If one can forget the languor of the summer and the fear of the winter,
a September day among the hills is an experience to set the heart
singing. The fluttering birds in busy preparation for flight, the
carpet of Persian colours and the subtle charm of the smell of wood
smoke in the air, all combine to arouse tender thoughts and pensive
desires.
On such a day Cynthia Walden ran down the trail from Stoneledge and
kept to the side of The Way where the leaves were thickest and the damp
sweetness the richest. She wore her blue linen--it had been laundried
many times since that May morning when Sandy first saw her in it; but,
as Sally Taber, working under strict instructions, dried it in a pillow
case--the colour was still true blue and the shrinkage slight.
Many things had occurred during the past four months. Wonderful
breath-taking things; things that aroused many emotions and many
passions. For one thing, that brave company in the North, which Sandy
represented, had actually had the audacity and daring to start
operations on a splendid factory building! Smith Crothers was
sullenly, silently watching operations and making, apparently,
indifferent threats as to what might be expected to happen to any
Hollowite--"man, woman or child"--who turned from him and his interests
to the factory back of Lost Hollow.
"There ain't any known head to the concern," he said one night at the
County Club, "lest you count that youngster of Morley's as a head. I
leave it to you--can you-all trust a Morley?"
The solemn pause before Mason Hope ventured a "no" gave Crothers food
for reflection. Sandy was making his way into the confidence and
appreciation of his people. Slowly, to be sure, so slowly that often
he sighed disheartedly, but the change in attitude was noticeable and
Sandy knew it when the sun shone and Cynthia Walden deigned to speak a
pleasant word to him.
Beside the factory and near to it ground had been broken and a
foundation laid for a building about which people, especially mothers,
spoke in hushed voices.
"It can't be true," Liza Hope had said to Mrs. Tansey Moore one day as
they dropped in to Theodore Starr's church to take breath and a dip of
snuff. "A Home-school! that's what the Cup-o'-Cold-Water Lady said it
was, and when I axed her to say it plainer and not so polite, she done
'splain as how the chillens, our chillens, war to be gathered in from
everywhere--even factories,--and teached and--and mothered! That's her
word--mothered!"
"Don't them-all think us-all is--mothers?" Mrs. Moore sniffed
contemptuously. "Us as borned them reckons we-all is mothers."
"But it's this-er-way." Liza was Marcia Lowe's interpreter to the
cabin-folk and was gradually drawing them to the point where more than
one had gone voluntarily to Trouble Neck and, after a chat and a cup of
tea, had uttered the mystic word "youcum," which meant, "you call on
me." No higher honour could a mountain woman bestow than this!
But Mrs. Tansey Moore had never taken the little doctor up socially.
"It's this-er-way. We-all can't act out what's in us-all. You know,
Rose-Lily"--Mrs. Moore had one of the funeral-design names which so
often decorated the plainest of her sex among the hills--"we-all just
get caught in the wheels and go round like what we-all have to. I
reckon you wouldn't have let your Sammy-Jo into the factory if the
heart of you could ha' spoke. Seems like yesterday when I saw them-all
totin' Sammy-Jo up The Way to kiss you good-bye, an' him only ten years
old an' dyin' o' the hurt o' the wheels."
Rose-Lily bowed her head on her work-roughened hands and sobbed
miserably.
"An' I reckon I wouldn' ha' let my po' lil' half-wit chile go--if I
could ha' helped it. When Mason licked him down The Way o' mornin' it
made the soul o' me sick. When the factory burned I thanked A'mighty
God for, starvin' or not starvin,' the po' lil' feller couldn't go!
The night he died in Miss Lowe's cabin when she war tryin' her charm on
him--I jes' war right glad, for the factory down to The Forge war jes'
about done and I war thankful he couldn't get caught in the wheels
agin! I tell yo', Rose-Lily, the mother in us-all don't get a chance
in The Hollow, but the Cup-o'-Cold-Water Lady don' say things is goin'
to be different. She 'lows that the Home-school will jes' make up to
us-all for what's been denied."
Mrs. Moore moaned softly and shook her head. "It don't
sound--earthly!" she muttered.
But Cynthia, tripping light-heartedly over the gold and red leaves by
The Way, sang her gayest songs and cared not a rap for the new factory
or the unearthly Home-school; she was thinking of Martin Morley's cabin
and the miracle that had been performed there. She was bound for the
cabin. Martin would surely be away, for his "job" demanded that he
should watch the men working in gangs on the new buildings. Sandy was
up North. He had been summoned there by Levi Markham, who had wanted
to come to The Hollow but had been held back by Sandy.
