Produced by Al Haines
[Frontispiece: "Cautiously Cynthia stepped close
and looked in . . . Sandy was painting at his easel"]
A SON OF THE HILLS
BY
HARRIET T. COMSTOCK
AUTHOR OF
JOYCE OF THE NORTH WOODS,
JANET OF THE DUNES, ETC.
GROSSET & DUNLAP
PUBLISHERS : NEW YORK
Copyright, 1913, by
DOUBLEDAY, PAGE & COMPANY
_All rights reserved, including that of
translation into foreign languages,
including the Scandinavian_
A Son of the Hills
CHAPTER I
Lost Hollow lies close at the foot of the mountain which gives it its
name. The height of neither is great, geographically considered; the
peak is perhaps eighteen hundred feet above sea level: The Hollow, a
thousand, and from that down to The Forge there is a gradual descent by
several trails and one road, a very deplorable one, known as The
Appointed Way, but abbreviated into--The Way.
There are a few wretched cabins in Lost Hollow, detached and dreary;
between The Hollow and The Forge are some farms showing more or less
cultivation, and there is the Walden Place, known before the war--they
still speak of that event among the southern hills as if Sheridan had
ridden through in the morning and might be expected back at night--as
the Great House.
Among the crevasses of the mountains there are Blind Tigers, or Speak
Easies--as the stills are called--and, although there is little trading
done with the whiskey outside the country side, there is much mischief
achieved among the natives who have no pleasure of relaxation except
such as is evolved from the delirium brought about by intoxication.
The time of this story is not to-day nor is it very many yesterdays
ago; it was just before young Sandy Morley had his final "call" and
obeyed it; just after the Cup-of-Cold-Water Lady came to Trouble
Neck--three miles from The Hollow--and while she was still distrusted
and feared.
Away back in the days of the Revolution the people of the hills were of
the best. All of them who could serve their country then, did it nobly
and well. Some of them signed the Declaration of Independence and then
returned to their homes with the dignity and courage of men in whose
veins flowed aristocratic blood as well as that of adventurous freemen.
There they waited for the recognition they expected and deserved. But
the new-born republic was too busy and breathless to seek them out or
pause to listen to their voices, which were softer, less insistent than
others nearer by. In those far past times the Morleys and the
Hertfords were equals and the Walden Place deserved its name of the
Great House. The Appointed Way was the Big Road, and was kept in good
order by well-fed and contented slaves who had not then dreamed of
freedom.
The final acceptance of the hill people's fate came like a deadening
shock to the men and women of the Lost Mountain district--they were
forgotten in the new dispensation; in the readjustment they were
overlooked! The Hertfords left the hills with uplifted and indignant
heads--they had the courage of their convictions and meant to take what
little was left to them and demand recognition elsewhere--they had
always been rovers. Besides, just at that time Lansing Hertford and
Sandford Morley, sworn friends and close comrades, had had that secret
misunderstanding that was only whispered about then, and it made it
easier for Hertford to turn his back upon his home lands and leave them
to the gradual decay to which they were already doomed. The Waldens
had retained enough of this world's goods to enable them to descend the
social scale slower than their neighbours. Inch by inch they debated
the ground, and it was only after the Civil War that Fate gripped them
noticeably. Up to that time they had been able to hide, from the none
too discriminating natives, the true state of affairs.
The Morleys and the Tabers, the Townleys and the Moores, once they
recognized the true significance of what had happened, made no
struggle; uttered no defiance. They slunk farther back into the hills;
they shrank from observation and depended more and more upon
themselves. They intermarried and reaped the results with sullen
indifference. Their hopes and longings sank into voiceless silence.
Now and then Inheritance, in one form or another, flared forth, but
before it could form itself into expression it was stilled and
forbidden, by circumstances, to assert itself.
Sad, depressed Lost Hollow! Over it loomed darkly the mountain whose
peak was so often shrouded in clouds. The people loved the hills and
the shadows; they glided like wan ghosts up and down The Way or took to
the more sheltered trails. When they were sober they were gentle,
harmless folk, but when whiskey overpowered them the men became dully
brutal, the women wretchedly slavish, and the children what one might
expect such sad little creatures to become! Lacking in intellect,
misshapen and timid, they rustled among the underbrush like frightened
animals; peered forth like uncanny gnomes, and ate and slept how and as
they could.
