upon a fallen tree and stared at his father.
"If that is true, then Cynthia and Treadwell are——" The thought burned itself into the mind and soul of Sandy Morley. No longer could he permit things to drift past him; here, among his hills, vital truths were vital truths and might make or mar the people he was bent upon helping.
"Cold cramp yo', son?" Martin gazed at his boy.
"For a minute—yes, Dad."
From that day Sandy knew that Treadwell must go away. Just how to bring it about he did not know, for his shadowy doubt could not be voiced; there was not the least reason why it should be—but Cynthia must be kept from the intangible something that could never touch her but to bring dishonour. And after Lans departed, Sandy thought, he would try to know more of the hideous uncertainty; seek to find out what ground there was for the doubt. In rebuilding Stoneledge, he must do more—he must try to take the blight from the old name. "But suppose"—and at that Sandy raised his head—"more glory in the end and more need to win Cynthia to him!"
While Sandy was struggling to work his way out of the snare, struggling to discover some social plank down which Treadwell could be courteously slid from Lost Mountain to Boston without damage to his dignity or the Morley sense of hospitality, Smith Crothers got his inspiration.
Filled with hate and envy, appreciating the fact that Sandy's business enterprises were menaces to his future prosperity, the man silently and morosely plotted and planned some kind, any kind of revenge. Cynthia, he dared not approach personally; even his evil thoughts dared not rest upon her directly. He had nothing with which to lure her; not even a decent approach could be made. The girl was always on guard; he could make no apology; he could hope from no self-abasement to win her faith. To harm her brutishly would be to secure his own death, for well he knew that the subtle force that was coming into life in The Hollow was making the men remember they were men and the women to realize it also. Then, too, the factory back of The Hollow would be running in a year's time. It would put on the market a different line of merchandise than his, but it would draw its labour from the same sources from which he drew.
"That damned yellow cur," Crothers thought, "will put up prices; shut down on the brats, and backed by the money of a fool who thinks to get a big name this-er-way, will get me by the throat if I don't get him first."
Vaguely, stupidly, Crothers desired to get Sandy away from The Hollow. If only he could cause him to lose interest, give up the job and turn the Company up North sick of the venture, all might be well. Crothers had even fancied the good effect of a plague in The Hollow that would wipe out the labouring class; of course, that would cripple him, but he'd have the ground to himself and he could make up for that. However, at the plague suggestion Marcia Lowe rose grimly with warning gesture. The little doctor was undermining several things. She was teaching the women to live decently, cook decently, and take a human interest in their children. Her charm, too, was having effect; more than Martin Morley had tested its potency and taken to holier ways. The Forge doctor often told Crothers that the She-Saw-Bones ought to be behind bars, but even in Lost Hollow you couldn't put a person behind bars for cleaning souls and homes.
And then, at that juncture, Crothers came upon Treadwell and Cynthia. He saw the girl's shudder and her look at her companion, and he understood the shudder but misunderstood the look! Lansing Treadwell had not cared to cover his true identity; rather boastfully he had proclaimed himself a Hertford and meant, some day, to reclaim his family lands and bring back the glory of the past. But Lost Hollow had its private opinion of the Hertfords, and when the County Club had been permitted to share the joke about that old story which had damned the Morleys, the club refused to laugh. Oddly enough they took sides with Martin Morley, and in their late understanding of facts made flattering overtures to Martin that embarrassed him deeply.
"Morley," Tod Greeley urged, "you-cum down to the club and set in Townley's armchair. Andrew Townley ain't ever going to sit anywhere again, I reckon; he's flat on his back for keeps now. His chair is mighty empty-looking and there ain't a man round the store but would welcome you to that seat of honour."
With no idea of resentment Martin replied: "You're mighty kind, Greeley, and time was when I'd like to have jined you-all, but now Sandy and me is right companionable and—him not being a smokin' man, I'd be mighty lonesome in the circle, and Sandy would miss me to home."
"And serves us-all right, too," Greeley said to the club. "Us-all pitting a Hertford agin a Morley!"
So the situation was ripe for Crothers to use Cynthia and the doubtful Hertford against Morley, and, incidentally, the Company against Morley.
