The warm sun of September brought a faint tinge to Sandy's hollow
cheeks. After Matilda's "There!" the boy had leaned his head back on
the pillow of his couch and closed his eyes. Bob, sleek and
well-conditioned, lay at his feet, starting now and then as he dreamed
of other days rich in kicks and blows, and lean as to platters of
nourishing food.
"Sleeping?" asked Levi, coming on the porch with the mail and
whispering to his sister.
"I shouldn't wonder."
"He looks----" But Matilda shook her head at Levi and cut the words
short. To express an opinion about Sandy's appearance at that moment
would not do--it were best passed over lightly. Levi took a chair,
drew it up close to his sister, and left Sandy and Bob free to compare,
in dreams, the Then and Now of Life.
"It was no use," Markham whispered. "I might just as well have let the
letter go that day he"--Levi nodded toward Sandy--"made his entrance on
the scene. They won't accept my terms. I wish now I had let them know
how I felt when my blood was up."
"Life's too short for that, brother. Up or down, blood hampers when
it's hot. Common sense is always best. What does the letter say?"
"The Treadwell woman won't lose her hold on Lansing: not even for four
years!"
Matilda's eyes dropped and she kept silent.
"She's about ruined him," Levi went on. "I put it to her plain and
solemn, but she always slips through argument like a greased snake.
Said I--let me have his next four years. I'll put him through college,
give him work in the mills during the summer, and when he graduates
I'll give him a choice of taking over the business or following a
profession. The knowledge of business and some honest, hard work would
bring the scamp's tone up. He's flabby now; flabby as his father
before him."
"And she--says?"
Levi turned to the letter.
"She says she will not consider the plan for a moment, but she says she
will not mention it to Lansing, and when I return he may choose for
himself. I really thought the Treadwell woman would reckon with the
money and not be so independent!"
"It's to her credit," Matilda murmured.
"Oh! doubtless she thinks when I have it out with the boy I'll change
my mind. She'll find the contrary. It's come to the last ditch now.
I'm not going to have any repetition of--the past with my money backing
it!"
Again a long silence while Sandy apparently slept, and Bob twitched and
grunted. Then:
"Matilda, we must return to Massachusetts. How soon can we go?"
Suddenly Sandy started up and leaned forward. His eyes were the one
prominent feature in his face, and they were now hungry and anxious.
"Massachusetts?" he whispered in the weak, hoarse voice of the
convalescent; "Massachusetts? That's where I'm going; there's money to
pay my way, almost, I reckon. I'll work out the rest and make my
schooling, too. I'll promise. Oh! take me with you!"
The agony of earnestness brought both man and woman to his side.
"Now, now!" commanded Matilda, pushing him back on the pillow; "nothing
is ever gained by using yourself up in this shallow fashion."
"But I've got to go!" Sandy urged breathlessly; "I started out to go.
I saved ever since I was seven years old to get away--and at last I
fixed on--Massachusetts because they let you work for your learning
there--and I've got to get it--get learning!"
"Come! come!" Levi asserted himself--"just you calm down. But if it
will ease your mind any I'll tell you this much, lad. We've got it all
fixed up amongst us--and if you want to go to Massachusetts and try
your hand at your luck, you're going to be given an opportunity. Now,
let go that grip on the arms of your chair! Matilda, get some broth;
get----"
But he stopped short. The look in Sandy's eyes held him. Levi Markham
often said afterward that the expression on the boy's face at that
moment gave him a "turn." It was no boy-look; it was the command from
all that had gone to the making of Sandy; command that the boy be dealt
fairly with at last.
"I'm a hard man, Matilda," Markham said later, when Sandy had let go
the grip of his chair, taken his broth and fallen exhaustedly to sleep;
"I'm a hard man who has hewn his own way up, but I hope I'm a just man,
and I declare before God I wouldn't dare play unfairly with the lad.
He's not the first fellow I've put upon his feet; some have toppled
over; some have gone ahead of me and given me the cold shoulder
afterward--a few have stood by me in the mills--this youngster shall
have a try to prove that look on his face."
So it was that ten days later the Markhams, with their "po' white
trash," left The Forge--Bob rebelliously struggling in the baggage car.
