They had tramped the hills together, Sandy and Lans. They had gone
carefully over the plans for the factory and Home-school, had seen the
growing building of the former and revelled in the dreams of the latter.
"It proves my liking for you, old chap," Lans had said, "when I can
look at all this and not envy you. You see, Uncle Levi wanted to train
me in the way I should go, but I got a twist in the wrong direction
and--well! I never squeal. That's about all the philosophy or
religion I have--I never squeal! Live your life; take your chances and
squeal not! Then you remember I used to tell you that I was a big
bungling giant? You've got the vision and the leading. But to think
of Uncle Levi putting the reins in your hands! I can imagine him
letting any one he likes hold the _end_ of the reins--but he's leaned
back and is letting you drive."
"Yes--but only because his big, wise head and loving heart tell him
this is a safe road to travel."
"Oh! I don't know. Who's going to be any the better for--all this?
There's a lot of Tommyrot about charity. If I were going to splurge
I'd do it in the middle of the stage and make an advertisement of it at
the same time. It's cheaper and more sensible. Why, if Uncle Levi
would spend in Boston what he's spending up here--he'd have the world
talking about his mills."
Sandy turned away. He was thinking of what Levi had said to him a few
weeks before as he was ending his visit in Bretherton.
"Son"--he was "son" to the old brother and sister after that trip
abroad--"son, go back to your hills and see in every ragged boy--Sandy
Morley! In every little lass--your sister Molly! Gather them in, son,
gather them in, and let us help them as we helped you to--come out
cleaner and better. Work up there, son, as if God Almighty's eye alone
was upon you. Men have forgotten the hill people, but God called you
to lead them out of bondage."
"It pays to advertise," Lans was remarking.
"Yes," Sandy returned; "and Mr. Markham advertises in a most original
and picturesque way."
Through all the walks and drives round about The Hollow, Sandy inwardly
prayed that Cynthia might not materialize. Why he so strongly desired
this he could not tell. He liked Lans; enjoyed his visit and
companionship, but he hoped he would leave before Cynthia appeared. He
grew restless at times and found himself longing to tell Treadwell that
the Markhams were coming to The Hollow for Christmas, and the rooms
occupied by Lans would be needed. But the days went by and Cynthia
kept from sight. The truth was, Sally Taber had gone to Trouble Neck
and spread the news and warning.
"You-all bes' stay away," she said; "dis yere Yank be right triflin'
and polite. He makes us-all feel like we war dirt under his feet. I
clar' I'd like to work an evil charm on him! Ole Mr. Morley he don'
take naturally to the woods an' leaves them young gem'men to
themselves. I keep the do' closed 'twixt them an' me--he makes me feel
like there was traps set fo' my feet."
"You must be having a real gay time up there!" Marcia Lowe replied,
laughing at poor old Sally's indignation.
"Well, I'se cookin' mo' an' mo' monstrous every day. If that Yank can
stan' what I have in store fo' him from now on, I reckon he don' got a
stummick like a beast o' burden."
"Ah! poor Sandy," Cynthia cried; "you'll kill him, too. I reckon I'll
come up and bring him food at night and put it in his study."
"Not just yet, little Cyn," Marcia Lowe replied, putting a protecting
arm about the girl. "Cynthia's a bit run down," she explained to
Sally; "off her feed a little. We're going to have a holiday. What do
you think?--Mr. Greeley is going to take us 'over the hills and far
away'--about twenty-five miles away! He's going over to make a will
for an old man who is dying and he's invited us to share his carriage.
Take good care of the Morleys, Sally, and let's hope the stranger will
leave before we return. I'm getting real Southern in my tastes and am
positively suspicious of Northerners!"
And it was a few nights after the night that Tod Greeley, with Marcia
Lowe and Cynthia tucked comfortably away in the back seat of his
carry-all, started on their trip, that Lans Treadwell and Sandy Morley
sat before the fire in the study and had their talk--the talk that
illumined the path on ahead for Sandy.
"Old fellow!" exclaimed Lans, taking the cushions from the window-seat
and tossing them back again from where he stood in the middle of the
room; "never _place_ sofa pillows--chuck 'em! Only by so doing can you
give that free and easy grace that distinguishes a Frat cosy corner
from a drawingroom torture chamber."
