Marcia Lowe was mistaken. Sandy did not know. He knew that Treadwell had not returned the evening before, but Tansey Moore, who was now manager of Crothers' new factory, had told him that Treadwell had gone to look up a piece of land back of Sudley's Gap, and the storm had naturally detained him.
The sudden growth of intimacy between Crothers and Lans surprised and amused Sandy. Full well he realized Crothers' motive, and he could afford to laugh at that, but he felt annoyed and hurt at Lans's weak falling into the trap. The disloyalty to himself did not affect Sandy, he was far too sensible and simple a man to care deeply for that, and it somehow made it easier for him to reconcile his conscience to the growing distrust and contempt he had for Treadwell, but he disliked the idea of Crothers using his friend to gain his mean ends.
"Lans is not one to tie up to," he said to himself, and then smiled at the quaint expression which he had learned from Levi. "And to-morrow I will tell him that I must make ready for the Markhams."
The day after Cynthia's marriage Sandy had gone early to the buildings. He and Martin had worked hard; settled a difficulty among the men, which they both felt confident Crothers had instigated, and, upon reaching home late in the afternoon Sandy was told that Old Andrew Townley was ill and wanted him. Liza Hope had sent word.
"I reckon you can wait to eat," Sally Taber had suggested; "ole Andy has been dyin' with consumption ever since dat time when he went to The Forge an' got baptized in his wife's night shift—him not being able to get a robe! Andy took a mighty stiff chill that-er-day an' it war like a finger pintin' the way to his grave. Andy war thirty when he waddled into de Branch in dem swaddling clothes, an' he's over ninety now. I expect he can hol' on till you've tended to yo' stummick."
But Sandy had not waited. He went to Andrew and found the old man wandering on to the end of his journey in a very happy frame of mind. He was, to himself, no longer the weak creature dying in his poor cabin. Lying on the comfortable cot Sandy had provided, smilingly gazing through the broad window Sandy's inspired saw and hammer had designed, he believed himself to be a young and strong man helping another up The Way with guiding hand and cheerful courage. Sitting by the bed, Sandy took the cold, shrivelled fingers in his warm young ones, and the comforting touch focussed the wavering mind.
"Eh, there, son, it's a right smart climb, but the end's just yonder! See that-er-light?"
"Yes, old friend, I see the light."
Sandy bent low and whispered gently.
"That-er-light, son, is in Parson Starr's window. Starr, Starr! He war a mighty clear star an' his light ain't going out, I reckon. Hold fast, son! A few more steps and the totin' will be over. It's been right heavy goin'—but——"
The poor old body struggled to rise and Sandy, putting an arm under the shoulders, lifted Andrew to a sitting position.
"Do you see the—light, old friend?"
"I—see—the star!"
"Yes. The star and the light, Andy?"
"Yes—that's—home!"
Facing the west with wide welcoming eyes, Andrew slipped from life so gently and quietly that for some minutes Sandy held him without knowing that the light had gone out and the weary soul had reached home by The Appointed Way. When the knowledge came to him, his eyes dimmed and reverently he lay the stiffening form back upon the pillow; crossed the thin, worn hands upon the peaceful breast, and turned to his next duty with a murmured farewell to ears that no longer could be comforted by his kind words.
Sandy went home and ate his evening meal with his father. He did not mention Andrew's death. Martin was so genuinely happy at having his son to himself and Lansing Treadwell out of the house, that Sandy disliked to shadow the joy.
"Suppose we read a bit," he suggested when the two were seated in the study. Martin accepted joyously. "What shall it be, Dad?"
"Well, son, it do seem triflin' to set your mind to anything but Holy Writ when you're idle, but to-day I found an ole paper up to the works with a mighty stirrin' picture on it; a real techersome picture of a man danglin' from a high cliff by his two hands, and nothin' 'twixt him an' certain death, I reckon, but the writingman's understandin' of the scene. Yo' know, Sandy, I ain't had my specs fitted yet an' so I couldn't fin' out about the picture an' it's been right upsettin' to me all day."
Sandy took the crumpled paper Martin produced from an inside pocket and began to read the hair-raising tale. Toward the end he discovered it was a serial which left the hero, at the most breathless point, still hanging. Thereupon Sandy evolved from his own imagination a fitting and lurid ending that appeased Martin's sense of crude justice and left nothing to his yearning soul unanswered.
"I call that-er-tale a mighty good one," Martin remarked when, hands upon knees, eyes staring, and chin hanging, he heard the grand finale. "Taint allas as the ungodly gets fetched up with so cutely. It's right comfortin' to think o' that low-down trash a-festerin' in the bottom o' the gulch."
Then Martin, the gentlest of creatures, went pattering up to bed in his stocking feet, muttering cheerfully to himself as he mounted the dark stairs, candle in outstretched hand:
"A festerin' eternally at the bottom!"
After his father departed Sandy sat by his fire alone and waited. So Lans found him, and gloomily took a chair across the hearth.
"Have you had supper, Lans?" Sandy asked after greeting him cordially.
"Yes. The storm kept me last night. I got back—not long ago. I had a bite while I waited for the horse to be seen to. The poor beast was pretty well worn out."
There did not seem to be anything more to say on that subject, so Sandy remarked:
"Smoke if you care to, Lans; don't mind me."
But Lans did not care to smoke and suddenly he jumped up, plunged his hands in his pockets and faced Sandy with crimson cheeks and wide eyes.
"Sand," he blurted out, "I'm in a devil of a hole; I've pulled about all Lost Hollow in with me. I'm a fool and worse, but you know how I am. Any big passion that seizes me—holds me! I'm not responsible while the clutch is on me. I ought to be taken out and shot. I——"
But Sandy's blank stare called a halt.
"I—I wouldn't take it that way, Treadwell," he said, thinking that some obvious villainy of Crothers' had opened Lans's eyes to facts; "I may be able to get you out of the hole."
Then, ludicrously, the story he had just read to his father came into his mind. Lans seemed to be the creature at the bottom of the gulch, and it was up to him, Sandy, to rescue the knave in spite of Martin's satisfaction in leaving him there to fester. Sandy smiled.