"Sandy Morley would like to get the girl," Crothers reasoned primitively; "and if this-er-Treadwell or Hertford can smirch her—it will finish Sandy; take his appetite for The Hollow away and—clean up the whole business—getting me even for past hurts, too—damn her!"
Like many another blindly passionate man, Crothers hit out in the dark with what weapons he had and landed a blow where he least expected, the recoil of which stunned and downed him.
Crothers was a man who approached his ends by the use of his better qualities. The man whom the children of the factory shrank before in trembling fear, the man whom the men fawned before, and the women loathed and hated in dumb acquiescence, was not the man who years ago crept around the desk in his office to implore a kiss from "little Miss." Crothers could smile and speak courteously; his hard eyes could soften and attract, and there was no doubt as to his business capacity and positive genius in bargaining.
With a more or less clear idea as to the outcome of his desires, Crothers was perfectly explicit as to his desires. He wanted to get Sandy Morley away, permanently away, from Lost Hollow. Could he achieve this, his business might prosper as in old days, his command of the community gain power and his future be secure. If he could bring this desired consummation to pass, by harming Sandy and, incidentally, Cynthia Walden and Marcia Lowe, so much the better. They were disturbing elements in the place and nothing was secure, not even the suppression of the women and the degeneracy of the men.
"In the family and the town," Crothers had said once to Tod Greeley, "there must always be a head; a final voice, or there will be hell."
"Who do you want to boss your family and town?" Greeley had innocently asked. Crothers had not committed himself; he believed actions should speak louder than words!
Seeking about for a beginning of his campaign to turn Sandy Morley from his course, Crothers landed upon Lans Treadwell.
Treadwell could not always be at Trouble Neck while Sandy and Martin were at the factory-building back in the woods; reading palled upon Lans, too, and the bad cooking for his private meals began to attract his attention. That he did not resent anything in his friend's home and make his farewell bow was characteristic of Lansing Treadwell. He was thoroughly good-natured, inordinately selfish, and was consumed by deep-rooted conviction that Sandy Morley owed him a great deal and that he was conferring a mighty honour upon the young man by accepting his hospitality. No doubt arose as to his right in sharing Sandy's home, but as time went on he did, as all weak and vacillating natures do, resent young Morley's strength of character, simplicity and capacity for winning to himself that which Lans felt belonged to him by inherent justice. It had been one thing to know that his Uncle Levi Markham had taken another young man and set him on his feet, but quite another to realize that his uncle had adopted a poor white from the native hills of the Hertfords and was providing him with wings. A new element had entered into Lans.
"It's like Uncle Levi," he bitterly thought, with his Aunt Olive's instructions well in mind, "to so degrade me, my father, and our family. If he could put every upstart on a throne who had hewed his way to the throne, he would be supremely happy."
In these frames of mind Crothers and Treadwell met and exchanged views. If Morley could put a factory up and hope for success, Lans wanted to see the workings of a similar business already on the ground. So, during listless hours, the young man frequented Crothers' neighbourhood, ate at Crothers' boarding-house, and drank with him at The Forge hotel. Not looking for any shortcomings, Lans did not observe them. He found Crothers an agreeable man with a desire to uplift The Hollow by practical, legitimate methods, not fool-flights of fancy. Then, too, Crothers had a fine sense of the fitness of things. He deplored the fact that a man of Sandy Morley's antecedents should, by the vulgar power of money, gain control over the people.
"I tell you, sir," Crothers exclaimed, "the South has got to be reclaimed through blood; not mongrel blood backed by dirty money!"
This sounded very fine to Lans Treadwell.
"Now, I was a thinking this-er-way lately: 'Spose young Hertford came and took command 'stead of young Morley? 'Spose the old place of the Hertfords was rebuilt and the family established here again—what would happen, sir? I put it to you right plain and friendly."
Lans was thrilled. He rose to any vision called up by another; as for himself he was no vision-builder. His face flushed and his eyes flashed.
"I have never thought of it that way," he said; "as you put it, it seems almost an imperative duty that the best Southern blood should return to the hills and reconstruct where and in the manner it alone understands."
"Exactly. Now I reckon you don't know, sir, but there are mighty big back taxes unpaid on the Walden place and—and your forefathers' land, sir. I'm thinking of buying both places in simply from a sense of public spirit. I ain't going to let those smiling acres go into alien hands if I know myself—not if I ruin myself in the deal."