A certain piece of land high up among the hills had been purchased by
Markham and the deed rested secure in his pocket. He knew what he was
about, and if a certain fool of a boy thought well of a proposition to
be made to him--there might be a future for himself and others later on.
"It's a great factory site," Markham had written home to his lawyer;
"plenty of water and power. Land as rich as if it was just made, and
labour aching to be utilized--not exploited."
The journey to Massachusetts was taken in slow stages--Sandy and Bob
complicated matters.
"You--think, sir, my money will--hold out?" Sandy once asked wearily.
"I've been estimating," Levi thoughtfully returned; "barring accidents,
taking to cheap hotels and allowing for a few weeks' rest after we
reach home, the amount will about see you through."
"Thank you, sir."
They were talking in Sandy's bedroom in a very good hotel in New York
at that moment.
"You look pretty spruce to-day, young man."
"I'm feeling right smart, sir. Could--could I, do you think,
write--two notes?"
This was such an unusual request that Markham was curious.
"That's easy," he said; "there's writing things in yonder desk. I'll
read the paper while you transact business."
Sandy was strangely sensitive to tones and expressions and now he
turned to Markham.
"I want--my father to know I'm all right, sir," he said quietly. "If
he knows that--he can wait till--I go back."
Suddenly the long stretches on beyond staggered Sandy and his thin face
quivered.
"Then--there is----" Somehow an explanation seemed imperative to this
man who was making life possible for him. There had never been any
intimacy before, but something compelled it now; "a--a girl, sir. She
helped me--earn money. She's--different from me--she's--quality, but
she'd like to know, too."
Levi shifted his newspaper so that it walled Sandy's grim face from
view.
"What's to hinder you making quality of yourself?" he asked. He was a
man that liked his beneficiaries to succeed, and while Sandy interested
him, in spite of himself, he disliked the boy's humility. There was
something final and foreordained about it, and unless it were
discouraged it might prevent what Markham was beginning to very much
desire.
"Quality, sir, is not made. It--is!"
Levi grunted, and Bob, paying a visit to the room on sufferance,
snarled resentfully.
"You cut that out, boy!" Markham snapped; "in Yankeeland it doesn't go.
Massachusetts gives a good many things besides an education for good
honest work: it gives opportunity for the man to grow in every human
soul. We don't apologize for ourselves by digging up our ancestors--we
only exhume them to back us up. By the time you go home you can stand
up to the best of them in your hills--if it's in you to stand. It all
lies with you. Now write your letters and leave all foolishness out.
Afterward I have a plan to propose."
So Sandy painfully scratched his two notes off and sealed and addressed
them. Then he waited for Markham's further notice.
The day was cool and fine, but the heated air of the room made an open
window necessary. By that Sandy sat and looked out upon the big,
seething city of which he was so horribly afraid. It smothered and
crowded him; its noises and smells sickened him. The few excursions he
had made with his projectors had left him pale and panting. He made no
complaints--he realized that he was on the wheel, and must cling how
and as he might, but he shrank mentally at every proposition that he
should leave his room. The crowds of people appalled him and he
yearned for the open and the sight of a hill. He dreamed vividly of
Lost Mountain, and he always saw it now enveloped in mist--a mist that
he felt confident would never again lift for him. It was homesickness
in the wide, spiritual sense that overpowered Sandy Morley at that time.
"Sandford, are you strong enough to talk business?"
"Yes, sir, I reckon I am."
The quaint politeness of his protégé charmed Markham by its contrasts
to the manner of other boys with whom he had come into contact.
"Sit down, and take it easy. Shut the window. You never seem to be
able to hear when the sash is raised."
"Us-all's been used, sir, to still places."
"Now, then! In a day or two we will be home, Sandford. Home in
Bretherton, Mass. We can't offer you mountains there, but it is a good
rolling country and it's--quiet! I'm going to choose a school for you
as soon as I can, a country school where you can catch up without
having the life nagged out of you."
"And--and where am I to work and--live, sir?"
"You'll find work enough at the school for the regular terms--summers
you are going to stop with Miss Markham and me and I'll set you to work
in my mills. I always set every one I take an interest in, to work in
my mills."
"Yes, sir." Sandy's eyes were growing "strange" again. Markham was
learning to watch for that look.
"What's the matter?" he asked on the defensive; "what you thinking
about?"