"Good God, Morley, what are you laughing at?" Lans cried; "this is no laughing matter."
"I beg your pardon, Lans. An idiotic thing occurred to me and you are such a tragic cuss that I never can think things are as bad with you as you imagine."
"Sand, this is a—hell of a thing! I don't know what you will say. Fellows like you with their hands always on their tillers, fellows with cool heads and calm passions never can understand us who fly off at every spark that's set to us. All I can promise you is this—help me now and, by God! I'll let your hand rest on my tiller till I get into smooth waters again and—I've learned my lesson! What I've got to tell you sounds like a yarn, Sand. All the time I was coming up The Way I kept repeating 'it's not true!' but good Lord—it is! Morley, I'm married. I was married early this morning!"
The little woman struggling with her problem up North came to Sandy's mind. She had not been able to keep up the fight; she had followed Lans and—but no! If there had been a wedding then the husband must have died! Sandy looked puzzled.
"If it was the best, the only way, old man," he said, "I don't see why you should take it this fashion. You—loved her; you cannot have changed in so short a time."
And now it was Lans's turn to stare blankly. With his temperament, time and place had no part. He was either travelling through space at a thundering speed or stagnating in a vacuum. He had almost forgotten Marian Spaulding and his present affair took on new and more potent meanings.
"I—I married Cynthia Walden!" he gasped. "I married her—this morning. We were out alone all last night. The—storm—you—know! She didn't understand—I tried to—to shield her—she doesn't understand—now. Good God! Morley, stop staring! Say something, for heaven's sake!"
But Sandy could not speak, and his brain whirled so dizzily that he dared not shut his eyes for fear of falling. Like a man facing death with only a moment in which to speak volumes, he groped among the staggering mass of facts that were hurtling around him, for one, one only, that would save the hour. He remembered vividly the old story of Cynthia's mother which Ann Walden had proclaimed, but he remembered, also, the hideous belief that lay low in Lost Hollow. Dead and buried was the doubt, but now it rose grim and commanding. Sandy tried to form the words: "She is your sister!" But the words would not come through the stiff, parted lips. Honesty held them in check; they must not become a living thought unless absolute proof were there to substantiate them.
The two men confronted each other helplessly, silently, and then Lans Treadwell, overcome by sudden remorse, and a kind of fear, strove to propitiate the sternness that found no expression in words.
"I've been devilishly wrong, Sand, and returned your hospitality and friendship with bad grace, old fellow, but I drifted into it and when it was too late—I did what seemed the only decent thing. I know I couldn't have explained, and she turned my senses by her sweetness. She's like a baby, Morley, and I mean to—to do the right by her, as God hears me!"
Treadwell used the name of God so frequently and ardently that it sickened Sandy.
"Yes," he groaned, "you will do right by her or——" the dark eyes flashed dangerously; "and you'll do right by her—in my way!"
This was unfortunate and Sandy saw his mistake. Lans Treadwell's shoulders straightened and his jaw set in ugly lines.
"If it's going to be man to man, Sand," he muttered, "I reckon I've got the whip hand. She's my wife, you know, and the laws of this nice little state are pretty explicit along certain lines. When all's said and done—what are you, as a man, mind you, going to do about it?"
Again the staggering doubt was like a weapon for Sandy's use, but he hesitated still.
"I—I wonder if you know what you have done?" he groaned again.
"When you talk like that, Sand," Lans whispered, his face softening, "I don't! And I implore you to help me."
"You don't know our South, our Hollow," Sandy went on, with a pitiful tone in his unsteady voice. "It takes us so long to—wake up! It's something in the air, the sun, the winters—the life. Cynthia has not roused—she is only dreaming in her sleep. She's a child, a little girl, and you have dragged her into——"
"Hold on, Sand!" Lans warned once more.
"I have been waiting"—Sandy did not seem to heed the caution—"I've been waiting and watching for the hour when she would realize that she was a woman. I've loved her all my life, worshipped her, but I would not have startled her before her time to have saved my soul from death! Had she realized, Treadwell—had things been open and fair, I would have taken my chance—but—you!"
Again the blaze darted to Treadwell's eyes.
"And what do you insinuate?" he asked—but he got no farther. There was the sound of quick, approaching steps outside and a moment later a sharp knock on the door; Sandy strode forward and opened it, then closed it upon Marcia Lowe and Cynthia.
Quickened by spiritual insight Sandy saw that the girl was awake to the reality of things. Shock had shattered her childishness forever, but she was not afraid. Uncertainty and ignorance were there, but no sense of danger in the clear, wonderful eyes.
"Oh! Sandy," she panted, going close to him and holding her hands out, "Sandy, you know?"
"Yes."
"I wanted to be here with you-all after she"—the sweet eyes turned to Marcia Lowe—"told me. I—I thought maybe he"—she glanced toward Treadwell—"might not tell you, till morning. Poor dear!"
This last was to Sandy, for the look in his eyes wrung the tender heart with divine pity.
"Sit down," Sandy urged, placing chairs near the hearth and bending to lay on more wood, "there is much to say."
Then it was that the little doctor took command. She did not sit down as the others had; she stood by the table with some loose papers in her hand.
"I feel as if it were all my fault," she began. "Things lie so still here; we seem so shut in. Cynthia has been like a child to me—I haven't thought ahead and I just played with her and worked out—my puzzle piece by piece. It was only a week ago that I felt sure; I meant to tell Cynthia slowly and little by little—and then this happened!"
Marcia Lowe's face was fixed and white. No one spoke. Then she went on again.
"I have always believed Cynthia's father was—my uncle, Theodore Starr! I came to Lost Hollow because I believed that, but I had no absolute proof and Ann Walden denied me support. But look at her—look at Cynthia and me! Of course I am old, old, and she's a baby, but can't you read God's handwriting in our faces? See the colour, form—expression——"
Morley and Treadwell stared at the two faces and into their benumbed consciousness something vital struggled to life. It brought a gleam to Lans's eyes; a groan of surrender to Sandy's lips! The contrite voice was going on and on.
