Cynthia Walden came slowly up the trail leading to the old gray house.
Since the day of the flood which bore old Ivy forever from sight, she
had confronted so many strange conditions that her eyes had the
haunted, frightened expression common to the mountain people. The
curse of the hills seemed to have settled upon her. She often said to
herself, "poor whites," in order that the significance might be fully
understood. Old Ivy had said that the cows were all that stood between
them and the fate of others who had, through misfortune, accepted the
title despised by the quality.
Well, she, Cynthia Walden, was no longer quality; of that there could
be no doubt. Had Ivy and the cows been spared she might have hidden
her disgrace of parentage, but now she must, in order to get food and
wood, seek the help and charity of others, and she could no longer hold
up her head!
At this thought the pretty, drooping head was lifted defiantly. No!
she would not go down just yet, for one last motive remained. While
she was at the store an hour before to buy a few necessary articles of
food with the pitiful supply of money she had found in an old teapot on
the kitchen shelf, a wonderful thing had occurred. Tod Greeley,
weighing out some tea, remarked casually:
"I reckon, now I think o' it, Miss Cyn, there's a letter come for you.
One for you and one for Mr. Morley."
"A letter!" Cynthia almost staggered. "A letter!"
Never in all her life had Cynthia received a letter, never had her
imagination soared to such a height as to conceive of such a thing.
Tod finished his careful weighing, then added a reckless handful and,
having tied the tea up in a bulky package, wandered to the dirty row of
letter boxes.
"Here it is!" he exclaimed after thumbing the morning mail over and
remarking about each article.
"Yours and Mr. Morley's bear the same writing--Noo York! There ain't
been a Noo York letter in this yere post-office since I came to The
Hollow. It's a right smart compliment, Miss Cyn!"
Trembling and pale with excitement, Cynthia grasped the letter, tucked
her little bundles under her arm and ran from the store.
The cold, crisp air of late autumn spurred her to action, and she kept
on running, with the letter burning her hand like flame, so tightly did
she grip it. Before she reached the broken and dilapidated fence
separating the home place of Stoneledge from the trail, she paused
beneath a tree to take breath and reconnoitre. She looked at the
letter then for the first time, and she was sure it was from Sandy.
Her heart beat painfully and her eyes widened. Looking about to make
sure of privacy she tore open the envelope and lo! at the first words
the gray autumn day glowed like gold, and the world was set to music.
Poor Sandy, distracted by the noise and confusion of the big city, had
permitted himself, when writing to Cynthia, the solace of imagination
and memory.
"Dear Madam Bubble!" Why, Cynthia had almost forgotten her pretty,
fascinating story-self! Her dear, slow smile had almost lost its
cunning. However, it returned, now, and drew the corners of the stern
young mouth up pathetically.
DEAR MADAM BUBBLE:
I am remembering everything and holding to it. I shut my eyes and I
see you standing by The Way with your face like the dogwood flowers in
the spring--shining and white and happy! That--er--way is how it is
going always to look till I come back. No matter what happens to me;
no matter how mighty hard things are, I am just going to stop short,
when I feel I can't bear life, and shut my eyes and see you a-standing
waiting like what you said. I've met much kindness and a great
friend--it's the noise and strangeness and many folks what turn me
crazy-like, but always when I shut my eyes--you come and it seems
_home_ again. If I don't write, please Madam Bubble, know it's because
I'm fighting hard to get something fit to bring to you when I come
back. And I reckon you better not write to me--I couldn't stand it.
You know how I couldn't count the money till the time came! That is
the sort I am and, besides, I've got to find out what this--er--life is
going to make me into. If I shouldn't be worthy to come up The Way to
you--you better not know. But I will be! I will be! Thank you for
what you've done for me and most for letting me think you'll wait and
be ready.
Cynthia dropped the letter in her lap--for she was crouching beneath
the tree. It was a badly written and much-soiled letter but no missive
straight from heaven could have performed a greater miracle upon her.
A radiance flooded her face from brow to chin, and her eyes glistened
with the happy tears that never overflowed the blue-gray wells that
held them.
"Sandy!" The familiar name passed her lips like the word of a prayer;
"Sandy--'The Biggest of Them All!' I'll be a-waiting by The Way like
what I said!"
There were consecration and joy in the words, and the transformation in
the girl was wonderful. Gone was the look of despair and surrender.
Madam Bubble was herself again!