"Only Smith Crothers' factory, sir, and--and the children."
"See here, Sandford; don't you get me mixed with that----" he stopped
short. At times his ability to converse with Sandy struck even him
with wonder. It was when he forgot the poor figure before him, and was
held by the expression in the thin face, that he let himself go.
"My mills," he continued more calmly, "are places of preparation;
not--death traps."
"Yes, sir."
"It all depends on you, Sandford. I made my way up from as poor a chap
as you are. I've given a lift to a good many other boys because of the
boy I once was, but I never take any nonsense. I'm going to be fair
with you and I expect you to be fair with me. Take things or leave
them--only speak out what's in your mind and act clean. What I do for
you isn't done for fun: I expect a return for everything I advance, and
I take my own way to get it. While you are at school--it's school
returns I want. When you go into the mills--I'll look for returns of a
different kind. I'm going to give you an allowance, and it's got to
do."
"Sir?"
"Oh!--I mean I'm going, after I get you on your feet, to put up a
certain sum of money for you to live on; buy your clothes and get what
amusement you can--along your own lines. I'm not going to pry or
question you. You've got to feel your way along--it's always my
method. They who stumble or run astray must learn their own
lesson--not mine! I'll steady you at the start; after that you've got
to learn to walk alone or go to----"
"Yes, sir!" The awful weight of responsibility was crushing Sandy as
the city did--but he kept clear eyes on Markham.
"The only fun I have in life," Levi said, "is watching the outcome of
my investments. You are an investment, Sandford, a flier--I call you!
You're a risk and a pick-up, but some of my biggest hauls came from
fishing where others scorned to take a chance.
"Yes, sir."
"You are willing to--agree?"
"Oh! yes, sir."
"Sounds like a big chance?"
"I reckon it does, sir, but it's what I saved money for ever since I
was seven. The _chance_, I mean, sir."
"Sandford, when you feel that you can--not now, but some day--I want
you to tell me all about yourself."
"Yes, sir." But the thin face twitched.
"And now come down to dinner."
For a few days more the crushing city did its worst for Sandy. The
noise and confusion wore upon him cruelly. The memory of the faces of
the crowds was to be a nightmare to him for years to come. To one who
had dwelt where few crossed his path, the close proximity of hundreds
and hundreds of eyes during the day left an impression never to be
forgotten. The personal contact, too, drained the small, lately gained
strength, but no complaint passed the boy's lips. Matilda pitied Sandy
and in her quiet, slow thoughtfulness shielded him how and as she
could. Markham had business in the city and was often absorbed, but at
odd moments he relaxed and sought to entertain his sister and their
charge by showing them the sights of the town. It would have been
impossible for him to appreciate the suffering he often, unconsciously,
caused Sandy, who, left to himself, would have crouched in some quiet
corner and closed his eyes against every unfamiliar thing.
Quite weakened by the experiences of the stay in New York, the boy
reached at last the lovely little New England village of Bretherton at
the close of a radiant autumn day. He was too weary to feel even
gratitude as the carriage that awaited the party bore him away from the
noise and smell of the station by the railroad. His untried senses had
been taxed to the uttermost since leaving The Forge. His eyes ached;
his ears throbbed. Every new odour was an added torture, and his body
quivered at every touch. Sleep came to him early, however, and the
small, quiet room of the Markham house which had been allotted to him
was like a sacred holy of holies to the overstrained nerves. Sandy
slept like the dead all that first night, but habit still swayed him,
and at five o'clock he wakened suddenly and heard the stir of life out
of doors. Some one was calling a dog--his dog! It was Miss Matilda,
and Sandy smiled as he listened to her reasoning with Bob as was her
custom. Slowly the rested nerves asserted dominion over the boy, but
he did not move. He was back, in longing, among the old Lost Hollow
scenes. He was too weak to adjust himself into a new environment;
changes had worn out his ambition and hope. Miserably he turned upon
his pillow and with a sinking of the soul yearned to take his faithful
Bob with him and go back to that life which demanded no more of him
than he was able to give.