Every cushion that Treadwell tossed seemed to strike with a thud on
Sandy's heart. It was as if Treadwell were hurting little Cyn as she
sat in her window-seat with her dear face turned toward them.
"Come, sit down, Lans. You are as nervous as a ghost-candle."
"Thanks!" Treadwell took a chair across the hearth from his host.
"There's a devil of a storm rising out of doors."
"They're right common this season of the year. About six or seven
years ago there was one up here that came mighty near ending the
existence of a good many--it did carry one poor old darky woman away."
"That's cheerful! Sand, forgive me if I seem brutal, but do you know I
believe the cooking up here is giving me indigestion. I wouldn't mind
this if I didn't have your anatomy in mind, too. Those--what do you
call them?"
"Ash cakes?"
"Yes. They were, to put it mildly, damnable."
Sandy laughed.
"They were right ashy," he admitted. "Sally is old and careless."
"She'll murder you, if you don't look out."
Sandy kicked a log farther back on the hearth and the room was filled
with rosy light and warmth.
"Your father doesn't seem particularly drawn to me, Sand. Does he
always retire to his chamber as soon as he has finished his--his
evening meal? Somehow it looks pointed!"
Lans was not his usual, sunny self. The rising storm, his own
thoughts, and the evil ash cakes were having their way with him.
"I never question father, Lans. He is old. I want him to do exactly
as he chooses. You must not take offence."
"Certainly not. Only I do not want to feel I drive him away or deprive
you of his companionship. Ever since I told the joke about that bottle
of perfumery he seems to avoid me."
"Father hasn't a sense of humour," Sandy ventured, striving to keep the
bitterness of resentment from his voice.
"The devil!" ejaculated Lans. "That log spits like a hag. A spark
fell straight on my ankle."
"Excuse it," Sandy murmured, smiling as Lans nursed his silk-enclosed
ankle.
"Hang it all, Sand! I've got to get back to civilization!"
Sandy bent over the fire to conceal his feelings. "Not to-night,
surely," he said.
"No, but in a day or so. Morley, I--I want to tell you something.
Tell you why I cut and came up here right in the middle of things at
home."
The storm outside pounded on the windows; the fire flared and chuckled
crisply. Sandy thought about Cynthia, wondered where she was, and then
he became conscious of something Treadwell was saying.
"There was a time, Sand, when I couldn't have come to you with this. I
thought you were such an infernal puritan--but Aunt Olive has told me
of that--that little affair of yours which ended so--well so happily
tragical, and it has made you seem more human. Of course there could
have been no better way out for you and--her, and Uncle Levi was a
brick to overlook it. I've liked him better for it, but my affair is
another matter."
Sandy gazed dumbly at Treadwell and could not frame words to call the
other to a halt. Not comprehending what Lans knew or misunderstood,
having no intention of explaining--he simply stared and then turned to
mend the fire.
"My affair--is different. You know about it--partially?"
"I've heard something. It was none of my business." A sternness crept
into Sandy's voice which Treadwell entirely misunderstood.
"Well, because it was possible for me to come to you; because of all my
friends, you seemed in this hour of trouble, the only one I _could_
come to, I want you to make it your business, Sand."
The low-pitched, pleading voice awoke sympathy. It was that tone and
manner which had caused people to straighten out the snarls of Lans
Treadwell's life from babyhood up. There was capitulation. It was as
if he had said: "I deserve no pity, no comfort, but--give them to me!"
It awoke all the spontaneous desire for his happiness in every
tender-hearted person who knew and liked him.
"I'm not indifferent, Lans. I only meant that in your friendship and
mine there have always been reservations. You took me up because of
your generous friendliness; you helped me mightily. I never felt the
slightest inclination to penetrate into your private life, and my own
was of such a nature that I was obliged to live it alone. My years
away from the mountains were years of preparation to come back. Every
hand held out to me was but a power to help me on my course. I have
never--except recently with the Markhams--ever taken anything
personally. I have always recognized that I was called to serve my
people; I have been grateful, but I have never appropriated."
Treadwell looked hard at the fine, dark face touched now to vivid
beauty by the rich glow of the fire.
"And I know few fellows who have won out as you have," he said
admiringly. "You have that in you, about you, that attracts and
compels. People trust you, like you--need you when a pinch comes."