Springing up, the girl began to dance about among the sodden autumn
leaves. She sang, too, as the wild things of the woods sing. There
was no tune; no sustained sound, but mad little trills and unexpected
breaks. She imitated the bird-note that was Sandy's signal; she meant
to practise it every day and keep it for his return lest he lost it
among the noises and crowds in which he must do battle. Then Cynthia
spied a hole in the trunk of the tree and with sudden abandonment she
pushed her letter into it.
"There!" she panted; "and I'll put my answers in it, too, and give them
all to Sandy when he comes up The Way."
But hunger and recent trouble laid restraining hands upon the girl at
that moment. She sank down and shivered nervously. Between this
moment and the one of Sandy's return stretched a dreary space, and how
was she to keep her heart light and meet the dreary problems that
confronted her? Winter was at hand; the wood pile had been swept from
the door, and there were only a few dollars in the cracked teapot. Old
Ivy's body, rescued a week after the flood, was buried from sight in
the Walden "plot," and Ann Walden was greatly changed. Cynthia did not
understand, but she was terribly afraid. Ann Walden laughed a great
deal, slyly and cunningly. She never mentioned Ivy except to question
where she had gone. The mistress of the Great House, too, took to
pacing the upper balcony and repeating over and over:
"The hills--whence cometh my strength!"
It was quite fearful, but Cynthia had already learned to keep away from
her aunt at moments of excitement; her presence always made matters
worse. And once, soon after her return, Marcia Lowe had ventured to
call at Stoneledge, but the outcome of her visit had been so deplorable
that the little doctor was driven to despair. She had knocked at the
outer door, which stood ajar, and, receiving no reply, had walked into
the hall and to the library. There sat Ann Walden just as Miss Lowe
had left her on the fateful afternoon of the letter. When Miss Walden
raised her eyes to her unannounced caller a madness, with strange
flashes of lucidity, overcame her.
"Out!" she shouted--"it was all a lie--there never was a marriage!
Never! Would you kill me and the child? Leave us alone. We will not
take the money or the shame! Leave me! leave me!"
Then running to the far corner of the fireplace she sank upon the floor
and with outstretched hands she moaned:
"He killed her! killed her! and I damned her; leave us alone!"
At that point Cynthia rushed into the room and caught the poor, old,
shrinking form in her arms; then, with flashing eyes she turned upon
Marcia Lowe.
"Go!" she commanded with sudden courage and desperation. "Go! Don't
you hear Aunt Ann?"
"You promised, little Cyn!" whined Miss Walden, "you promised!"
"I know--all about it!" Cynthia murmured, still keeping her fear-filled
eyes upon the caller--"I, too, want you--to go away!"
Her training had fitted Marcia Lowe to understand and take alarm at
what she beheld, but it also demanded that she leave at once. Since
then Cynthia had never seen the little doctor, and the change in Ann
Walden did not include another furious outburst such as that.
The excitement of the letter faded when the magic sheet of paper was
hidden from sight, and stern necessity brought the severe lines back to
the thin, pale face. It was just at that moment that Smith Crothers
came down the path, crunching under his heavy boots the damp leaves and
branches. Seeing Cynthia beneath the tree he paused and took off his
hat. Whatever the girl felt and believed of the man was gained though
indirect information--he had meant nothing personal to her before, and
it was something of a surprise for her to realize that he was a good
looking man and could smile in kindly fashion.
"Little Miss Walden," he said courteously, "I've just been a-hearing
how you-all suffered from the storm. Mr. Greeley done told me the old
lady is all around cracked!"
"Cracked!" The mountain interpretation of this word flooded Cynthia's
consciousness like a flame that made plain all the subtle fear of the
past few weeks. That was it, of course! "All around cracked!"
"Oh!" came in a shuddering cry; "oh! oh! oh!"
"Now don't take on that-er-way," comforted Crothers, coming nearer.
"Us-all mean to stand by you. I expect you-all ain't over-rich either,
and we-all can help in a right practical way. What do you say, little
Miss Cyn, to coming down to the factory and doing light work and
getting mighty good pay?"
A new horror shook Cynthia's pallid face; but Crothers met it with a
laugh.
"Don't take on without reason," he soothed. "Ain't I done something
for the mountings?" he asked; "I know what some folks think about me,
little Miss Cyn, but you be a right peart miss, and I ask you straight
and true--wouldn't things be worse, bad as they be, if I didn't take
folks and pay 'em? Chillun is better 'long o' their mothers, when
all's said and done, and they don't have to come if they don't want to,
and when they do come the work don't hurt them. Just 'nough to keep
'em from mischief and me a-paying their parents for what is play to the
young-uns."