"They are taking me hard," Sandy had written; "let me have time to win
them over before you come. Your money is a great drawback to me."
Then Markham wrote a characteristic command. The faithful old heart
throbbed through every line and had caused poor Sandy to laugh until he
cried:
Then come up North at once with reports and plans. I'm not going to
let you make ducks and drakes of my hard earnings without knowing why.
Matilda--isn't very strong. She's taken to counting her blessings
nights instead of sleeping. By the way--have you heard anything of
Treadwell? His new fangled moral van has gone smash, they say; not
called by its old-fashioned name, and he's--skipped. If you hear
anything of him, let me know.
Sandy had been away ten days and every day Cynthia had gone to the
cabin, set it in order for Martin's comfort; revelled in the wonder of
it all and feasted her soul on the books in Sandy's study.
Cynthia had slowly, reluctantly but finally given up her ideal Sandy of
the past. She still kept his one letter to her and her hundred and one
letters to him in an oil-cloth package in the old tree. Sometimes she
stole away and read them and cried a little, softly, forlornly, as a
little girl might do for a broken doll. "The Biggest of Them All"
relegated to his fate, Cynthia had turned to this new son of the Hills
with frank and open mind. She weighed him, considered him and found
him interesting. She was sensitive to success, and this practical,
good natured, kindly Sandy was decidedly successful. He was as modest
and unassuming as one could desire, but he had only to wave his hand
and say so-and-so and lo! the old cabin grew and became beautiful, a
factory sprang up, then a dream of a school which included everyone and
everything. It was like a modern fairy story--the most exciting and
compelling thing one could imagine.
Slowly, cautiously, Cynthia with childish curiosity approached this new
being who had arisen on her horizon. Sandy, wise in the lore of the
hills, lured her as cautiously. He had subdued his own emotions. He
was a man; his life had developed him; she was still a child with the
radiant woman of her blindly, gropingly, looking forth from the dear,
blue-gray eyes. He could wait. She would be his dream of the hills
and some day she would come true and he would tell her how he had
always loved her; how her pale, sweet face, under the dogwood flowers,
had kept him strong and pure and unspoiled through all the yearning
years. He could wait until Cynthia, the woman, awoke and--looked at
him! In the meantime he worked and grew marvellously happy in his
earnest, quiet way. He made a seat for her in his study window--though
she never knew how carefully he had arranged it, or how desperately he
had struggled to get the right colour for the cushions. "Red," Levi
had suggested when approached as to window-seat coverings. "Green, a
good dark tone, is a wearing shade," Matilda had informed him, but
Sandy chose blue--"the shade that looks as if it sank deeper and
deeper," he explained to an artistic designer, and the man had not
laughed!
Sandy bought and scattered books about in his study where Cynthia might
run across them at will, and sometimes during his rare moments of
leisure and enjoyment she would nestle on _her_ window seat in his
study while he, his back to her, painted at his easel near the north
window. At such times Cynthia liked the new Sandy almost as well as
the old and was gloriously content and happy. Poetry entered her life
then for the first time--poetry through books, through Sandy's modest
attempts at art, and through Sandy himself.
"Let us go out windowing," he coaxed her one day when they had had a
golden hour together.
"Windowing, Sandy? What is windowing?"
"Why, we'll go around to the cabins and coax or bully the people to let
us make windows in their homes--big, fine windows with glass that
slides easy, up and down or sideways as one may prefer. I want it done
before winter sets in."
"They-all will think us all-around cracked!"
"Let's try! Windows for sale! we'll cry. It will be mighty jolly."
So they had set forth with the result that by August Tod Greeley
remarked to Marcia Lowe that he was "dog-dickered if the cabins didn't
look like showcases surrounded by clapboards!"
When Cynthia reached the Morley cabin that rare September day she
paused to look upon the splendour, and was thrilled anew at the changes
and improvements. To the southwest end of the cabin three new rooms
had been added. Two bed-chambers and a cosy sitting-room.
"For that Company up North when it comes down!" Sandy explained.
"It must be a mighty upperty Company!" Cynthia replied, looking in awe
at the furniture which had been sent from some magic workshop.
"It is!" Sandy assented--viewing solemnly the enamelled bedstead, the
cheap chairs and plain bureau.
"And real carpets on the floors!"
"Yes. The Company has tender feet."
The old living-room of the cabin had been more leniently dealt with.