"There was no marriage certificate. There had been an unhappy engagement between my uncle and Ann Walden—he, poor, timid, gentle soul, dared not speak at the proper moment, he dreaded giving pain, and he married Cynthia's mother privately, and before things could be made plain—he died up in the hills, serving men! The man that married them went away—only a year ago he came back; recently Mr. Greeley drove over to Sudley's Gulch to make a will for this man; Cynthia and I went with him. The man died a few days ago. Among his papers was a notebook in which was recorded the marriage of Queenie Walden and Theodore Starr! The man was a—a magistrate, the thing was legal—Little Cyn is—my niece!"
An empty room never seems so still as one in which living, wordless men and women are held by breathless silence. Treadwell dared not speak. He seemed a stranger; one who had no right to be there. Cynthia's eyes were lifted to Sandy Morley's face and did not fall away. Having said what she had come to say, Marcia Lowe held out her written words of proof and waited. After a long pause Cynthia spoke and her voice was electrical in its effect.
"Sandy," she said, going close to him and holding him with her clear gaze and slow, brave smile, "you know I did not mean—to do wrong?"
"Yes, little Cyn."
"I'm right glad I'm—I'm my dear father's child. All my life he's been a happy name to me—and I'm mighty proud to be his, really. I'm going to be brave for him and my mother! Sandy—I am not afraid—I am not afraid!" The words came slowly, drawlingly but unbrokenly.
"My aunt," and for an instant the eyes rested on the bowed head of Marcia Lowe, "has told me many things—I understand right many things, now! I know you-all want to help me; want the best for me—but what's done, is done, Sandy Morley, and I can do my part. If—if—my husband wants me—I am ready—to go to him. Sandy, I am not afraid!"
Then they waited. Sandy stood with his back to the fire, motionless and white; Marcia Lowe had sunk into a chair and bending forward hid her face in her hands; Cynthia drew back from Sandy and stood alone in the middle of the room.
What emotions and thoughts swayed Lans Treadwell, who could know? But looking from one to the other of the little group the craven distrust died from his face and an uplifted expression took its place. He stood straight and tall and good to look upon as he realized that he was at last the final judge.
"Cynthia!" he said calmly, and his voice was low and firm; "I do—want you! you are my wife! You are not afraid?"
Slowly he stepped over to her; he forgot the others—he and she were all! He put out his hands and Cynthia laid hers in them.
"I am not afraid," she whispered. And before the light in her upraised eyes Lans Treadwell did not flinch.
"I, too, wish to help you—in my own way. Can you trust me?"
"Yes."
"Will you leave the hills with me—me alone?"
For an instant the sweet smile faded, but it was for the loss of her mountains; not her doubt of her husband which drove it away.
"Yes," she murmured.
Then Sandy found his way back from his place of torment and he strode to the two in the middle of the room. He laid his hand upon Treadwell's shoulder, and all the smouldering passion in his heart rang in his words.
"Lansing Treadwell, swear to me, that you will leave her soul to her own keeping until——"
Treadwell gave him a long, steady look.
"I swear!" he said.
"When—her hour comes to—understand and choose—let her be white and pure as she is now!"
"I swear it, Sandy Morley."
"Then," and now Sandy's eyes dimmed, "good-bye, little Cyn. You'll miss the mountains—but there are good, true hearts—down beyond The Way."
At this Marcia Lowe drew near:
"Little girl—come home! She is mine until you take her from Lost Hollow, Lansing Treadwell."
The hands that held Cynthia's let her free. A pause followed. Then:
"Good-night—good-night!" The pretty, pale face flushed tenderly. "Good-night. And now come, dear Cup-o'-Cold-Water Lady!"
The sweet attempt at cheer all but crushed those who heard and understood.
The Markhams came to Lost Mountain early in December. The weather was fair and mild and much of the time could be spent out of doors. Matilda, frail but with that gentle tenacity of life that marks many women for longevity, settled at once into the semi-rough life of the cabin with innate delicacy and aptness. The rooms Sandy had so lovingly planned and furnished becamehersafter the first day, and no truer compliment could have been paid her host than this homelike acceptance of his thoughtfulness. To see her soft, bright knitting in the sitting-room gave Sandy a positive thrill and when he came back, after a long day of tramping about with Levi, and found the dear, smiling woman awaiting him, he knew the first touch of the mother in his own home that had ever been his. And sorely the poor fellow needed it just then!
Levi, too, was a saving grace in those empty hours after Cynthia's going. Swelling with pride, he followed Sandy about from cabin to factory; from factory to Home-school. In vain he struggled to suppress any outward show of the pride and delight he took in everything he saw. He sought to keep things upon a dull, business level, but exultation at times overcame him when Sandy was well out of sight. To Martin or Matilda he permitted himself a bit of relaxation.
"Well," he had said to Martin after the first strangeness had worn off, "so you are the father of this boy, eh?"
"I am, sir!"
The pride that rang in Morley's voice was never veiled, and his native dignity was touching.
"I reckon any one might doubt it, sir, seeing him and me, but he's mine and I'm his."
"Well, well!" Markham put his hand out frankly. "I hope you're grateful."
"I am mighty grateful, sir. Mornin' an' night I kneel an' thank my God, an' day in an' out I live the poor best I can, sir, my thankfulness."
Markham gripped the thin, hard hand appreciatively. He knew more of Martin than Martin suspected, for Marcia Lowe had made it her first duty, after the Markhams' arrival, to get into touch with them. Not Sandy alone had been the theme of the little doctor's discourse; Martin's grim and self-sacrificing fight in her cabin was given in detail with other happenings in The Hollow.
"Oh! they are so big and silent and patient," Miss Lowe had explained, "they cannot for one moment comprehend their own importance in the scheme of things. I feel it a duty to shine up their virtues."
Levi was deeply touched by all he heard, and when things puzzled him he gruffly insisted that he needed a walk to calm his nerves, and always it was the little doctor who straightened the tangle.