"Thank you, Lans."
"And God knows I want you, need you, now!"
Sandy put out his hand, Treadwell gripped it, then both leaned back in
their chairs and the story came, set to the wild strains of the
mountain storm.
"She was one of those little creatures born to be the plaything of
Fate. When she was seventeen she married Jack Spaulding--he was part
genius, but more fool. He was caught by the girl's spirituality and
brightness and he couldn't any more comprehend her than a raw-boned
Indian could understand a water sprite. To him she was a woman he
wanted--nothing more. He got her and when he wasn't lost in the maze
of invention he permitted her--Good God!--he permitted her to supply
the needs and yearnings of the--the man in him. Poor, little entrapped
soul! She struggled between duty and loathing until her Guardian Angel
saved her. When Spaulding was going through his ups and downs of
fortune she stood by him. His downs were oftener and longer than his
ups and she was pure grit and a bully little sport. Then he got on his
feet with a vengeance. He could give her anything and, like a big,
blundering savage he began to load her down with _things_ and make his
demands for payment and she--up and left him!"
Sandy felt that the heat of the room was oppressive, but he held his
position and flinched not.
"Poor, little white-souled girl! She left him and tackled life with
her wits and her two pretty hands. I met her during my senior year.
She was reporting for a Boston paper, getting starvation wages; living
like a bird in two rooms of a high-pitched house off in a desolate
corner of town and thanking God for her--escape and freedom. Well, I
lost my heart to her and you know how I and my set feel about certain
things. Laws are all right for the--herd; a present help for the
helpless; protection for the happy, and all the rest, but they should
be handled wisely and discriminately by the intelligent minority.
She--Marian Spaulding held the same views!"
"Why--didn't she divorce him--her husband?" Somehow the question
sounded crude and unnecessary on Sandy's lips.
"For form's sake, she tried. Spaulding would not let her. He was an
ugly devil and he just couldn't understand any woman snapping her
fingers at his big money. He meant to starve her out, but he--well, he
got left!
"I took rooms out near Cambridge. At first we were--friends! I wanted
her to have time and quiet to think it out her own way. Learn to trust
me; come to me of her own accord and because she was large enough to
choose the braver course."
The heat was stifling Sandy, but he gripped the arms of his chair and
kept still.
"She--she came to me willingly--three months ago! I've known and she
has known, Sand, such bliss as only free, untrammeled souls can know
who have gone through hell fire and proven themselves!"
Sandy almost sprang up. "You won't mind," he said jerkily, "if I raise
the window? The room is like a furnace."
When he came back to his place, Lans, head bent forward in clasped
hands, was ready for him.
"Women are all alike in some ways. They never dare let go entirely and
plunge! They hold on to something, get frightened, and scurry back to
tradition. Three weeks ago Spaulding sent for her--for Marian. He'd
lost everything; was ill and needed her. She went! I found a
note--that's all."
"Well!" Then having said that one word, Sandy sought about in his
confused mind for another. Again he said, "Well!" and waited.
"I--I cannot be happy without her. The longer I stay away the stronger
her claim seems to me. I must go back and--try again."
"Try--what?"
Sandy felt the cool, wet outer air touch his face as he leaned forward,
for at last Lans Treadwell had aroused him. He was not, however,
thinking of Lans and his yearnings; he was thinking of a little,
unknown woman who was following the gleam of her conscience, while
love, selfish love, was ready to spring upon her with its demands,
before she had wrestled with and solved her own problem.
"Try--what?"
"To get her away from Spaulding; get her back to me and--happiness. We
were happy, God knows we were!"
"If you--if she were happy, then her going proved something stronger
than happiness called her."
"Women are like that. They hold the world back by their conventions
and conservations. They ask for freedom and--and equality, and then
they cling to tradition in spite of all."
"I reckon," Sandy's eyes were troubled and tender, "I reckon we-all
better keep our hands off for a while and watch out to see them, the
women, solve what is their business. They-all may want freedom and the
rest--but it must be--as they see freedom and equality, Lans. I'm
mighty sure in every woman's heart there is the beginning of a path
leading--out and up, that they can find better alone. Why don't you
wait until--until this little"--Sandy dropped into the sweet
"lil"--"this little woman comes to you."