Sandy's passion for windows had been indulged, but its furnishings were
designed for comfort without shock to Martin's habits. The kitchen in
the lean-to, also windowed to the limit of space, had been given over
to the imagination--nothing else could possibly have accounted for
it--of Marcia Lowe. Shining rows of things never dreamed of in The
Hollow hung on the walls or graced the shelves. The future might prove
them, but the present wreathed them in the charm of mystery. The women
came and looked upon them in silent wonder and talked of them afterward
in hushed voices. A good-sized range, also, stood where once the dirty
hearth was the only shrine to which the family food was intrusted
during preparation. Even Sandy approached this innovation with
ingrained reluctance, but Marcia Lowe was overcoming his timidity and
Cynthia had already conquered its mysteries and was instructing Martin.
The greatest change on the Morley place, however, was the one-time shed
bedroom of Sandy. The first time Sandy entered the crumbling shanty
such a wave of bitterness and depression engulfed him that he realized
he must either reclaim it or it would triumph over him. To tear it
down would not have solved the problem; its absence would have been a
more final acknowledgment of his defeat. The years of fear,
loneliness, and want were ever to be vital realities of his life; the
shed was the setting of his childish agony and spiritual growth--oh,
that was it! He must not stamp the poor shell from sight; he must
redeem it as his patient suffering had redeemed him. He must make it a
place to which those he loved, those who needed him, might come knowing
that welcome and understanding awaited them.
It seemed a miracle to see the dusty, crumbling place evolve into that
bright study with its big, open fireplace, outside chimney, and the
sacred window-seat. Overhead were two small bedrooms, opening into
each other--Martin's and Sandy's. Plain, severe rooms they were; rooms
into which the morning sun shone and into which the setting sun glowed
when nature smiled. On the shingle roof the rain pattered musically,
and no winter cold could conquer the heat which a certain drum stove in
Martin's room managed to create and diffuse. On Martin's stand beside
his narrow bed a lamp stood and near it a Bible. Martin had learned
again to pray and often Sandy read the sacred book to him respecting
always the fiction as to poor eyes and ignoring the illiteracy which
the old man bitterly and secretly deplored.
At last Cynthia entered the study after a minute inspection of the
house. The breakfast dishes were washed and put away; Martin was neat
and orderly. His bed had been made and Sandy's was untouched.
"Still away!" whispered the girl and sank upon the window-seat while a
thrill of pleasure brought the slow smile to the sensitive lips.
"Oh, the pretty day!" Then a desire to set the place in perfect order
for Sandy's possibly near-return caused her to spring up and dart
quickly from place to place, straightening a picture here, flicking the
dust off the shelves and chairs, and lastly attacking the cluttered
desk which had not been touched since the master went away.
Sandy was not orderly by instinct. Dirt distressed him, but
superficial chaos seemed never to disturb him. He could lay his hand
on whatever he wanted amid the layers of papers, books, and writing
material.
"It's right Sandyish," murmured Cynthia; "I wonder if he will--mind?"
Never before had she thought of arranging the desk. Carefully, almost
breathlessly, she piled some magazines in one place; some papers in
another. The pens and pencils were stuck together in the yawning mouth
of a particularly fierce silver gargoyle who evidently had been created
to devour such articles, and then--at the bottom of the mass Cynthia
came upon a book which had been quite hidden from sight. It was an
open book; a book marked at a certain place. There was a strange
familiarity about the book which caused the girl to take it up with
trembling surprise. The blue and gold cover recalled emotions long
since forgotten. How could she know that Sandy had scoured many a
Boston book store for just that edition, causing the proprietors much
annoyance and trouble?
"Pilgrim's Progress!"
Then backing to the window-seat, Cynthia sat down and feasted her eyes
first upon the cover, then upon the words marked by an illuminating
pencil:
Without doubt her designs were bad. But stay, now you talk of her,
methinks I either have seen her, or have read some story of her. . . .
Doth she not speak very smoothly and give you a smile at the end of a
sentence?
The book fell from Cynthia's hands and lay motionless on her lap. Her
fair face raised itself rigidly and the clear eyes looked, not at the
cheerful, home-room, but back through the years: the sombre, shabby
years--until they caught and held a girl of twelve demanding
something--something so tremendous!--from a poor, trembling boy but a
little older than herself! Then the old, half-doubting promise sounded
and--a kiss fell upon Madam Bubble's lifted mouth!
"Oh!" The word came on a shuddering sigh and the fixed eyes faltered
in their rapt look. A flood of rosy colour spread from brow to chin,
and shame--not joy--claimed Cynthia Walden. Understanding rushed upon
her, a blind, hideous, wrong understanding, but none the less terrible.