"Few men would show such spirit as that, Mr. Crothers!"
Lans was deeply impressed.
"Well, sir, a man as has the right stuff in him gets sentimental about something. My weakness is my—South! I came from mighty good stock, sir. I was in the university when the war broke out; I left and did my share of fighting and then came back to—well!" Crothers' eyes grew misty. His feelings almost overcame him and Lans Treadwell was equally moved.
"Since then it has been an upward climb. I gave up love, home, and marriage. I've become a coarse man in the fight, but my heart is true to the ideals and principles of the South. I have dreams, too, of the day when the best blood—blood such as yours, sir, recognizes the need of the hills and comes back with its tradition and force to—to—reclaim us-all socially, religiously, and—and—morally. It will mean sacrifice, sir. The North, with its luxury and ease, will be hard to leave, but life is sacrifice to men, sir, and the day will dawn when the Hertfords will come to The Hollow with determination to control affairs. I'm going to hold their place ready, sir, for that day!" This sounded almost too fine to be true, and even Lans demanded details.
Then it was that Crothers laid his foundations. He would buy the Hertford plantation; the Walden, also, if he could. He suspected that back taxes could not be met by the legitimate owners—if they could be disentangled from the mists that surrounded their possessions—he meant to get them into his own power. Then it further appeared that should Lans Treadwell desire to return to the hills of his fathers, the way would be made easy, and with Crothers to back the efforts of the "blue blood" a very respectable opposition would evolve to check the growing strength of such men as Sandy Morley.
"Morley's all right as far as he goes," Crothers interjected; "I ain't got nothing to say against Morley as Morley, but what I do say is—does the South want to be led out of darkness by a poor white when its own blue blood only needs a chance to flow through?"
Lans looked serious. He felt disloyal to Sandy; old associations tugged at his heart; but all at once the story of Sandy's relations with a girl in Boston, the story coloured and underlined by Olive Treadwell, rose and confronted him. If Sandy could deceive and hoodwink Levi Markham, what could others expect? Personally, Lans had no desire to stone Sandy, but a fine glow was filling his heart. If the way could be opened for him to help his people, could he not achieve as much as Sandy: defeat his uncle's revenge—it seemed only that to Lans, then—and, perhaps, when Sandy had come to terms, work with him for the good of Lost Hollow?
It was splendid! Purpose and strength came to Treadwell. He was ready for sacrifice; ready to forego the ease and joy of his city life; ready to renounce his claims upon a certain little woman fighting her battle apart from him! He would show Morley that hecouldbe pure and resourceful, he could put his longings aside for the greater good!
Lans must always have his mental, spiritual, and physical food served on dainty dishes! While he stood by Crothers he saw, in fancy, a noble home arise above the trees on the old Hertford place. He saw his Aunt Olive—no! it was not his Aunt Olive that he saw; it was—Treadwell's breath came fast—it was Cynthia Walden who stood at the door of the uprisen house of the Hertfords and smiled her radiant smile of welcome to him!
Lansing Treadwell was always a victim of suggestion and flashes of passion. The polished brutality of his father and the mystic gentleness of his mother had been blended in him by a droll Fate and, later, confused and corrupted by his Aunt Olive's ignorant training.
From that day Lansing Treadwell fell into the hands of Smith Crothers, and the plotting evolved so naturally, so apparently wisely, that no shock or sense of injustice aroused all that was good in the last of the Hertfords. Crothers gradually assumed the guise of public benefactor, a man who, resenting the obvious stupidity of men like Levi Markham, for no ulterior motive other than human rights, undertook the placing of Lansing Hertford upon the throne of his ancestors!
Secrecy was absolutely necessary. Conditions might arise to defeat Crothers' philanthropic schemes, but when all was concluded Morley must be taken into their confidence and made to understand that open and fair competition was both right and democratic.
And while all this was going on Sandy toiled at the buildings all day, reported progress to Levi every evening, tried to do his duty by Treadwell, while he sought for some reason to get him away before any harm was done.