After the Civil War these people became "poor whites" and were ground
between the nether millstone of their more prosperous neighbours and
that of the blacks, until they sank to the lowest level. Their voices
were hushed and forgotten; their former estate blotted out in their
present degradation, and just then Sandy Morley and Cynthia Walden were
born and some high and just God seemed to strengthen their childish
voices; vouchsafe to them a vision and give their Inheritance charge
over them.
Marriage form was not largely in vogue among the Lost Hollow people; it
was too expensive and unnecessary. The rector of the small church at
The Forge looked upon the hill people as altogether beyond and below
the need of any attention of his, and was genuinely surprised and
annoyed when one of them called upon him for service. He had not come
to The Forge from an ardour to save souls; he had been placed there
because he had not been wanted elsewhere, and he was rebellious and
bitter. Occasionally he was summoned to the mountain fastnesses for a
burial or wedding, but he showed his disapproval of such interferences
with his dignified rights, and was not imposed upon often. But Martin
Morley, Sandy's father, had married Sandy's mother. She was a Forge
girl who believed in Martin and loved him, so he took her boldly to the
parsonage, paid for the service the rector performed, and went his way.
There was one happy year following in the Morley cabin under Lost
Mountain. Martin worked as he never had before; the hut was mended
without and made homelike within. The little wife sang at her tasks
and inspired Martin to a degree of fervour that brought him to the
conclusion that he must get away! Get away from the poverty and
squalor of The Hollow; get away farther than The Forge--far, far away!
"After the baby comes!" the little wife whispered, "we'll take it to a
better, sunnier place and--give it a chance!"
The baby came on a bad, stormy night. Sandford Morley they called him.
The Forge doctor, travelling up The Way, stopped at the Morley cabin
for a bite of supper and found how things were. Sally Taber was in
command, and Martin, frightened and awed, crouched by the chimney
corner in the living-room, while his girl-wife (she was much younger
than he) made her desperate fight.
"There's only a broken head or two up at Teale's Blind Tiger," the
doctor said grimly; "they can wait, I reckon, while I steer this
youngster into port." The doctor had come from the coast on account of
his lungs and his speech still held the flavour of the sea.
Sandy Morley made a difficult mooring with more vigour and
determination than one would have expected, but the cost was great.
All night the battle waged. The doctor, with coat off and haggard
face, fought with the little mother inch by inch, but at sunrise, just
two hours after Sandy lustily announced his arrival, she let go the
hand of her husband who knelt by her hard, narrow bed, and whispered in
the dialect of her hills, "Youcum!"--which meant that Morley must come
to her some where, some how, some time, for she no longer could bide
with him.
After that Martin stayed on in the cabin with the baby. One woman
after another lent her aid in an hour of need, but on the whole Sandy
and his father made it out together as best they could. The little,
clinging fingers held Martin back for a time--the boy had his mother's
fine, clear eyes and when he looked at Martin something commanded the
man to stand firm. In those days Martin found comfort in religion and
became a power at the camp meetings; his prayers were renowned far and
near, but the evil clutched him in an unguarded hour and one bleak,
dreary springtime he met the Woman Mary and--let go! That was when
Sandy was seven. He brought Mary to the cabin and almost shamefacedly
explained, to the wondering boy, his act.
"Son, she's come to take care of us--mind your ways, lad."
Sandy gave Mary's handsome smiling face one quick look, then fled down
the hill, across the bottom pasture and Branch, up on the farther side
to the woods--his sanctury and haven, and there, lifting his eyes and
little clenched fists, he moaned over and over:
"Curse her! curse her! I hate her!"
He had never hated before; never cursed, but at that moment he cursed
that which he hated.
It was early spring then, and under the tall, dark trees the dogwood
bushes were in full bloom. Sandy was touched, always, by beauty, and
in his excited state he thought in that desperate hour that the dogwood
blossoms were like stars under a stormy cloud. Heaven seemed reaching
down to him, and closing him in--his thoughts were tinged by Martin's
religious outbursts and the native superstition of the hills. It was
then and there that the child first knew he must go away! The call was
distinct and compelling--he must go away! And from that hour he made
preparation. At first the effort was small and pitiful. He began to
gather whatever Nature provided freely, and turn it into money. With
shrewd perception he realized he must overcome his deadly shyness and
carry his wares farther than The Hollow if he wished to achieve that
upon which he was bent. The Hollow people were poor; The Forge people
would give food and clothing for berries and sassafras roots; but Sandy
demanded money or that which could be exchanged for money, and so he
travelled far with his basket of fragrant berries or shining nuts and
in time he found himself at the Waldens' back door facing a tall black
woman, in turban and kerchief, with the child Cynthia beside her.
