Lance Treadwell did not leave the mountains the next day. The storm
poured, and Sandy's words sunk deep in his light mind.
"Yes," he thought to himself virtuously, "I'll let Marian have it out
with her conscience or whatever it was that took her from me. I'll
write and tell her I'm waiting up here!"
In the meanwhile Treadwell took a new interest in the mountains,
especially in that part of them known as Trouble Neck. Marcia Lowe and
her "charm" appealed to him hugely.
"Why, it's been introduced in many other places," he said to the little
doctor; "why can't you get your representative at Washington to get an
appropriation for you?"
Marcia Lowe laughed long and merrily at this. "I really do not know
who represents us at Washington," she replied; "it is some distant man,
like as not, with axes galore of his own to grind, with these mystic
votes of the mountains to help along. Doubtless he has a soul above
names, and if a petticoat doctor should go to him and plead her cause
for these people he would probably have me shut up as a maniac. The
Forge doctor is making himself very unpleasant. He told me the other
day that if I persisted in working my charm on many more people he
would have me--investigated! Just fancy! investigating me! He used to
laugh at me; it's got past the laughing stage now. When professional
people step on each other's toes the atmosphere is apt to be electric.
The Forge doctor has at last concluded that I am not a joke. A woman,
to that sort of man, is either a joke or a menace."
Treadwell laughed gayly. Marcia Lowe was a delight to him; besides,
Cynthia Walden was always present when he visited Trouble Neck, and
Cynthia was bewitching. Treadwell did not talk of the girl to Sandy.
He had no special reason for not doing so, but, having posed as a
tragic creature--a man confronting a great soul-problem--he did not
like to come down from his pedestal and stand revealed as a human being
interested in a mountain girl.
"Her smile," he said to Marcia Lowe one day when Cynthia had left the
room for a moment--"how do you account for that?"
"I never account for Cynthia," the little doctor replied. "I just take
her and thank God. She and I live our beautiful little life with mists
all about us. It's very fascinating and inspiring. She is such a
child, and until there is some call to do otherwise, I am going to play
with her. We actually have dolls! Of course there are all sorts of
bones in the cupboard to pass out to the darling, but I'm waiting until
she is hungry."
And so Cynthia played her part and smiled and dreamed. Things just
were! There was no perspective, no contrast--the sun was always
flooding her hours with the one small, white cloud of Sandy's marked
passage in the "Pilgrim's Progress," to sail across her sky now and
then. Treadwell did not surprise or shock her. He seemed a big,
splendid happening from the world beyond the mountains. He was strong
and pleasant and made one laugh, but he would go presently and they
would talk about him as they talked about Sheridan's raid and Smith
Crothers' fire--he was not part of Lost Mountain!
Cynthia, nevertheless, walked with Lans Treadwell through the trails,
and once they had followed the Branch and come upon the new factory
near The Forge. The girl told Treadwell of the fire, but she
eliminated herself utterly from the story. She understood better now
than she once had--her part in that snowy night. Then they spoke of
Sandy and his hopes.
It was a gray, still day when they so freely discussed Sandy, and they
were strolling up from Trouble Neck to the Morley cabin; Miss Lowe and
Sandy were to meet them there later, coming from an opposite direction.
"Yes, Sandy is right noble," Cynthia said softly; "he was born, I
reckon, to do a mighty big thing. When he was little it seemed like
God said, 'Sandy Morley, I choose you!' There never was any one like
Sandy."
Treadwell scanned the face near him, but saw only admiration and pride,
detached and pure.
"We-all just waited like we were holding our breaths till he came
marching up The Way. I can laugh now, Mr. Lans, but the morning I saw
him first I was standing right there"--she pointed to the tree by the
road where she had listened to Sandy's bird call--"and he came along,
and when I knew that that big man was--my Sandy that went all raggedy
down The Way years before--I expect I hated him! It seemed like he had
stolen the nice boy, eaten him up and swallowed him! But no one hates
Sandy. We-all want to do something big and fine. Why, every time I
look at him, Mr. Lans, I feel like I must show him how glad I am
he--well, he didn't swallow the old Sandy whole!"