Cynthia had forgotten the shadow of her parentage--for many years it
had sunk into insignificance. The years had ignored it, no call had
come for its recognition, but now--she understood. She had always been
more the daughter of her bad father than of her sad mother! That was
why she, a little girl, had spoken so to Sandy and brought that strange
look to his face! She had not comprehended it then, but she remembered
it now! It confronted her like a tangible thing. Because she was her
father's daughter Smith Crothers had--kissed her! Men wanted to kiss
her! On that fearsome night of the fire Crothers had only shocked and
wounded the outer fold of Cynthia's soul; the innermost shrine had been
guarded by the woman Cynthia was by and by to become; but now Cynthia
felt she _was_ that woman and all subterfuge was denied.
Sandy understood. He had not forgotten. Out in his big, free world he
had learned what Madam Bubbles were and still he had come back and been
kind to her! Sandy never forgot. Big, brave, and tender, he had set
himself to the task of keeping his word and fulfilling his vision. He
had shielded poor Molly--he had told her the pitiful story without its
gruesome details! He had come back to Lost Mountain to help the men
and women and save the baby-things! He had come home to--keep his word
with her, with Madam Bubble! That was why he was so gentle, so
thoughtful.
"Oh! oh!" The moan was almost a wail, but no tear dimmed the large
eyes.
"The Biggest of Them All!" Then the strained face relaxed and a glory
touched it.
"But I--I can be next biggest," she faltered. "You are right
noble--but I can help you, Sandy!"
Then very reverently the book was replaced upon the desk and a pencil
taken from the gargoyle's mouth. Clearly, distinctly, another passage
was traced by a wavering mark:
The man in the cage, the man and his dream, the man that cut his way
through his enemies--the biggest of them all!
Sandy was to read those words by and by with varied emotions!
Then, having marked and turned to the page originally left open,
Cynthia drew herself up and looked about the dear room as if taking a
last look before going on a long journey.
And so Sandy came upon her. He had arrived at The Forge earlier in the
day and had walked up The Way because his heart was full of the joy of
life and he wanted to be alone and think his thoughts. He had been so
lonely without his father, Lost Mountain, his people and--Cynthia! Not
even the love and gratitude he held for Levi Markham and Matilda could
hold him long from his own, without regret. And they were coming to
him soon--the Markhams--they were coming for the holidays and he must
make ready!
Noiselessly he entered his study and stood for a moment revelling in
the sight of the girl of his thoughts, materializing before his amazed
eyes. He could hardly believe his senses; the day, the place, were
bewitched, and he had been so hungry for--just this! Unconsciously he
stretched out his arms and his strong, dark face was flushed; his
serious eyes glad and kind.
"Little Cyn!"
She turned, and her colour faded. Pale, imploring, she almost ran to
him.
"Sandy!"
Now that she had understood and triumphed she could afford to be kind,
too, and strong and brave. Something in the frank, unflinching eyes
warned Sandy to content himself with the outstretched hands, although
the soul of him yearned to hold the girl to him.
"You are glad to see me back, lil' Cyn?"
The old intonation thrilled the listener, but her eyes held true.
"Oh! so glad. 'Tis a mighty empty room you leave, Sandy Morley, when
you go away."
"Cynthia--I wonder if I dare tell you something?"
"Yes." It were better now and over with!
"Do you remember that once I made a promise to you, dear?"
This was unfortunate, but the girl took it without a quiver of the
white lids.
"All my life, since manhood came to me, and it came early, little girl,
I have lived and dreamed of the hour when--I might keep that promise.
I have waited because you seem still a child to me, dear, but I--want
you! I want the child of you--I will hold it sacred and win the woman
of you by and by. Do you not remember how in those old, old days it
was you who taught me, awoke my imagination and--helped me to my own?
Dear lil' Cyn--help me now! Help me help these dear people, yours and
mine! I need you so, sweetheart, and I will be good to you! Marry me,
lil' Cyn, marry me right away and let us go on together! I can do so
much for you and yours--sweet----"
But Sandy got no farther. The hands in his wrenched themselves free
and sought his shoulders. The very frankness and simplicity of the
gesture sent a chill to Sandy's heart.
"Big, good Sandy!" There was a subtle plea in glance and words. The
girlish need was driving the desperate woman back and out of sight.
Cynthia could not kill the truth that had been born within her, but she
could blind it, stun it and still keep for her own what the childish
craving demanded.
"Big, good Sandy! Please be my Sandy, like you were a brother. I
would be so lonely without you; I would miss this--this dear place
mighty bad--but if you say such words, if you forget I am still lil'
Cyn, why don't you see--I cannot come up this-er-way any more?"
So perfect was the attempt that it took all the girl's pride and
strength to hold it. It was a bit overdone and Sandy fell back a step
with a memory that Cynthia would never have resurrected had she had her
way.