"Miss Interpreter," Markham dubbed her, and through her he became acquainted with Smith Crothers and Crothers' mark upon recent occurrences. Of course Levi knew of Lans Treadwell's visit to the hills. Markham was not a superstitious man, but he had remarked to Matilda before they came to Lost Hollow that it "looked like the hand of God." After a séance or so at Trouble Neck, Levi changed his mind.
"I tell you, Matilda," he confided by her fireside one night after a particularly satisfying day with Sandy, "we take for granted that God Almighty's hand is the only guiding in the final analysis, but the devil gets in a twist now and again, and I guess he had more to do with Lansing's heading up here than God did. Once old Nick got the boy here he did his best to use him, too, but from what I can learn Lans spunked up at the end and showed himself more of a man than we might have expected. He played a good deal of havoc in a few short weeks, though."
Marcia Lowe had eliminated Sandy from poor Cynthia's romance or tragedy. She had put a purely commercial valuation upon Crothers' interference, for the look on Sandy's face the night he bade Cynthia good-bye haunted the little doctor and would to the last day of her life. Before it her eyes had fallen, and whenever she recalled the scene a silence fell upon her. No thought or word could express what she, too late, surmised, and her lips guarded the sanctity of Sandy's secret.
When Levi confided Marcia Lowe's interpretations to his sister she was very unresponsive. She listened but made no comment other than:
"Sandy works too hard. He looks real peaked to me. It don't count to your credit, Levi, or his either, for that matter, if he feels he's got to pay you back in bone and muscle past a certain point."
"Now, 'Tilda," Levi put in, "what do you mean by that?"
"I mean——" Matilda condensed her impressions: "I think he looks real pinched and peaked."
This put Markham on a new track, and the next day he fell upon Sandy with the one weapon which, more than any other, caused Sandy to love and honour him.
"See here, son,"—it was oftener "son" than "boy" now—"don't get any fool idea in your head that you owe me more than an eight hour day's work."
They were going over the plans of the Home-school as Levi spoke, and Sandy laughed lightly. "You are my agent, my—my promoter, son, and, as such, you hold a responsible position at—at good pay!"
"Thank you, sir. I understand that and I am anxious to carry out your wishes. I am eager to get this thing running, not for you, sir, alone, but my people. Crothers seems hell-bound just now in frightening them into signing contracts for themselves and their children for years to come. Of course the contracts are not worth the paper they are written on, but a general belief is spreading that our works cannot be relied upon and, in order to benefit The Hollow, Crothers is offering to protect the people against us by securing positions for them if they will agree to stand by him. When I think of the baby-things, sir, and the long, deadly hours of toil that lead to no preparation for betterment, my soul sickens. Now this, sir"—Sandy pointed to a particularly high and open space on the blue print—"is the hospital room."
"The—the what?" Levi put on his glasses.
"The hospital room, sir, I'm going to put Miss Lowe in control; I'd like to have another physician too, sir, and a few nurses. Right up there"—Sandy's eyes gleamed as they followed his finger to the space on the blue print—"we want to tackle the real trouble of the South, sir. Why, do you know I only heard the other day that Tod Greeley went to our representative, a year ago, and begged him to get an appropriation from Congress to start the work against the hook worm in this district and the request was refused." Sandy gave a hard laugh. "Well, I reckon Greeley and I know why, sir. Lost Hollow is too ignorant. Our votes can be got without the appropriation. The big, human need does not matter! Where there is more intelligence the representatives have to understand conditions. But it will matter by and by, sir! I know what that little doctor did for my father. I know what she's done for one or two of Mason Hope's children and the girl of Tansey Moore's who was—who was like my sister Molly! I want Miss Lowe and her helpers to have that high and bright place, sir, for their workshop. It must have sun and air, sir, and books and toys and—and music, too, for the fight is a hard and bitter one and the days and nights, at best, are terrible."
Levi Markham leaned back, took off his glasses and fixed Sandy with his keen glance. For a few moments he could not speak; he had been carried far and beyond his normal depth. When he got command of himself, he said slowly:
"Son, it looks to me as if we would need all we can make up North to stamp out some of the evils of the South, but, God willing, we're going to make a stab at it! See here, who is the representative for this district?"
Sandy gave the name of a man many miles away.
"Well, I guess he can be brought to learn the language of Lost Hollow, son, if some one shows him his duty. Some good laws, too, that would put a quietus on this Smith Crothers' ambitions ought to be looked after. He shouldn't be the say-all up here. No man is good enough or safe enough to take the bit in his own teeth—not even you, Sandy Morley!"
"Law, well carried out, is the best way, sir."
"Exactly! And now for the rest of the building, boy. What are these little cubby holes?"
"Bedrooms, sir. This is only an idea of my own. It's rather extravagant and it's subject to your decision, of course. I'd like to have each child have his own room, sir. A boy or girl grows so in a special little corner that is quite his own. I have a design of a small chest of drawers that I'd like to show you later. It does not take up much space and it combines washstand, bureau, table and—a place for the boy or girl's things."
"Things?" Levi was again bending over the blue print.
"Yes, sir. Things dear to each child's heart. Stones, sticks, anything that cannot be—explained." Sandy gave a low laugh. He was harking back to the old shed beside his father's cabin and the gay prints tacked to the worm-eaten boards.
"The separate rooms can stand, son, and those little jimcracks of drawers are favourably passed on, too. And these?" Levi's thick forefinger stopped at the elevation of the first floor.
Sandy gave a rich, satisfied laugh of content.
"Well, sir, it is this-er-way"—The Hollow's soft running of the words together delighted Levi's ear—"when the poor little creatures have had their fight out on the upper floor and have got down to these small rooms and have realized that they are human beings, then we're going to fix them—fix them, sir, right here!" Sandy's eyes flashed and his jaw set in the stern, grim fashion that Levi had long since grown to watch for and admire.