Treadwell laughed delightedly.
"He's mighty good to get near to when you feel--troubled," Cynthia
added; "and, too, you feel like you wanted to keep him from hurting
himself!"
"How well you put it!" Treadwell's face grew serious. He recalled his
hour of confession in Sandy's study and felt an honest glow of
appreciation.
"When I was a right little girl," Cynthia went on, "I lived up at
Stoneledge with Aunt Ann; she was my real aunt. I had a mighty queer
life for a little girl and I reckon I would have fared mighty bad if I
hadn't had a secret life!"
"You bad child!" Treadwell cried, shaking his finger at her; "a double
life, eh?"
"Yes." The sweet smile gave Lans a bad moment. "Yes. In that-er-life
I had all the things I wanted; all the folks I liked, and it just kept
me--going! Sometimes I wish, oh! how I wish, that Sandy had a nice
little other life, free of work and worry and loneliness, where he
could--let go! Sandy does hold on so!"
"I wish I could have been in your 'other life'," Lans whispered.
"Oh! real folks never got there!"
"Well, if it will comfort you any," Treadwell broke in with an
uncomfortable sense of being an off-mountaineer, "Sandy has--another
life."
"Really?" Cynthia flushed and curiosity swayed her. She had never had
so good an opportunity to know the man Sandy; she might never have
again. "Really? and folks, right magic folks to--to play with?"
Treadwell thought of the Markhams and grinned; then he thought of
Sandy's secret relations with the girl his aunt had told him of and he
grew imaginative. "Yes. Now there is a man in Sandy's other world, a
grim, rather stern man, but he has a magic wand that he lets Sandy wave
now and then--it's great fun!"
"Oh! you mean the Company?"
"Exactly. That's his pet name. And there is a nice old fairy
godmother who brews wonderful mixtures for Sandy and darns his socks
and makes believe, when no one is listening, that she is his mother."
"I should love her, the honey!"
Treadwell stopped and gave a big, hearty laugh. Matilda Markham as a
"honey" was about the most comical thing he had ever dreamed of.
"And is there"--the drawling sweetness of Cynthia's voice was moving
Treadwell dangerously--"is there something young and pretty and mighty
bright, too?"
"Yes." Treadwell's laugh was gone.
"A--girl--I reckon?"
"Yes, a girl--just girl enough, you know, to keep him--like--well--like
other fellows."
"Oh!" Cynthia smiled, but her eyes grew as gray as the day; the blue
faded from them. "I hope she is a mighty nice, upperty girl."
"I'm only playing, you know," Lans broke in. "I am imagining a life
for Sandy something like your old secret life. It's all fun."
"You mean--Sandy has an--an imagination?"
"Precisely."
But the "girl" part of the make-believe remained in Cynthia's memory.
Sandy had had his pretty story down there, away from Lost Hollow! Now
he had come back; had left it all behind him! She saw it quite
clearly. Perhaps when he was on that recent visit he had looked upon
all the dear playthings as she used to look at her "Pilgrim's
Progress," the portraits on the walls of the Interpreter's House, and
her letters to her soul. Perhaps Sandy had played with the wand of the
grim old Company; had tasted the brews of the dear Fairy Godmother and
he had--bidden good-bye to the pretty girl-thing! It was very plain
now; Sandy had accepted his life of duty in the hills, he had shut the
door between him and his playroom.
Just then Smith Crothers crossed The Way, lifting his hat as he did so,
to Cynthia. So silently had he come, so suddenly had he materialized,
that Cynthia was taken off her guard. Her hand went to her side--but
the pistol was not there! In her safer, saner life she often forgot
the dangerous thing. A shudder ran through her body and she drew
nearer Treadwell. The soft, gray day grew dark, and Crothers, like
something evil, seemed to pervade everything. Instinctively Lans put
his hand out and laid it protectingly on the shoulder beside him. The
touch shared the taint, too.
