Old Sally Taber sat in the full glow and warmth of an early October
afternoon and looked about Sandy Morley's kitchen. The glow came from
the sun which streamed through the broad window; the warmth emanated
from the stove which Marcia Lowe had trained Sally to understand and
respect. The cooking utensils, too, had become tractable objects in
Sally's determined hands, for with a perpetual land of promise and
fulfillment in sight, the old woman had rallied her forces for the
homestretch.
Since the day when Ann Walden was laid in the family plot and Cynthia
had been taken to Trouble Neck, Sally had lived in Sandy Morley's cabin
and gloried in the title of "housekeeper."
"Three weeks," muttered Sally, sitting with her skirts well drawn up;
her feet, encased in "old woman's comforts," resting comfortably in the
oven of the stove.
"Three whole weeks an' po'k chops every day when there ain't something
better."
With that she got up, went to a corner cupboard and brought out her can
of vaseline.
"Yo' lyin' ole chile," she muttered; "yo' can sho' res' from yo'
labours. This am a lan' o' honey an' the honeycomb."
Then voluntarily Sally raised the lid of the stove and pushed the tin
can in upon a blazing piece of wood. The flames caught the grease and
licked it greedily from the outer side of the box:
"Massa Fire," laughed Sally; "yo' like dat po'k chop?"
Then the heat hungrily battled for more and "pop" flew the cork and
back leaped Sally.
"Gawd!" she gasped. "I sho' didn't think yo' would take it
that-er-way. I was only foolin'!"
Sally had made great strides. She could laugh and joke with assurance
in her heart. Sandy Morley had promised that she might have a home to
the end of her days in Martin's cabin--the glorified cabin--and Sally,
like many another, was learning to trust Sandy as no one had ever been
trusted in Lost Hollow before. Sally rarely gave expression to her
sentiments; she did not mean to permit the child whom she had helped
Martin bring through his "teething," and whom she had spanked many a
time, to get the upper hand; but she prayed by her very comfortable bed
in the loft over the living-room that she might cook to Sandy's liking
and prove herself worthy the blessing God bestowed upon her in her old
age.
Glaring at the stove and not daring to risk another outburst of
indignation, Sally stood helpless when Sandy entered the sunny kitchen.
"What's the matter?" he asked.
"Dat stove done have a real human sense," Sally replied; "an open fire
we-all can reckon with an' keep an eye on, but yo' shet fire up in a
packin' box an' who knows what's goin' on in its min'?"
Sandy laughed, put the lid in its place and sat on the table, swinging
one long leg comfortably. He gloried in the element of home that he
had brought about him and to see Sally in the kitchen always gave him a
distinct thrill.
"Make some gingerbread for supper," he pleaded, "and give me the
lickings, Sally. Do you know I never had lickings until I went to
Massachusetts."
"Lands! Sandy Morley, I don' gave you millions mysef! Yo' pa was
allas fur lettin' yo' off, but I lathered yo' mo'n once, chile, an' so
saved yo' fo' yo' luck."
"I mean 'leavings' in the bowl when the cake's ready for the oven.
Come Sally, let me help you get things together. Molasses, spices,
milk----"
"I'll get the res'. Now, son, do tackle this yere can o' risin'
powder. Take this yere Handy Andy an' pry the kiver. Seems like these
new-fangled cookin' yarbs is put up jes' ter try the patience ob de
saints."
Sandy took the instrument, and utilizing one of its many powers,
loosened the cover and handed the baking powder to Sally.
"I wonder how you ever kept your hand in at cooking?" he said musingly
as he reflected upon the past. But Sally was on guard.
"Lor, chile! an' why not? Ain't I allas had my own po'k and bacon?
Ain't I lived up to the Great House fo' years an' years?"
"Of course. And Sally, that reminds me. I'm going to buy the Great
House and--make it as it was before the war!"
"Gawd!" gasped Sally.
"I shall want you to tell me exactly how it looked--you can remember?"
"Why, yes, chile!" Sally's hand paused, spoon in air. "I can see it
same as it was yesterday. That-er Yankee man they called Sheridan--he
passed up by The Way an' he stopt right on the home-place o'
Stoneledge, an' General Walden he was there, an' old Miss, an' lil'
Miss Ann--she was right little an' young then but mighty peart. I was
stayin' at the Great House then, fo' it was near the time when lil'
Miss Queenie was goin' ter be born--her as died up Norf at a
horse-pittal. Well, that-er-Yankee Sheridan he don' say to General
Walden, 'We-all is near starvin'.' Jes' like a-that! An' General
Walden he don' say, standin' upperty an' mighty, 'We-all will share
with yo', general, bein' war is war.' Then what-er-yo' think? Lil'
Miss Ann she pearked up an' says right to his face: 'Yo' can't have
Anna Isabel!' She never batted an eye when she spoke up, an' I thought
I'd bust. The Yankee he don' ax who Anna Isabel was, an' lil' Miss Ann
said right stiff, 'She be my turkey--she be our Christmas dinner.' An'
jes' then Anna Isabel stalked straight-er-way befo' dat man Sheridan
an' lil' Miss Ann pointed an' says 'There's Anna Isabel!' Well, we-all
laughed an' I will say this for that Yank, he was powerful 'spectful to
us-all. 'I'm bleeged to come in an' res' an' have a meal,' he don'
said, and then he went on with his pack totin' at his heels.