It was difficult to account for what happened to Cynthia Walden at that critical time. It all happened so quickly, so breathlessly. The child in the girl was flattered, amused and uplifted by Lans Treadwell. He was so gay, so captivating. He taught her to play on Marcia Lowe's mandolin, and when he discovered how splendidly and sweetly she could sing the plaintive songs of her hills and the melodies of the old plantation days, he was enraptured and gave such praise as turned Cynthia's head and filled Marcia Lowe with delight.
"You little genius!" Lans exclaimed one day; "try to dance, too. You look like a spirit of the hills."
Then Cynthia danced and danced and forgot Sandy away among his buildings; forgot his grim determination and serious manner. It was song and dance for Cynthia, and the little doctor looking on, charmed by the turn their dull life had taken, saw no danger. To her Cynthia was a child still, and she was grateful that she should have this bit of brightness and joy in her narrow, drab-coloured life.
The arrested elements in Cynthia grew apace and with abnormal force. Through Lans Treadwell she realized all the froth and sunshine girlhood craves—she forgot Sandy because at that moment he held no part in the gay drama that was set to music and song. And then, quite naturally, too, the woman in the girl pleaded for recognition. Here was a man who appreciated her; would accept her as she was, although he asked no questions of her, regarding her poor little past. He talked splendidly of the big vital things of life which Cynthia thrilled at, but could not express in word or thought. Oh! it was most sure that Lans Treadwell would never care what had brought her into being—it was the woman! Sandy might do a big thing from duty; Lans would do big things because with him duty was but love of—humanity! Cynthia did not know much about humanity and Lans never said he loved her—but it came upon the girl all at once one day that she—she, little Cynthia Walden, was needed, desperately, sufferingly needed by a great-souled man to help in saving Lost Hollow! How magnificent! Sandy meant to save The Hollow alone and single-handed—Sandy was limited, that was Lans's modest interpretation—but Treadwell had his vision, too, and his vision included her! It was breath-taking and alluring.
Treadwell did not make any physical or emotional claims upon the girl—something led him dangerously, but wisely. He taught her to call him brother and he spoke to her as "little sister." This was particularly blinding to Marcia Lowe.
"Brother and sister in the broad human sense," pleaded Lans, and so the net drew close around little Cyn, and she did not struggle, because the mesh was so open and free that it did not chafe the delicate nature nor stunt the yet blind soul.
At the end of the third week Crothers, in fatherly manner, suggested to Lans that he was compromising Cynthia. So considerately and humanely did the man speak of this that Lans could take no offence, particularly as Crothers just then had brought their common interests to such a pass that to resent anything would have been fatal. A very beautiful and many-coloured bubble was well in sight!
"You see," Crothers explained, "them men up to Greeley's store are a right evil lot. Knowing that Cynthia Walden was a nameless waif when old Miss Ann adopted her, they cannot believe a right smart feller like you has honest motives and they are getting ugly."
Lans had heard the report of Cynthia's early childhood; the girl herself had sweetly and pathetically referred to it—and they thought he was that kind, eh? Well, he would show them! Having accepted the fate of the man on a desert island, Lans Treadwell meant to treat the natives he found there, fairly and nobly. In his mind he had cut himself adrift forever from the old life and its claims; Cynthia was the most attractive little savage on his isolated, safety isle—he would claim her virtuously and bravely; he would train her; educate her to be no unworthy mate for him in his god-like sacrifice for his family honour.
Never had Lans Treadwell been so dramatic nor such a fool, but he had caught little Cyn, and before she realized what had happened or why she had permitted it to happen, she drove away with Treadwell over the hills one day to see some land Crothers had urged him to look at and, a storm overtaking them, they were delayed in an old cabin where they sought shelter over night and then and there Lans brought her to see that for all their sakes they should be married before going home.
"Married?" gasped Cynthia, as if the word were foreign; "married! me, little Cyn? Why, onlywomenmarry!"
"And you are a woman, sweet!" Even then Lans did not touch her, though she looked more divine with her big eyes shining and the blessed smile parting her lips than he had ever seen her.
"I—a woman? Well, I reckon I am—but it seems mighty queer when you first think of it. And—the folks would say evil things of me because you took care of me and didn't risk my neck on the bad roads in the dark? What could they-all say?"