"Oh! do not do that," pleaded Cynthia recoiling. "I was only startled
because--he--the man came so suddenly."
"But I--I only wanted you to know you have--nothing to fear with me
here."
Cynthia made an effort to smile, but it was a sad, little shadowy
wraith of a smile.
The touch, the resentment, began their work from that moment. As
Cynthia's shudder at Crothers' touch in the past had fanned the evil
passions of the man, so her recoil now drew Treadwell's attention to
the fact that she was not a child--but a woman; a woman who recognized
him as man! The thought thrilled and interested him. It made him
forget to write that letter to Marian Spaulding; it made him conscious
that he did not care to talk about his many visits to Trouble Neck with
Sandy Morley.
And Sandy, during the days of the prolonged visit, was often absent
from home. The factory and the Home-school claimed his care and
presence. He feared, at first, that Treadwell would have a dreary time
by himself, but there were books, and Lans repeatedly told him the rest
and quiet were doing him a world of good. Then--and the desire
confused Sandy--he wished Treadwell would cut his visit short. The
confession in the study had not drawn Treadwell nearer; it had driven
him farther away. It was as if, by keener insight, Sandy had been
cruelly disillusioned; had discovered that he, not Lans, was bound to
bear a new burden of responsibility. Having confided in his friend,
Treadwell, apparently, was eased and comforted; while Sandy was
constantly thinking of a certain, vague, little suffering creature who,
by a word of his, was left to a hard fight with no help at hand.
"Why in thunder!" Sandy thought as he and Martin worked with the men
over at the factory; "why in thunder doesn't he go home and--stand by?"
But Lans did not go away, and more than Sandy grew restive. Martin had
taken a deep dislike to the visitor and was only held in check by
Sandy's reasoning and demands.
"Why, Dad, Lans had nothing to do with the old misunderstanding. He
has really done us a good turn by throwing light on the past."
"He--he laughed!" muttered Martin. "They-all laugh that-er-way. Big
things is little to them-all; and little things is--big! Them
Hertfords be--no-count! They all sound upperty and look upperty, but
they-all is--trash!"
"Come, come, Dad! Lans isn't trash. He's done me more than one good
turn."
"I reckon he'll do you a right smart bad one some day, son."
"Dad!"
"Yes, son. Now, why didn't the old general come an' tell us-all 'bout
the joke? Why didn't he give us-all a chance to jine in the laugh?
Then this lad's father--why didn't he come back to Lost Hollow and find
out 'bout--Queenie Walden, as was?"
Martin's voice sank into a whisper, but the words had a terrific effect
upon Sandy. So naturally had he accepted the life of The Hollow again,
so happily had he permitted his hills to draw close about him, shutting
away the noises and interpretations of the big outer world, that the
old doubt about Cynthia's poor mother, the loyal outward holding to the
story Ann Walden had told of her birth, had escaped him. Now it came
thundering through Martin's whisper like a heavy blow.
If that hushed belief were true, then--Sandy could not stand; he sat
down upon a fallen tree and stared at his father.
"If that is true, then Cynthia and Treadwell are----" The thought
burned itself into the mind and soul of Sandy Morley. No longer could
he permit things to drift past him; here, among his hills, vital truths
were vital truths and might make or mar the people he was bent upon
helping.
"Cold cramp yo', son?" Martin gazed at his boy.
"For a minute--yes, Dad."
From that day Sandy knew that Treadwell must go away. Just how to
bring it about he did not know, for his shadowy doubt could not be
voiced; there was not the least reason why it should be--but Cynthia
must be kept from the intangible something that could never touch her
but to bring dishonour. And after Lans departed, Sandy thought, he
would try to know more of the hideous uncertainty; seek to find out
what ground there was for the doubt. In rebuilding Stoneledge, he must
do more--he must try to take the blight from the old name. "But
suppose"--and at that Sandy raised his head--"more glory in the end and
more need to win Cynthia to him!"