"Fo' de Lord, Sandy Morley, shet off that snortin', roarin' fire or
I'll fetch yo' a real old-time lick!"
Sandy ran to regulate the dampers, his face radiant and boyish. He was
enjoying, as he never had enjoyed anything in his life before, the dear
home-atmosphere of his hills.
Sally Taber returned to her task with energy born of appreciation.
"We'll fix the old house of Stoneledge up in great shape," Sandy said,
coming back to the table and leaning forward on his hands to follow
Sally's energetic manipulation of the gingerbread; "that ought to be
something for the rest of us to live up to. I'd like to see little
Miss Cynthia installed there as mistress!"
"Her ain't of the Walden blood----" Sally remarked, breathlessly
beating the golden brown batter. Sandy winced. "But her has caught
the manners."
"And," Sandy steered away from the danger ground, "we'll have the
Home-school. It must be a home first; a school afterward, Sally. I
want the baby-things to have the 'lickings' of cakes and puddings in
the kitchen--it is to be a great, big, sunny kitchen! And I want them
to have bedtime stories and soft songs." Sandy's eyes, tender and
luminous, looked beyond Sally and rested on the gentle slope of Lost
Mountain. "I want them to have what every child has a right to and
which our children have never had."
Sally was thoughtfully baling the light cake into the long, shallow
tins:
"I clar' I don't know," she muttered, "how Smith Crothers is goin' to
'commodate hisself to yo'!" Then she shivered and stood upright, her
nostrils sniffing and her eyes alert like a deer in the wilds. "I don'
thought," she murmured, "dat I heard a step and saw a shadder fallin'!
Seems like the wind is changin', fetchin' chill an' storm!"
Sandy, with the superstition of The Hollow responding in his blood,
went to the window overlooking The Way. Just turning into the trail
leading up to the cabin a tall, lithe form swung in sight. Well
dressed, carrying a modern suitcase, and whistling, gayly came the
stranger. At the moment of recognition Sandy felt a cold aloofness
overpower him. He spoke, as if to convince a doubting listener: "I--I
reckon that is Lans Treadwell! Treadwell, of all people!"
But Sandy pulled himself together and went to greet his visitor with
characteristic warmth and cordiality. He believed it was only surprise
that had swayed him earlier. Lans, somehow, could not easily be fixed
into place in the rough hill life. Lans, always at his ease in Boston,
seemed oddly out of tune in Lost Hollow. But try as he might, Sandy
could not feel like himself, with Treadwell's cheerful laugh and
big-hearted, patronizing jollity resounding through the cabin. He was
too desperately and determinedly bent upon being "one of them" to be
comfortable.
"By Jove! Morley," he exclaimed, when Sandy had drawn him into the
living room; "this is a place. You've worked wonders here. I have
always wanted to see you in your family--is that your--your mother?"
For Sally Taber could be seen and heard through the half-open door
leading to the kitchen.
"No. My mother has been long dead. My father will return by evening
meal time. Come in here, Lans--you see I have unoccupied quarters----"
He led him to Levi's apartments. "Make yourself comfortable. I'll
start a fire on the hearth in this bedroom and the adjoining
sitting-room."
"Well, I'll be"--Treadwell glanced about at the plain
luxury--"eternally flambusted! If you are not a----" Then he laughed.
It was after the evening meal which Sally served in silent, morose
dignity, that the three men went to Sandy's study. The shed-rooms were
attached to the main cabin by a narrow hallway and this passage was
dark and cold. Coming from it into the warmth and glow of the room
filled with books and pictures, Treadwell paused to glance about and
exclaim before he took the easiest chair by the hearth and accepted
pipe and tobacco. Martin was ill at ease and looked helplessly now and
again to his son for leadings with this stranger who laughed so
constantly and regarded him as if he were a person of inferiority and
lack of intelligence who must, nevertheless, be treated with kindness
and tolerance.
"I suppose," Treadwell remarked when the three had finally settled into
some kind of comfort, "I suppose, Sand, you wonder how I found you out?"
Sandy had wondered but had restrained his curiosity. He looked now at
the big, handsome fellow and again was seized with the sense of chill
that he had felt in the afternoon.
"It sounds like a fairy story--a best seller or what you will. By and
by"--he glanced at Martin as though to suggest a time when he would be
absent--"I've got a lot to tell you, but something turned turtle in my
affairs and got on to my nerves. Aunt Olive made me consult Doctor
Travers, he's my uncle's pet aversion, you know, because he wanted Aunt
Matilda to go into his sanatorium and Uncle Levi considered it an
insult. Well, I saw Travers and he advised a vacation. 'Get to the
hills,' he suggested, 'and browse a bit. Why don't you go up to that
place--a hole in the ground,' he called it, 'where your uncle has
sent--Morley?' And then it all came out, and by Jove! I found out
that you hailed from the place of my forefathers!"
