"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 with things and 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 liberty we think 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."



CHAPTER XXI

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.



CHAPTER XXII

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 he could be 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, only women marry!"

"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.



CHAPTER XXIII

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.



CHAPTER XXIV

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 became hers after 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 seance 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. Why I 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.



CHAPTER XXV

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!