"By the time they reach the ground floor, sir, I reckon we can tackle them and begin to make them pay for themselves. By that time they will have something to draw on and we'll exact payment. Right here and here"—Sandy's forefinger was going rapidly from point to point, and Levi's stubby digit was laboriously following—"are the workshops, the school rooms, the kitchens and conservatories. Why, sir, even the idiot children can be utilized. They love flowers and animals; we must find their one gleam and guide their poor feet on the way. Good food, honest hours of work, systematic exercise and proper amusement—why, sir, from this ground floor we are to send men and women out into the world who will reflect credit on Lost Hollow and redeem its name. And you, sir——"
The two men faced each other suddenly. Markham seemed to realize anew the delicacy and fineness of the thin, brown face—-Matilda's words rang in his ears, "he looks real pinched and peaked." The homely phrase carried more weight to Markham than any scientific terms of a specialist. A sharp pain shot through his heart; he had the quick impulse to shield and protect this young fellow who was being carried afield on the wings of his enthusiasm. Protect him from what?
"See here, son, we cannot afford to go too fast with this hobby of yours. Get the buildings up as soon as you can; carry out all the material plans just as you have designed, but we've got to get our feet on good firm ground before we tackle the human problems. You know I am against paternalism, first and last. I'm willing to give opportunity, but nothing else."
"That is all they need, sir. Some must be shown opportunity—others are strong enough to grip it, but it's mighty good common sense, sir, to open the eyes of the blind and strengthen the feet of the weak—it's what you-all did for me, sir."
"Umph!" Markham exclaimed and then got suddenly up. "I'm going to take a stroll down The Way," he said. "Fix things here in an hour or two and see if you can get some kind of a rig for a drive this afternoon. I want Matilda to get the lay of the land before the winter sets in."
And then, confused by mingled emotions, Markham bore down upon Smith Crothers in his factory, a mile or so down the mountain, and attacked that gentleman in such a blunt and utterly unlooked-for manner that Crothers was startled and helpless.
The directness of the blows left Smith Crothers without defence; he was obliged to use his own crude weapons with the ever-growing conviction that they were worse than useless. Markham availed himself of no propitiation—he rushed his opponent into the open at the first onslaught, and thereafter he attacked him fore and aft mercilessly.
"See here, Crothers," he began, when the head of the factory had invited him into his private office and, with smiles and bows, had seated his guest; "you and I had better understand each other right now. You know, and I know that you know, that I am The Company up North which you are maligning here in The Hollow. Now I'm willing to lay down my hand and show my cards. I'm going to back this boy of Morley's by millions, if necessary, and there are millions to count on—not millions to be made.WhyI am doing this is my concern—all that matters is—I'm going to do it! Maybe it is a whim; maybe it is plain tomfoolery; every man has his weak side—I have mine. That factory up the hill is going to run as soon as it is finished; the Home-school is going to open its doors likewise; and both institutions are going to pay and don't you forget it! You put one product on the market; I another. We won't clash there—the rock we may split on is the labour question."
Crothers gasped feebly.
"I reckon I understand conditions here, sir, better than"—he longed to say "any damned Yankee," but he controlled the impulse—"any stranger from the North."
"No you don't!" Markham flashed back. "Exploitation isn't any fairer here than where I come from. Because these people don't realize it is no excuse for men like you and me. I know all about what you set forth as explanation and excuse—it goes up North the same as it does here. Supply and demand; business is business and all the rest of it, but you and I know that it ought not go! We have no right to take it out of the people."
"You've managed to take out your pile"—Crothers' smile was vanishing,—"'cording to your own telling. Millions ain't got by magic, these times."
Markham fixed the ugly eyes with his calm gaze.
"You are free to come and see how I have made my money," he said. "I have a system that includes every employee in my money-getting. They, every mother's son of them, have a chance with me to better themselves. I have never worked a child in my mills nor a woman about to become a mother, or for months after. I don't talk about these things—I live them! Now I mean to make money up here—honest money; my just share, and I'm going to follow my past line of action. I find it pays. Young Morley knows conditions here, and I'm going to pay him a big salary as interpreter. He's a high class man. Why, good God! Crothers, I sometimes think he was called to lead his people out of bondage."
Having permitted himself this flight Markham struck another blow that completed Crothers' dismay.
"There have got to be laws protecting these mountain folks from themselves. I'm not casting reflections, but you have all been passed by in the general scuffle, down yonder, and some one has got to sit up and take notice. There should be child labour laws, educational laws and sanitary laws. There should be appropriations made for carrying on good work in the mountains!" The light of Sandy's torch was flaring well ahead of Markham and he was following eagerly.
"Such men as you ought to be up and doing. It's going to be an open fight, as far as I'm concerned, and I want to tell you now that so long as there is decent and clean methods used, all may be well, but I'm going to see fair play, and I thought it was only friendly to come to you and show my cards."
"Thank you!" Crothers moistened his lips and plunged his hands in his pockets. "Is this a threat, sir?"
"No; a warning."
"Well, sir, I mean to do business along my own lines."
"I mean to do the same, Crothers, and I'd like to add, that in any clash please remember you are up against me—not Sandford Morley."
"I'm not likely to forget that, sir."
There was a little more talk, pro and con, and then the two men parted as men can do, after a heated and vital discussion, apparently on the best of terms.
It was the night of that day when, before the fire in the little sitting-room devoted to the Markhams' use, Levi sought to ease his sister's mind concerning Sandy.
"The boy was up against it with Crothers," he explained, "and making no outcry. You know Sandy's way. He wouldn't confide in us about that poor little sister of his—he thought it wasn't in the bargain. He meant to fight this big bully in his own fashion without calling on me, but I've taken a hand in the game and put Crothers wise as to principles. I may have to get a few knocks before I am done, but Sandy won't be the buffer. I guess the boy will pick up from now on. He's nervy and stronger than he looks."
Matilda sat in her low, broad rocker. Her dressing gown of pale violet enshrouded her tiny figure like the soft petals of a flower; her faded eyes and gentle face were lowered, and her gaze fixed upon the burning logs.
"Brother," she said tenderly and wistfully; "the boy has had a mortal hurt. This evil man has not dealt it, and neither you nor I can cure it. It has not killed his mind and spirit, but it's killed the heart of the lad."
Levi Markham got up and stood with his back to the fire. He was going to be enlightened—he knew that—but in man fashion he pushed the inevitable from him.