But that very afternoon his future became so involved with that of
another, whom he had never seen, that to turn back would have been an
impossibility. He and Bob were walking over a stretch of soft, hilly
land toward the autumn-tinted woods beyond, when young Lansing
Hertford, the son of Levi Markham's dead sister, arrived for a
consultation with his uncle. All his life Markham had hungered for
something that had never been his--something peculiarly his own! His
hard and struggling younger years had denied any personal luxury. He
had worked his way up; supported his old father and mother and two
sisters; had grimly set his face away from love and marriage, and then
when wealth and opportunity came to him the desire was past. But with
rigid determination he looked in other directions for compensation. At
first it was his younger sister, Caroline. Like so many self-made men,
the fine, dainty things of life attracted him. He had dreams of costly
oil paintings and rare china, but in the meantime he devoted himself to
his sisters. He and Matilda were of one mind: after their parents'
death Caroline became their only care.
Exquisite, carefully educated and beautiful, they gloried in her. They
endured the loneliness of the old Bretherton home while she visited
with schoolmates, or travelled abroad with new and gayer friends.
Caroline was the music of their dull lives; the art of their prosaic
existences. Then the shock came when she announced her engagement to
Lansing Hertford, an idle, useless son of a down-at-the-heel Southern
family.
"He's no fit mate for you, Caroline," Markham said alarmedly.
"That may be, brother," the girl had replied, "but I must marry him.
You have always said one must learn his own lesson, not another's. I
am ready to take the consequences. I could never get away from the
sound of Lansing Hertford's voice. I hear him at night. He tells me
that when temptation or weakness overpowers him he breathes my name.
So, you see, dear, I cannot escape."
"Don't be a fool, Caroline!"
Markham struggled against the sense of impotency surging around him.
"It's my lesson, dear. I'll never wince."
And she never had, even when Hertford's indifference changed to
cruelty. After the birth of her child, Caroline Hertford failed
rapidly and the end of her lesson came when her boy was two years old.
Markham and Matilda had desired to take the baby then, but Mrs. Olive
Treadwell, Hertford's married sister, put in a protest.
"It would blight the boy's future if any gossip touched the dead mother
or bereaved father; besides he is too young to change nurses or
environment."
When little Lansing was seven his father died abroad under conditions
shrouded with secrecy, and then it was that Olive Treadwell sought Levi
Markham and by methods unknown to the simple, direct man, contrived to
interest him in her nephew and his.
"There'll be a mighty big fortune some day for some one to inherit--why
not Lans?" she argued to herself and began her campaign. She had grown
to love the boy in her vain, worldly way; she wanted him _and_ the
Markham money, and she cautiously felt her way through the years while
the child was with her.
"I hear my nephew is called by your name," Levi remarked once during a
call at the Boston home of the Treadwells.
"Just a childish happening. You know how simple little minds are;
having no mother but me, he calls me mommy, and naturally people speak
of him carelessly by my name."
"He should bear his own and seek to honour it," Markham returned with
simplicity equalling a child's. Mrs. Treadwell winced. She dared not
show how she resented any unkind reference to her brother, but she had
always looked down upon his Yankee marriage, as she termed it, and
never could understand why the plain Markhams failed to realize the
honour her brother had paid them by taking Caroline for his wife.
"I must see that the misnomer is corrected," was all Mrs. Treadwell
rejoined. So Lansing had passed through preparatory school and was
ready for college before Markham could be brought to definite terms.
The letter from The Forge was the first proposition, and now on that
September day Lansing Hertford, prepared and coached by his aunt
Treadwell, presented himself at Bretherton on the two-fifty train.
"He'll probably offer you a beastly little allowance," Olive Treadwell
had warned; "but I'll add to that; so accept it like a lamb. Then
he'll throw Cornell to you--he has right bad taste in universities--but
you must use your tact there, Lans. Tell him about your associates and
how your future will be influenced by your college Frat and such
things. Men like your uncle Markham are always snobs at heart."
Thus reinforced Lansing Hertford came up for judgment. He was a
handsome, rollicking chap--a charming combination of his graceful
father and his lovely mother--and he greeted his uncle and aunt with
frank affection. Even in those days Lansing Hertford could will his
emotions--or his emotions could will him--to sincerity for the time
being. He had ideals and enthusiasms--he changed them often, and, as
often, they changed him, but outwardly a frankness and openness were
his chief attributes and had held his uncle, through the hope-deferred
years, to expect big things of him.