"Do you-all want to buy eight quarts of wild strawberries?" he asked in
that low fine voice of his.
"Buy?" demanded Lily Ivy scornfully. "Miss Cyn, honey, go fotch Miss
Ann and tell her one ob dem Morleys is here axing us-all to buy his
berries, and him in shreds and tatters!"
Presently Cynthia returned with her aunt. Miss Walden was then sixty,
but she looked seventy-five at least; she was a stern, detached woman
who dealt with things individually and as she could--she never sought
to comprehend that which was not writ large and clear. She was not a
dull nor an ignorant woman, but she had been carried on the sluggish
current of life with small effort or resistance. She did her task and
made no demands.
"So you're Morley's boy?" she asked curiously; she had still the
interest of the great lady for her dependents. The Morleys had become
long since "poor whites," but Ann Walden knew their traditions. The
family had slunk into hiding ever since Martin had taken the Woman Mary
into his cabin, and Miss Walden was surprised and aroused to find one
of them coming to the surface at her back door with so unusual a
request as Cynthia had repeated.
"Yes, ma'am;" Sandy replied, his strange eyes fixed upon the calm old
face.
"And what do you want?"
"I want to sell eight quarts of strawberries, ma'am. They are five
cents a quart; that's what they are giving down to The Forge."
"Then why don't you take them to The Forge?"
"The heat, ma'am, will wilt them. They are right fresh now--I thought
I'd give you-all the first chance."
"And you want money for the berries--and you in rags and starved, I
warrant?"
"Yes, ma'am."
Ann Walden grew more interested.
"Would you--take eggs for them?" she asked; "eggs are bringing twenty
cents a dozen now."
"Yes, ma'am."
"How do I know you are honest? How do I know the basket isn't stuffed
with leaves in the bottom? What's your name?"
"Sandy, ma'am. And please, ma'am, you can measure the berries."
"Ivy, bring the quart measure, and the earthen bowl."
When the implements were brought, Miss Walden took things in her own
hands, while Ivy, with the disdain of the old family black servant for
the poor white, stood by like an avenging Fate. The child Cynthia was
all a-tremble. She was young, lovely, and vital. Youth took up arms
for youth, and watched the outcome with jealous and anxious eyes.
"One, two, three----" the rich, fragrant fruit fell into the bowl with
luscious, soft thuds; the red juice oozed out like fresh blood.
"Five, six, seven--eight, and----"
"A lot left over, Aunt Ann, counting dents in the measure and all."
It was Cynthia who spoke, and her big, gray eyes were dancing in
triumph.
"More'n eight quarts, Aunt Ann."
"Umph!" ejaculated Ivy.
"Give the boy two dozen eggs and three over," commanded Miss Walden.
"Take them to Tod Greeley at the post office and tell him they are
Walden eggs."
After Sandy had departed Ivy aired her views.
"I reckon we-all better make jam of dem berries right soon. I clar I
allers 'spect to find a yaller streak in dem Morleys."
Cynthia was leaning against the kitchen table, her eyes shining and her
breath coming a bit quickly.
"Perhaps," she said, with the slow smile which curled the corners of
her mouth so deliciously, "perhaps the yellow streak in Sandy Morley
is--gold!"
That was the beginning of Sandy's first great inspiration. Again and
again he went to the Walden place with his wares and exchanged them for
things that could be readily turned into money. Then Cynthia, from out
her own generous loveliness, offered to pass over the instruction Ann
Walden imparted to her, to the boy; he had before that told her of his
ambition and determination to go away, and her vivid imagination was
stirred.
"It's not only money," Cynthia had astutely warned him--"not only money
you must have, Sandy, but learning; no one can take that away from you!"
With a fine air of the benefactress, Cynthia Walden took Sandy Morley's
dense ignorance in charge. It was quite in keeping with the girl's
idea of things as they ought to be, that she should thus illumine and
guide the boy's path.