At this Martin dropped his pipe on the hearth and fixed his dim eyes on
the stranger's face. Back rolled the years that had been but stagnant
pools in poor Martin Morley's life; into focus came the simple hates
and injustices that had brought him where he was.
"Your--forefathers!" he gasped, while a weird familiarity and
resemblance to--he knew not what--made Treadwell something tangible and
actual at last.
"Yes. We still own a good bit of land over beyond the place called The
Forge. I've been having a look at it. It's run wild and rank, but it
might be reclaimed, I suppose. There is a depraved old squatter on the
place; lives in an old smoke-house. He actually remembered my
grandfather and what do you think, Morley"--Lans had turned his back
upon Martin, whose fixed stare and rigid pose disturbed him--"the old
codger actually told me half of a story the other half of which Aunt
Olive and I have often laughed over. Oddly enough it is a new and
another connecting link between you and me. We're throw-backs, old
fellow! Throw-backs and neither of us realizing it, but just naturally
coming together."
Sandy was looking at his father. Martin was pale and haggard and his
bony hands clutched his thin knees until the knuckles were strained and
white.
"Hertford!" whispered Martin; "Hertford!"
"Sure thing!" Lans gave a laugh. "See, I'm discovered even in this
disguise." He nodded toward the old man as one might toward an
imbecile who had shown a gleam of intelligence. "Lansing Hertford is
my real name; named for a grandfather just as you are, Sandy Morley.
You see I've patched the scraps together. It was your grandfather and
mine who were good pals way back in the musty ages. Some one played a
practical joke on them and the friendship went up in thin air. It's
left for you and me to pick up the pieces and--cement them together. I
wonder if you ever heard about the bottle of stuff my grandfather gave
your grandfather to bring home from--from Turkey, I think it was. Our
forebears were globe trotters in a day when to trot meant to make
history."
"I--I've heard it," Sandy muttered, his eyes still fixed on his
father's rigid face.
"Did you ever hear the--joke?"
"Joke? No! Was there a joke?"
"Yes. Your relative stopped in Paris--he was a jolly old buck
according to reports--and he hugged that everlasting bottle so close to
him that some fellows--sounds beastly frivolous to refer to those
dignified shades as fellows--but, anyway, some chaps from round about
here were doing gay Paree just then and they caught on to your
grandsire's devotion to that phial; they called it his Passion, his
mistress, and one night when he had left it hidden in his room they
found it, emptied out the contents--some kind of cologne it was--and
filled it with water! They never heard the outcome, but Aunt Olive and
I have often wondered how--some mountain girl probably enjoyed her
smelling salts, or perfume, or whatever it was!"
Sandy could not move. He was spellbound, but Martin struggled to his
feet and stood towering over Lans Treadwell, shaking as with ague.
"I reckon I can tell you how it--turned out," he said, while his poor
old chin quivered as if the effort was almost more than he could
endure. "It war this-er-way. He came home to The Hollow, Sandy's
grandfather, an' he brought the bottle of--water! Oh! my God--and them
as opened the bottle--found out and began--to whisper! They all
whispered an' nudged ole Sandford Morley out of life an' inter his
grave. They-all hinted that he war a thief, a betrayer of his friend,
but he war that upright and clean that he war deaf to whispers an'
he--he didn't know the language of dirty slurs and off looks from them
as war once his friends! He went to his grave without knowing what had
edged him outer the respect of his neighbours. Then the lie grew an'
grew an' took the life an' souls outer us-all an' made us po'
whites--us as war as good an' better than your kin!"
A terrible fury was rising in Martin, and Sandy, unable to clarify the
situation, paused before entering the fray.
"Then Sandy here, he got his call an' rose up to save us-all. Out in
the world he found--you. You've come here--for what? for what?"
"Father!" At last Sandy was beside the old man. "Father, remember he
is our guest! He has come to clear--can you not see--he has
cleared--our name!"
Exultation and joy flooded Sandy; and his touch on his father's arm,
the thrill in his voice had power to calm the old man.
"Good God!" Treadwell exclaimed, rising and facing the two; "is it out
of such stuff, such dreams, such grudges, such shabby jokes, the life
of the hills is made?"
"Yes." Sandy whispered, "out of such stuff we come--or remain! You
can never know what you have done for us, Lans. Father will realize it
later--he's nearer the past than I am. For myself I--thank you! You
have, well, you cannot understand, but it's like you had put a broad,
wide window in our lives, letting in sunshine and sweet air where mould
and rot had once been."
He stretched his hand out frankly and tried to push his father forward
to do the same, but Martin turned away, the tears streaming from his
eyes. Sandy was looking to the future; Martin to the past; and Lansing
Treadwell stood between the two with a light laugh upon his lips and a
vague, contemptuous wonder in his eyes.