Cynthia thought of Sandy's moan over the baby-things of the factory and
her eyes filled. She did not know, perhaps Sandy did not understand,
but once he had said to her during a flight of fancy:
"Some day I'm going to gather them-all away from old Smith Crothers and
save them!"
"Come and see for yourself, little Miss Cyn."
The tone was friendly and kind, and the actual necessity of the future
gripped Cynthia.
"Come and see. I know what is due to you and your folks, Miss Cynthia;
I don't ask you to work 'long of the others. I have work for you right
in my office where I can have an eye to your comfort and pleasure.
Just copying letters and addressing envelopes and I will give
you"--Crothers paused; his sudden desire was carrying him perilously
near the danger point of being ridiculous--"I'll give you three dollars
every week. Three whole dollars!"
With vivid memory Cynthia recalled the long years that it had taken to
earn the three dollars for Sandy's venture and she gave a little gasp.
"Three whole dollars! And you can get down to the factory after you
make the old lady comfortable, and I can let you have a little
mule--all for yourself--to tote you to and fro."
"It's--it's very kind of you, Mr. Crothers," Cynthia panted; "I'll
ask----" Then of a sudden she recollected that there was no one to
ask. For the first time in her life she was confronted by an
overpowering condition that she must meet alone! Just then a sharp
touch of cold struck her as the changing wind found the thin place in
her coarse gown.
"I'll--I'll come, and thank you, Mr. Crothers," she said in shaking
voice. "I'll come, next week!"
"Good!" cried Crothers, "and I'll send up the mule--we'll put its feed
in saddle bags--I'll throw that in and----" the smile on the man's face
almost frightened Cynthia, though the words that followed seemed to
give it the lie.
"I'm going to have one of the men stack wood for you, too, and lay in
some winter vegetables. I don't want you to think badly of me, little
Miss Cyn. I want to help you-all."
When he had gone Cynthia drew a long breath, and shivered as though
some evil thing had threatened or touched her in passing, but an hour
later she was thankful her sudden impulse had led her to accept
Crothers' offer, for the wind changed and brought from its new quarter
a biting warning of winter. Fires had to be kindled to warm the damp,
dreary rooms, and Ann Walden, crouching by the blaze, looked gratefully
up into Cynthia's face and laughed that vacant, childish laugh that
aroused in the girl the fear that youth knows, and the pity that woman
learns. And late that afternoon the little doctor, astride her rugged
horse, rode up to the cabin of Sally Taber, and made a business
proposition.
Sally was gathering wood behind her cabin with a fervour born of fear
and knowledge. She knew what the change of wind meant and her wood
pile was far from satisfactory. Long before Marcia Lowe came into
sight the old woman stood up and listened with keen, flashing eyes
alert.
"Horse!" she muttered, and then rapidly considered "whose horse?"
Not the old doctor's from The Forge, for he never used up horseflesh in
that reckless fashion. His circuit was too far and wide for such
foolish extravagance.
"It's coming this-er-way!" Sally concluded, and since there was no
other human habitation on that particular route but her own she
rightfully appropriated the approaching visitor. With a quickness of
motion one would not have suspected in such an old body, the woman ran
into her cabin and, as a society belle might have rushed for her toilet
table, Sally made for a closet in the corner of her living room. From
there she brought forth a can of vaseline and daubed some of the
contents artistically around her lips; then she tied over her shabby
gown a clean and well-preserved apron and smoothed her thin, white hair.
"Now," she muttered, composedly taking her knitting and sitting before
her hastily replenished hearth-fire; "now, I reckon who-sumever it may
be, will think I've had a po'ful feast o' po'k chops, judging from my
mouf, an' no quality ain't mo' comfortable than I be?"
A smile of content spread over the old face as this vision of
respectability enfolded the poor soul. At that moment Marcia Lowe
jumped from her horse, tied it to a tree and came rapidly up to the
open door. There was an anxious look in her eyes and the corners of
her lips drooped a trifle more than they did when she first rode up The
Way. The life of The Hollow was claiming her as it had her uncle
before her. As she looked in the cabin and saw the composed figure of
the mistress a gleam of humour lighted her face and she secretly
rebelled at the sensation of lack of ease which often overcame her in
the presence of these calm, self-possessed "poor whites."
"They are so inhumanly superior!" she thought, and then a kindlier
feeling came.
"Good afternoon, Miss Taber."
Sally looked up with an assumed surprise worthy of her race and
tradition.