"Whim-whams, 'Tilda! Now what do you mean in plain American? Who's given the boy a blow—a hurt, or whatever you fancy?"
"It's the—the little girl, brother, that Land has run away with."
"Good God, Matilda!"
"Levi, I do wish you would curb your language. You know how I dislike profanity."
"I beg your pardon, 'Tilda."
"While you have been sensing business conditions, brother, I've sensed something else. I've sort of gathered this Cynthia Walden up piece by piece. The old woman who works here gave me a bit; that dear little woman doctor—the aunt of the girl—has told me some of the story; from Martin Morley I've taken a mite. Little by little it has come to me, until I've patched the whole together and I can see real plain and clear, now, the spirit of Lost Hollow that led Sandy out and up and then—escaped to a place he cannot reach! Oh! brother, when one is lonely and old and not over strong, it is so easy to get at the heart of a thing for them one loves."
Matilda was crying gently into her dainty little handkerchief, and Markham stared at her, speechless and helpless.
"There! there! 'Tilda," was all he could think to say, but his tone was loving beyond description.
"She's the girl whose face haunted that picture of the dogwood flowers, brother. She's the girl he wrote to just once, you remember, that time when we stopped in New York on our way from here to Bretherton. I guess she's called and called to him from these hills ever since he left, and now——"
"Well, 'Tilda?"
"She's gone away and the call is—stilled."
Markham sat down again before the fire and buried his head in his hands. Quietly the old brother and sister sat for a full half hour, then Levi got up.
"Good-night, sister," he said.
"Good-night, brother."
That was all. They knew that they were unable to reach the hurt that Sandy had received.
But Matilda Markham could not sit down under her weight of conviction in protracted silence. The winter at last gripped The Hollow, and doors and windows were closed against the cold and storm. Markham, Martin, and Sandy were always away together much of the day, but Matilda sat by her fire, chatted a little with Sally, revelled in Marcia Lowe's frequent calls, and managed to weave a tender story from all she heard. She knitted her endless rainbow scarfs and gave them to the mountain women who received them in stolid amazement and doted upon them in secret. Once Matilda did a very daring and tremendous thing. She wrote to Olive Treadwell and asked some pointed and vital questions about Lansing's wife!
Having sent the letter away impulsively, the poor little lady had a week of real torture. Daily she walked to the post-office, when no one was watching, and caused Tod Greeley much amusement by her nervous anxiety.
"Meaning no offence," he confided to Marcia Lowe, "and respecting her age and gray hairs, I reckon the old miss is in love. It comes late to some folks," he sighed pathetically, "and it comes right hard when it strikes past the time limit, but nothing but love takes it out of folks like what this old miss is suffering."
At last the answer came and Matilda read it with the door of her bedroom bolted and the washstand barricading it as well.
Olive Treadwell wrote:
I'm mighty glad to say something about this affair to some one who can understand me. Imagine my feelings when, out of the blue, as one might say, Lans brought this girl home and said, "I'm going to leave her with you, Aunt Olive, until I can see my way clear. I am brother to her and she is sister to me until—the way's made plain." That was all and then Lans betook himself to his old quarters and began to work. He's taken a position on theBoston Beaconand calls, actuallycalls, on his wife evenings or takes her and me out to theatres and dinners. I'm supposed to be training this young woman, for what, heaven only knows! but I have my hands full. Lans was always erratic and poetic, but this is beyond my comprehension, He has had affairs of the heart, of course, but this is different. The girl is the strangest creature I ever saw; she is uncanny. After I got her into proper clothing I saw she had beauty and charm of a certain kind. She takes to ways and expressions mighty quick, and she is the sweet appealing kind that attracts even while one disapproves. I confess I am utterly dumb-founded and if you can throw any light on this matter, pray do so. The girl seems to me to be half here and half somewhere else; she isn't unhappy, and she seems to adore Lans in a detached and pretty childish way, but why did he marry her and why should he, having married her, regard her in this platonic fashion?
Of course Matilda could not answer these questions but she cried over the letter a great deal and brooded over Sandy with all the motherhood that nature had not legitimately utilized. And then, one night, Sandy came to her quite simply and directly and claimed, in his great suffering need, what she alone had to give.
It was the week before Christmas. The cabin was gay and festive, for Marcia Lowe, in a lavishness of good cheer, had decorated everything she could command beginning with the little chapel and ending with the post-office. The County Club sat now 'neath an arbour of greens, and the lowliest cabin had its spray of pine or holly.
Martin and Levi were bent over a backgammon board in Sandy's study. Markham had undertaken to correct Morley's neglected education as to games; and Martin had, after the first week, so outstripped his instructor that Levi was put upon his mettle and every victory he wrenched now from Martin gave him a glow of pride he was not slow to exhibit. Seeing the two men engrossed, Sandy stole to Matilda Markham's little sitting-room and there found the dear lady asleep before the fire, her thin white hands sunk in a mass of beautiful wools. He stood and looked at the quiet, peaceful old face; he recalled, one by one, her kindnesses to him, her growing pride and love for him, and presently his eyes grew misty. The frail creature before him became touched by the magic of his gratitude and need, the most vital and mighty factor in his life. She, in this hour of his hidden craving, was the only one to whom he could turn, and right well he knew that she would stand by him.
Suddenly Matilda Markham opened her eyes and looked directly into Sandy's. It may have been that some dream had prepared her, God may have spoken to her in vision; however that may be she said gently:
"Son, you need me? Come, tell me all about it."
Quite naturally Sandy sat down at her feet and looked frankly into the dear, old face.
"I am going to ask you to do a great thing for me," he said; "I must ask you to do it without my explaining things to you to any extent—I want you to do it as a mother might for her son—trusting me if you can."
"Dear boy, I think I can promise to do what you ask."
Then the thin hands found their way to the bent head, and as they touched the thick, dark hair a thrill shot to the woman's very heart.
"Mother!" Sandy seemed inspired to meet her soul's longing. "Mother!"
"Son, go on. I am waiting."
"It—it is about the girl—Lansing Treadwell married."
"Yes."