For the life of him Lans could not frame the words with that lovely face turned to his. "You must trust me, Cynthia. I will protect you and you must protect me."
"I—protect you? You are right funny. What could they-all do to you?"
"They could horsewhip me; tar and feather me——"
"Oh! no!" And now the light faded from the girl's face. Once at The Forge a man was treated so—yes! there was something about a woman, too!
The storm had raged all night. Lans made a fire and laughed and joked the dark lonely hours through. After midnight Cynthia fell asleep from sheer exhaustion and Lans placed his overcoat under her head while he smoked by the fire and grew—as imagination fed upon itself—into a being so immaculate and saint-like that the morning found him prepared for the final and dramatic climax. He awoke Cynthia, touched her as if she was a spirit, and took her to the little town known as Sudley's Gap and there—married her!
Cynthia was excited and worn from her night's experience, but the ceremony and Lans's manner made it all seem like a new play. They were always playing together, he and she. Big brother and little sister lived in the moment and had no care for the past or future. They had breakfast together, after the visit to the missionary, and it was afternoon before they started for home. At last Cynthia grew very quiet—the play had tired her; she was frightened and unhappy. How could what had happened secure Lans from the anger of The Hollow folks, if staying away were wrong? It was all very foolish. They could have gone to Sandy and explained. Already Sandy stood in the girl's life as safety and strength.
Just then Lans turned and looked at her. To him it was beyond comprehension that a girl of nineteen could be what Cynthia was. Ignorant she might be, surely was, but she was vital and human; she had witnessed life and its meaning in The Hollow—she was primitive and childish—but she understood!
Lans felt himself, by that time, to be about the highest-minded man any one could hope to find. He had practised great self-repression; he had accepted his future life suddenly, but with all its significant responsibilities. When he reached The Hollow there would be tumult, no doubt, but every man and woman there would count on the hot, impulsive Southern blood and, after the first shock, would glory in a Hertford who could carry things with such a high hand and, withal, a clean hand!
Laying the reins down over the dash-board, Lans turned to Cynthia, his passion gaining power over him as the sense of possession lashed it sharply. The pretty big-eyed girl was his! He had secured her by the sacredest ties, but for that very reason he need withhold himself no longer.
"Wife!" he whispered. "Wife, come; sweet, come!"
This was no play. The call awakened no response, but fear laid its guarding hand upon the girl as it had on that terrible night when Smith Crothers asked of her what Treadwell was now seeking in a different way, but in the same language.
"No!" Cynthia shuddered, shrinking from him. "No!"
The denial had awakened evil in Crothers; it aroused the best in Treadwell. For a moment he looked at the wild, fear-filled eyes and then a mighty pity surged over him.
"I—I would not hurt you for all the world, little Cyn," he said, taking up the reins. "I've done the best I could for you, dear; when you can you will come to me—won't you? In the meantime it's 'brother and little sister!'"
Come to him! Thus Sandy had spoken, too! The memory hurt.
The strain of the Markham blood rushed hotly, at the instant, in Lans's veins. It gave him courage and strength to forget—the Hertfords.
He took Cynthia to Trouble Neck and manfully told Marcia Lowe what had occurred. The little doctor, worn by anxiety, was almost prostrated.
"No one knows but what Cynthia was here all last night," she said. "I've lied to Tod Greeley. I told him you had not taken Cynthia; that she was ill with headache."
"Now!" Cynthia laughed lightly; "you see we need not have done that silly thing at Sudley's Gap."
Marcia Lowe began to cry softly.
"Oh! dear," she faltered, "but Smith Crothers knows and Sandy Morley, too. Oh! I have been so blind, so foolish, and you have been such mad children."
"I am going to Sandy at once," Lans explained. The plain common-sense atmosphere of the cabin and the little doctor's evident suffering were calming Treadwell's hot Southern blood and giving a touch of stern prosaic grimness to the business.
Cynthia, once she was safe with Marcia Lowe, was so unflatteringly happy that Lans Treadwell might well be pardoned for thinking her lacking in ordinary mentality, and this thought was like a dash of ice water on his growing chilliness. He became awkward and nervous. He felt like a man who had run headlong to a goal only to find that it was the wrong one, with no strength or power to retrace his steps he owed to defeat and failure, and in that mood he sought Sandy.