"If it ain't Miss Lowe!" she exclaimed, coming forward cordially. "It
sho' am, Miss Lowe! Come in, ma'am and rest yourself."
Sally's idioms savoured of darky dialect and her mountain quaintness:
"I'll brew a dish o' tea, ma'am."
Marcia Lowe refused this attention and stayed Sally by her first words.
"Miss Taber, I want you to help me out with a very difficult matter.
No one can help me--but you!"
People might think what they cared to about this stranger from Trouble
Neck--the men still distrusted her--but the women were rapidly being
won to her.
"I 'low you can count on me, ma'am. I says to myself often, says
I--Sally Taber, jes' so long as you can make a friend or do a
'commodation job, you is useful to de community--when yo'
can't--why--den!" And with that Sally gave a "pouf!" as if blowing
away a feather.
Marcia Lowe could not keep her eyes from the shining, greased lips; she
was becoming acquainted with mountain peculiarities, but she was
perplexed by the neat Sally's daubed face.
"It's about--Miss Walden," she said softly, moving her chair closer to
Sally.
"What's happened 'long o' her?" An anxious look crept into Sally's
eyes.
"I fear--she is not exactly right."
"It's in the family," Sally murmured; "when things go awry 'long o'
them, they jes' naturally take to queerness. The ole general, Miss
Ann's father, he done think he was God-a'mighty, long toward the last.
I kin see him now a-coming up The Way blessing us-all. They ain't none
o' them dangerous, jes' all around cracked, ma'am."
"But the little girl, Miss Taber, she ought not to be alone there with
Miss Walden. You see I have studied medicine and I know--it is
dangerous and--it mustn't be. See here! I cannot do anything without
making more trouble. I'm not one of them, but you could go and--well,
just take control! Say that you--need shelter and help--you know Miss
Walden would do anything for her friends; put it that way and
then"--here Marcia Lowe laid some money in the old shrivelled hands,
"there will always be money for you to buy what is necessary for the
comfort of you all."
The keen eyes glittered, and the quick mind was caught by the subtlety
of the suggestion. Here was a chance to play great lady; to return
favours that long had been conferred upon her, and at the same time
retain her respectability and dignity. It was a master stroke and
Marcia Lowe felt a glow of self-appreciation.
"You can care for her, Miss Taber; you can see that Cynthia is properly
looked after, and you can give Miss Walden the joy of her life in
thinking that she is able to help you. It is a pardonable bit of
deceit, but will you assist me?"
After a decent show of hesitation, Sally decided that she would and, at
the close of the afternoon, was seated behind the little doctor--with
her pitiful store of clothing, jogging in a bundle at her back, on the
way to Stoneledge. Miss Lowe set her down at the trail leading up to
the old crumbling house, with these words:
"If ever my uncle did a kind deed, for you, Miss Taber, do this for him
now."
Toting up the hill, Sally's thoughts wandered back to Theodore Starr
and settled on a certain dark, cold night when he sat in her cabin
piling the wood on her fire, while she lay shivering with chill upon
her wretched bed. All the charms had failed, the rabbit foot, under
the dripping of the north end of the roof had not eased a single pang,
and hope was about gone when Starr chanced by. He had meant to ask for
a bite and a night's shelter, for he was worn by travel and service,
but instead he sat beside her the night through and fought death by the
bravery of his spirit and the homely task of keeping warm the shivering
body. He had put his coat over her and aroused her to interest and
courage.
"The Lord does not let one of us off until our day's work is done," he
had said even when he himself feared Sally's duties were over.
"Ah' mighty right He war'," Sally now muttered, panting up the last
rise. "I reckon I got something yet to do."
Her advent at Stoneledge was nothing less than consummate acting.
Knocking at the kitchen door she responded to the call from within and
stood before Ann Walden crouching by the fire, and Cynthia awkwardly
trying to evolve an evening meal from some materials on the table.
"Miss Ann, I've come to ax mercy o' you."
Miss Walden laughed foolishly.
"Everything is plumb gone an' I got to tell some one o' my misery.
Nothing to eat; nothing to hold onto 'cept a trifle o' money what I'se
afraid to let any one know I'se got. Miss Ann, chile, there ain't any
one goin' to be s'prised at money coming from the Great House, so jes'
let me bide long o' you an' lil' miss, for God's sake, ma'am."
The old tie between the family and its dependents held true now even
through the growing mists of Ann Walden's brain.
"Cyn," she commanded, "get Ivy--where is Ivy? Tell her to make up a
bed for Sally in the loft over the kitchen."
And then again she laughed that meaningless laugh.