"I--am not worthy of you, Cynthia. I had forgotten, dear. You see,
for seven years I have lived where such things did not matter; I have
learned that they do _not_ matter when all is said and done. Can you
not trust me and forget that a Walden and a Morley are different----"
"Oh! Sandy!" and now the white, white face turned scarlet--"you think
that of me?"
"It's in the blood of us all, Cynthia, but you and I, by forgetting
it--can do so much."
"It is not that, Sandy."
"I know, dear, that I am old beside you--I know that I dare much when I
say I am willing to take you, child as you are, and run the risk of
making you love me while the woman of you--grows! I will help it
grow--God help me! How I will glory in the task and if I fail----"
Sandy had drawn her hands from his shoulders and now held them fast and
close.
"I will make you free, set you as free as you are to-day, my white
blossom girl! You cannot understand; but God hears me and I swear it!"
Cynthia did _not_ understand, but his fine passion flooded her soul
with white light.
"How wonderful you are," she whispered. "You stand out big and high
like our mountain----"
At that word Sandy closed his eyes, for he dared not look upon the
dear, slow-smiling lips.
"But, Sandy, you are covered with--with mist like Lost Mountain
sometimes is. Let me find you, Sandy, not as you would help me find
you, but in my own way. Will you do this for--lil' Cyn?"
Without opening his eyes Sandy drew the clinging hands to his lips and
kissed them.
"When you find me, dear heart, dear heart, will you tell me or give me
a sign?"
"Yes, Sandy."
"And now--where are you going, Cynthia?"
For the girl was turning from him.
"Just down The Way. I must watch with Aunt Ann. She is a mighty
troublesome lil' child these days. Good-bye."
They looked tenderly, frankly, in each other's eyes and then the girl
was gone.
And that night Cynthia sat beside Ann Walden and kept watch and guard
while faithful Sally slept. The bedchamber was very quiet and only a
tallow candle lighted the gloom. The figure stretched out upon the bed
was deathlike in its rigid motionlessness, and Cynthia's hand lay over
the thin, old wrinkled ones for fear in a drowsy moment the woman might
elude her.
It was past midnight when Ann Walden stirred and opened her eyes.
Cynthia was alert at once, but the light that shone on the old face
revealed an expression which had not rested there for many a day.
"Queenie!"
A cold horror overcame Cynthia, but she held her position and whispered:
"Yes."
"Go to bed, honey. I'm--I'm sorry."
"Never mind, dear." Cynthia meant to play the old sad game that was
the only one possible with the poor creature on the bed.
"I reckon it was--Thorndyke Bothwell over by Susie May Lanley's, wasn't
it?"
"Yes, dear."
"Why didn't you tell me, Queenie? Why didn't you-all trust me. I--I
didn't mean to--be hard."
"No, dear. Never mind. Go--to sleep now."
"Thorndyke Bothwell, he went away--but there must be--some one to
remember. The--letter--take it--to----"
Then a spasm passed over the grim face upon the pillow. The fleeting
sanity was vanishing--"The hearthstone--her--down at Trouble----"
The candle flickered up luridly. The weak voice of the old woman shook
and the eyes lost the lustre.
"You must bide with her--at Trouble----"
Cynthia could not understand; she had never seen the light fade from
the face of one she loved, so the fixed stare, the cessation of speech,
did not alarm her.
"See, dear Aunt Ann, I will put my head down on your pillow, so! There
now! Shut your eyes right close, and I'll sing you to sleep, honey."
The candle decided to splutter once more, and give up the struggle.
The long wick curled over, the tiny beam faded, and was--gone.
Through the long night watches,
May Thine angels spread
Their white wings above me,
Watching round my bed.
Like a little mother crooning over her frightened child, Cynthia sang
the words tenderly. Marcia Lowe had taught her the words and tune
after her fright at the time of the fire. It had been Cynthia's first
evening song; she had often quieted her sudden fears in the dark nights
by repeating the tender words:
Through the long night watches----
and sleeping, surely with white wings above them, Ann Walden and
Cynthia lay side by side when old Sally came to rouse them.
Shocked and frightened, Sally got Cynthia from the room without the
girl realizing the conditions. Pacifying her by a promise to "take her
turn" at the bedside, she left the girl in her own chamber while she
ran, panting, stumbling--often pausing to rest--to Trouble Neck.
"Ole Miss Ann don' gone out at the turning o' the tide," she sobbed to
Marcia Lowe.
"And little Cyn?"
"Come, oh! come," pleaded Sally; "fo' she cotch on."
"And now," thought the doctor as she mounted her horse with Sally
astride behind, "I'm going to bring your little girl home, Uncle
Theodore, and take my chance and your chance with her!"