"I must know how things are with her. Our mountain people can be so lonely and homesick away from the hills. At times nothing, nothing can take the place of the yearning. I—I can forget everything that has even been, if I know she is right happy and content—but I must know!"
A fierceness struck through the low-spoken words. "The doubt is—is killing me."
"Shall I go now, son, or wait until after the holidays?"
"Could you go now—and alone?"
"I can manage Levi, son. Travelling is real easy these days. It will take management, but I can get what I want."
"You would understand if you saw her."
Sandy's voice trailed off forgetful of the woman at whose knees he knelt.
"She can smile and make right merry, but you would know and understand. She is such a pretty, sweet thing, but she has the iron of the hills in her. She must"—again Sandy's voice shook with passion,—"she must have happiness! If—if the noise and confusion of the city have distracted her she must come back to the mountains. Lans will agree to this—I do not doubt him! She must not—kill herself—you will know when you see her. You must come back and tell me—you will?"
"I will, son."
Matilda yearned to show him Olive Treadwell's letter, but something kept her from doing it. She wanted to do what she could for Sandy in her own way, and suddenly she felt herself a giant of strength and purpose.
"Travel alone!" she said to Levi later when she had cowed the poor man by her determination and exactions, "of course I can travel alone. Am I an idiot, Levi, or a fool? Haven't I a good American tongue to ask questions with? I remember our mother once told us she would spank us well if we ever got lost in a place where folks talked the same language we did. You put me on the train at The Forge with a through seat in a Pullman, telegraph to Mary Jane to meet me in New York, and I guess I can manage."
"But, 'Tilda, what on earth has seized you to act so uncertain in the middle of this visit? What will they think of you and me?"
Then Matilda made her master stroke and, by virtue of her sex-privilege, completed her triumph over her brother.
"Levi," she said—she was standing before him, her thin hands on his shoulders—"I ain't ever had what you might call a real fling where my emotions and sentiments were concerned. Let go of me, just this once, and trust me! I've always been sort of held back. First it was father and mother; then Caroline, and lastly you! I ain't never done exactly what I wanted to do without explaining, and now I want to be left free even if I die for it!"
"Well, well!" blurted Levi, but he caught the idea. "I guess women do have a sense of the tight rein now and then; it may lie loose mostly, but it never is quite laid off. 'Tilda, you may cut and run now, for all of me. I'll see to what, you may say, are your animal comforts—parlour car seats, tickets, and some one waiting for you in town, but you kick the heels of your inclinations good and high for once and I bet you and me will run the rest of the race together better, forever after. Whoop it up, 'Tilda, and remember money needn't be a hold back. You've got a big, fat slice coming to you, old girl."
Now that Levi had dropped the reins, the spirit of adventure possessed him. He and Sandy saw Matilda off on her journey three days later, in high spirits.
"I tell you, boy," he confided on the way back to the cabin, "it's a mighty good sign when a woman wants to jump the traces, and a good man isn't going to lick her into submission for doing it. The chances are a woman wouldn't take to kicking if the traces didn't chafe. I've meant to be kind to Matilda, but kindness can be chafing at times. A woman like Matilda, a little, self-sacrificing woman, is real enlightening if you pay attention."
Matilda seemed to develop and expand during that trip North. She ordered her meals with an abandon that electrified the waiters on the train, and then her sense of economy demanded that she should eat what she had ordered. Her tips were dazzling and erratic, but they, and her quaint personality, won for her great comfort and care. She was in better condition, physically, than she had been for many a day when, one golden winter afternoon, she stood in Olive Treadwell's drawing-room in Boston and waited for Cynthia. Mrs. Treadwell was out, but the "young lady," the maid said, was in.
"How very fortunate," thought Matilda and then took her rigid stand across the room. Unconsciously she was waiting to see what Lansing Treadwell had done to this girl of the hills whom he had so ruthlessly and breath-takingly borne away. Lans was, unknowingly, before the most awful bar of judgment he had ever stood—the bar of pure womanhood!
There was a step upon the stairs; a quick, yet faltering step, and then Cynthia entered the room and came toward Matilda Markham with deep, questioning eyes and slow smile. The impression the girl made was to last the rest of Matilda's life. Once, years before, Matilda had seen a rare and lovely butterfly caught in the meshes of a net, and, oddly enough, the memory came to her now as she looked at the sweet, starry-eyed creature advancing. She was as surely caught in an invisible net of some kind as the long-ago butterfly had been. Matilda Markham noted the conventional gown of dull blue with silver trimming; the little slippers to match, and the silken stockings; her eyes rested upon the string of small silver beads wound around the slim throat; all, all were but part of the mesh that caught and held the spirit that had ceased to struggle.
How lovely she was, this Cynthia of Lost Hollow, in spite of the crude conventions! The frank, waiting eyes were as gray-blue as her mountain skies; the lips, half-parted, had not forgotten to smile above the hurt and pain of her tiring days and homesick nights; the smooth braids of shining hair bound the lifted head just as dear Madam Bubble had designed them on the morning when the portrait of "The Biggest of Them All" was hung in the Significant Room.
"You—wanted to see—me?"
The drawl had become sacred to Matilda's ears.
"Yes, my child. I have come from your old home just to see—you."
A faint colour stole into the whiteness of the fair face.
"From Lost Mountain?" Oh! if Sandy could have heard her say that word how it would have rested his soul! "From Lost Mountain?"
"Yes, my dear. Come and sit here beside me."
Matilda could not stand longer. Her knees shook beneath her for, like a blinding light, the knowledge came to her that poor Lans, with all his faults, was exonerated from any wrong to this young girl! The innocent old eyes and the radiant young ones had no veil between them. Sitting side by side they smiled bravely at each other and then Cynthia reached out her hands.
"You are"—she whispered—"you are Sandy Morley's fairy godmother! Oh! I know all about you. Lans has told me. I am right glad—oh! mighty glad to see you!"
The voice shook with emotion and Matilda Markham could not answer for a moment. Never in her life had she been so moved. She longed to take this girl to her heart and hold her there, but instead she found herself, presently, telling the homely news of the hills to the hungry soul whose yearning eyes never fell from her face.