While Sandy was struggling to work his way out of the snare, struggling
to discover some social plank down which Treadwell could be courteously
slid from Lost Mountain to Boston without damage to his dignity or the
Morley sense of hospitality, Smith Crothers got his inspiration.
Filled with hate and envy, appreciating the fact that Sandy's business
enterprises were menaces to his future prosperity, the man silently and
morosely plotted and planned some kind, any kind of revenge. Cynthia,
he dared not approach personally; even his evil thoughts dared not rest
upon her directly. He had nothing with which to lure her; not even a
decent approach could be made. The girl was always on guard; he could
make no apology; he could hope from no self-abasement to win her faith.
To harm her brutishly would be to secure his own death, for well he
knew that the subtle force that was coming into life in The Hollow was
making the men remember they were men and the women to realize it also.
Then, too, the factory back of The Hollow would be running in a year's
time. It would put on the market a different line of merchandise than
his, but it would draw its labour from the same sources from which he
drew.
"That damned yellow cur," Crothers thought, "will put up prices; shut
down on the brats, and backed by the money of a fool who thinks to get
a big name this-er-way, will get me by the throat if I don't get him
first."
Vaguely, stupidly, Crothers desired to get Sandy away from The Hollow.
If only he could cause him to lose interest, give up the job and turn
the Company up North sick of the venture, all might be well. Crothers
had even fancied the good effect of a plague in The Hollow that would
wipe out the labouring class; of course, that would cripple him, but
he'd have the ground to himself and he could make up for that.
However, at the plague suggestion Marcia Lowe rose grimly with warning
gesture. The little doctor was undermining several things. She was
teaching the women to live decently, cook decently, and take a human
interest in their children. Her charm, too, was having effect; more
than Martin Morley had tested its potency and taken to holier ways.
The Forge doctor often told Crothers that the She-Saw-Bones ought to be
behind bars, but even in Lost Hollow you couldn't put a person behind
bars for cleaning souls and homes.
And then, at that juncture, Crothers came upon Treadwell and Cynthia.
He saw the girl's shudder and her look at her companion, and he
understood the shudder but misunderstood the look! Lansing Treadwell
had not cared to cover his true identity; rather boastfully he had
proclaimed himself a Hertford and meant, some day, to reclaim his
family lands and bring back the glory of the past. But Lost Hollow had
its private opinion of the Hertfords, and when the County Club had been
permitted to share the joke about that old story which had damned the
Morleys, the club refused to laugh. Oddly enough they took sides with
Martin Morley, and in their late understanding of facts made flattering
overtures to Martin that embarrassed him deeply.
"Morley," Tod Greeley urged, "you-cum down to the club and set in
Townley's armchair. Andrew Townley ain't ever going to sit anywhere
again, I reckon; he's flat on his back for keeps now. His chair is
mighty empty-looking and there ain't a man round the store but would
welcome you to that seat of honour."
With no idea of resentment Martin replied: "You're mighty kind,
Greeley, and time was when I'd like to have jined you-all, but now
Sandy and me is right companionable and--him not being a smokin' man,
I'd be mighty lonesome in the circle, and Sandy would miss me to home."
"And serves us-all right, too," Greeley said to the club. "Us-all
pitting a Hertford agin a Morley!"
So the situation was ripe for Crothers to use Cynthia and the doubtful
Hertford against Morley, and, incidentally, the Company against Morley.
"Sandy Morley would like to get the girl," Crothers reasoned
primitively; "and if this-er-Treadwell or Hertford can smirch her--it
will finish Sandy; take his appetite for The Hollow away and--clean up
the whole business--getting me even for past hurts, too--damn her!"
Like many another blindly passionate man, Crothers hit out in the dark
with what weapons he had and landed a blow where he least expected, the
recoil of which stunned and downed him.