She was charmingly firm but delightfully playful. She was a hard
mistress but a lovely child, and the youth that was starving in her met
Sandy on a level, untouched by conventions or traditions. Presently a
palpitating sense of power and possession came to her. The creature
who was at first but the recipient of her charity and nobility
displayed traits that compelled respect and admiration. Sandy easily
outstripped her after a time. His questions put her on her mettle. He
never overstepped the bounds that she in her pretty childish fancy set,
but he reached across them with pleading adoration and hungry mind. He
seemed to urge her to get for him what he could not get for himself.
And so, with the freedom of knowledge, Sandy, still keeping to his
place, began to assume proportions and importance quite thrilling.
Then it was that Cynthia Walden, with keenness and foresight, made her
claims upon the boy.
With a pretty show of condescending kindness she clutched him to her
with invisible ties. For _her_ he must do thus and so! He must become
a great--oh! a very great--man and give her all the credit! If he went
away--_when_ he went away--he must never, never, never forget her or
what she had done for him! In short, he must be her abject slave and
pay homage to her all the days of his life!
Sandy was quite willing to comply with all these demands; they were
made in a spirit so sweet and winsome, and they were so obviously
simple and just, that he rose to the call with grateful response, but
with that strange something in reserve that Cynthia could not then
understand or classify. It was as though Sandy had said to her: "Your
slave? Yes, but no fetters or chains, thank you!"
Soon after Mary came to live in the Morley cabin Sandy was relegated to
an old outhouse for sleeping quarters. The child had been horribly
frightened at first, but, as the quarrels and disturbances grew in
power between Martin and the woman, he was grateful for the quiet and
detachment of his bed-chamber. A child was born to Mary and Martin
during the year following the change in the family, but Sandy looked
upon his half-sister with little interest. That the boy was not driven
entirely from the home place was due to the fact that through him came
the only money available. Martin exchanged his spasmodic labour for
clothing or food, but Sandy brought cash. Mary thought he gave her
all, and because of that he was tolerated.
Sandy did not, however, give the woman all, or even half, of what he
earned. He gave her one third; the rest was placed in a tin box and
hidden under a rock in the woods beyond the Branch. The boy never
counted the money, he could not put himself to that test of
discouragement or elation. The time was not yet, and it was
significant of him that he plodded along, doing the best that was in
him, until the call came; the last final call to leave all and go forth.
Once, during the years between seven and fourteen, Sandy had had an
awakening and a warning. Then it was that his half-sister, Molly,
became a distinct and potent factor in his life; one with which he must
reckon. Going to the rock on a certain evening to bury his share of
the day's profit he wearily raised the stone, deposited the money and
turned to go home, when he encountered Molly peering at him with elfish
and menacing eyes from behind a bush.
"What you doing there, yo' Sandy?" she asked half coaxingly, half
threateningly.
"Nothing."
"I seen you--a-hiding something. I'm going to look!" She made a
movement forward.
"Hyar! you Molly!" Sandy clung to her. "If you raise that stone 'twill
be the last of you. I've got a horned toad there and--a poison
sarpint."
"Then I'll--I'll tell Dad." Molly shrank back, though not wholly
convinced. It was time for compromise, and Sandy, with a sickening
fear, recognized it and blindly fell upon the one thing that could have
swayed the girl.
"I'm a-training and taming them," he lied desperately, "and when they
are ready we-all can make money out of them, but if you tell--Dad will
kill 'em! I tell you, Molly, if you don't say a single thing
I'll--I'll give you a cent every week. A cent to buy candy with!"
The promise was given, and from that day Sandy paid his blood money,
hoping that greed would hold the child to her bargain, but with always
a feeling of insecurity. He changed his box to another rock, but a
certain uncanniness about Molly gained a power over him and he never
felt safe.
Things went rapidly from bad to worse in the Morley cabin. Martin
forgot his prayers and ambitions; he grew subservient to Mary and never
strove against her, even when her wrath and temper were directed toward
him and Sandy. Discredited and disliked by his neighbours, flouted by
the woman who had used him for her own gain, the man became a
detestable and pitiable creature. Sandy endured the blows and ratings
that became his portion, in the family disturbances, with proud
silence. He was making ready and until the hour of his departure came
he must bear his part.
It was during the probation and preparatory period that Marcia Lowe,
the Cup-of-Cold-Water Lady, came up The Way one golden afternoon and
stopped her horse before the post office, General Store and County Club
of The Hollow, and, leaning out from the ramshackle buggy, gave a
rather high, nasal call to whoever might be within.