"And the little doctor is my own aunt, you know?"
"Yes, child. They told me all about it."
"It's right good to have one's own—at last;" this was plaintively whispered; "and my dear, dear father. You know his story, too?"
"Yes. It lives in the hills and speaks for him even to-day."
"They-all say I'm like my father."
"I am sure you must be. You are like Miss Lowe, and I guess one can always tell which parent a boy or girl is like. I guess Sandy, now, is like his mother. He doesn't favour his father."
"Yes. I reckon Sandy must be like his mother. I had never thought of that before."
Cynthia's eyes were fixed and dreamy.
"And you, child, are you happy and content?"—the words of Sandy were the only ones possible—"I must tell them all about you when I go back."
"You are—going back?" the yearning was unmistakable—"I thought, maybe, you were going to stay here—I'd be mighty glad to have you near."
"I'm coming home, to my own home a little later. I'll see you often then."
Slowly they were advancing and retreating, this woman and girl, but each venture brought them a little nearer. Like the incoming waters of a rising tide a slight gain was made, moment by moment. Then suddenly and unexpectedly a rushing current bore them to the high mark.
"You poor, homesick child! Come cry it out and have done with it!"
It was not like Matilda Markham to so assert herself; it was not like the dear, brave Madam Bubble to succumb as she now did; but, in another instant she was kneeling where Sandy had knelt a few nights before, and clinging to the dear hands which had, then, rested upon his bowed head.
The wall of suppression that Cynthia had raised, during the past weeks, between her mountain life and this artificial one of the city, crumbled at the message from the hills. Her part in the strange drama sank to insignificance, and in her weakness she was able to view it clearly and dispassionately with this plain little woman who had come to serve her.
"I did not understand," she sobbed; "I was tired—there had been the night in the storm, you know. I did not want to make trouble and—oh! how can I tell you, but it was only when the little doctor—my aunt—explained everything that I saw myself standing alone in the confusion with something I must say and do! I couldn't let them do my work for me, dear lady,"—the quaint expression caused Matilda Markham to draw in her breath sharply—"I was no longer a child and I had to bear my part. When we-all stood in Sandy's cabin and the truth came to us-all, at once, I reckon for the first time in my life, I realized I was a woman. I couldn't take my chance and leave Lans out. They-all wanted to save me from myself, but they forgot him and then when he said"—the girl gasped—"that he wanted me—I had to go! I did not go because any one compelled me—I just had to go! I was led like when I married Lans. More and more I see it now; I feel it in the night. It did nothappen, dear lady; it all leads up to something God wants me to do; something no one can do as well as I. Sandy had his call—you know how he responded? Well, I have my leading. We-all, of the hills, get near God, dear lady. We are lonelier; we need Him more and He speaks more plainly to us, I reckon."
The superstition and mysticism of Lost Hollow held every thought and fancy of this girl, but Matilda Markham realized that they gave her strength and purpose as they had poor Sandy before her.
"Oh! my dear, my dear!" was all she could say, but she freed one of her cool hands from Cynthia's hot one, and laid it like a benediction on the girlish head.
"I am waiting, dear lady, for the thing I am to do, and Lans is mighty kind. He is my big brother and I am his little sister—until I can read my way plain. You did not know he was so good?"
"I thank God that he is!" breathed Matilda Markham devoutly.
"I wish I could make—Mrs. Treadwell understand. She—laughs!"
Matilda felt her ire rise. The laugh of Olive Treadwell could be brutal and cruel in its sweetest ripple!
"It seems right long and wearying waiting, waiting for the meaning."
Cynthia's slow words flowed on. She had ceased crying and was looking up now with brave, clear eyes, "and part of me is there—in Lost Hollow. That part of me comes to comfortthispart of me—can you understand, dear lady?"
Matilda nodded. She did, indeed, understand.
"And that part of me makes this part of me—stay here! After that mighty hurry and trouble when Lans and I came away alone I was right frightened. There was just once—while we stayed a few hours in New York that I—that something happened. I was in a room, Lans had gone out to order luncheon and I felt I had to run away! I stood with my back against the wall when he came in and I reckon I was wild, for he came close and took my hands this-er-way——" Cynthia was acting the vivid scene standing now before Matilda Markham and holding her hands—"and he said slow and firm, 'lil' girl, I'm not going to hurt you. You and Sandy Morley are not going to see me fail!' And then that part of me that lives always in Lost Hollow went back mighty safe and strong. I haven't been afraid, dear lady, since."
Then it was that Miss Markham arose and realized her strength to its full extent.
"Child," she said, "I've changed my mind about going back to Lost Hollow to-morrow. I'm going to Bretherton and that is only a half hour by rail from here. I want you to come to me, there. I must see you again. I'll explain to Mrs. Treadwell and Lans. I declare I haven't felt so like my old self for years and years."
"Oh! dear lady!" Cynthia's shining eyes were large and happy; "dear lady! you mean you will let me see you in your own home?"
"I mean—just that."
"Oh! Oh! why sometimes I think that soon God will say, 'lil' girl, your task is done. Run back home now! Run back to your hills.' Maybe I can go back with you!"
A gayety rang in the sweet voice that almost reduced Matilda to tears. The abandon and inconsequence were so oddly mingled with the strange determined strength that the elderly woman was confused and irrational.
The wayward, wild creature of the hills, ensnared in the net woven by Lans's blind passion and irresponsibility, seemed so incapable of fulfilling any role that demanded the recognition of her as a wife in this superficial environment that Matilda felt immoral and sacrilegious. She wanted to say, instead of leaving it to a higher power, "Your task is done, lil' girl! Run back to your hills!" but instead she said brokenly:
"You will come to Bretherton?"
"Indeed, yes; dear lady!"
"Perhaps you will go out with me to-morrow if I stay over night in town?"
"If—oh! if they will let me. But you see, there are a mighty lot of things to do—I'm learning!"
"Good-bye then, dear child."
And that night, on the paper of a quiet little hotel, Matilda wrote a brief note to Lost Hollow. She addressed it to Levi.