"She'd never come!" Lans half groaned; "you do not know how tradition
would hold her there. She'd starve rather than to call me now."
Sandy was thoughtful a moment. He saw that Treadwell probably was
right there, but a strange sense of protection rose in his heart. He
felt he must protect that distant, strange woman from Lans in his
present mood.
"Then I reckon you better stand off and watch unseen, Lans." Sandy
made a bold stroke: "Are you thinking of her only? I'm mighty sure,
Treadwell, in a case like this you ought not, you--dare not think of
any one but her!"
The bald, rigid reasoning struck Lans Treadwell like the cold draught
from the open window.
"Good God! Sand," he ejaculated, "let me shut that sash down. The cold
gets into your heart as if it were driven by some infernal machine."
Sandy got up and pulled the glass down sharply, but he could not,
thereby, bring comfort to Lans' conscience.
"What do you mean by a case like this, Sand? No case between man and
woman can be separated that way. Her need is my need; mine is hers!"
"Is it?"
"Thunder! Sand, of course it is."
"I--I do not know. Things come so slowly, but I'm trying to learn for
the sake of my people. The women and children, Lans, have got a clutch
on me; they must always come first. Even when we want women happy, we
want to give them happiness; give them the liberty _we_ think is good
for them. Treadwell, I'm mighty sure there are times when we-all
better get out and leave them alone! We only make matters worse. You
do not know these hills as I do--I don't want to preach, heaven knows!
As I talk I am only feeling my own way, not pointing yours; but I know
my hill people, and the women and children tug right hard at my heart.
When love--such love as our mountain men know--takes a woman into a
cabin--it generally shuts God out! I know this, and the children that
come into life by way of our cabins are--well! I was a cabin boy,
Lans! Women need God oftener than we-all do. Love puts a claim on
them that it never does on us-all. Love demands suffering of them;
responsibility that man never knows. Treadwell, we men must never clog
up the trail that leads woman to her God. I know I'm right there! But
tell me, are women and men different, so different in the lowlands and
highlands?"
Treadwell was bent over, his face hidden in his hands. He made no
answer.
"That little woman--down there"--Sandy's eyes were far and away from
the warm, rude comfort of the room which held him and that stricken
figure by the hearth--"is battling for what she believes is right.
Something in her was strong enough to take her from you, your love, and
the safety you stand for in her life. She has gone back to--what has
stood for hell in her past. Do you, can you, understand her,
Treadwell?"
"No!"
"Then, keep away until God, as she knows God, has had His way with her.
Stand off and watch. Be ready, but let her fight her fight and come to
you, if that is the end--with clean soul!"
And now Lans Treadwell was weeping as only men and children can weep
when they are defeated by a stronger will they cannot understand, and
cannot resist.
The great logs crackled and the wind roared in the chimney. Above, the
shambling steps of Martin Morley sounded as he made his preparations
for bed. Suddenly Sandy started up and listened.
"There's a call of distress from The Way," he said, getting upon his
feet. Then he stood waiting for the next sound. Treadwell pulled
himself together and listened also.
No call came, but presently steps were heard outside--a tap on the door
of the room which led directly to the open.
"Come!" said Sandy, and in walked Marcia Lowe and Cynthia Walden. They
were rain-soaked and wind-blown. Their faces shone and their eyes
danced.
"This is the end of our holiday," Marcia said with a laugh. Neither
she nor Cynthia paid attention to the man in the chair; he was hardly
visible behind the high back. "Tod Greeley's shaft broke just as we
were coming into The Way from the cross cut. We called and called, but
finally we decided to find where we were--it is as black as a pocket
out of doors--we were all completely lost. Cynthia and I felt our way
along, while Greeley stayed with the horse--the beast acted like a
fiend--and then we saw a light: your light! No other man in The Hollow
wastes oil like you--and here we are!"
At this Treadwell made himself evident. Turning sharply, he met the
big, lovely eyes of the girl beside the talkative little woman. The
fair, damp face was inframed by tendrils of light hair under a hood of
dullish red; the long, coarse, brown coat clung to the slim figure, and
the mouth of the girl was smiling. Treadwell had never seen a mouth
smile so before.
Sandy introduced his friend and then said: "Lans, make the ladies
comfortable; I'll lend Greeley a hand."