Crothers was a man who approached his ends by the use of his better
qualities. The man whom the children of the factory shrank before in
trembling fear, the man whom the men fawned before, and the women
loathed and hated in dumb acquiescence, was not the man who years ago
crept around the desk in his office to implore a kiss from "little
Miss." Crothers could smile and speak courteously; his hard eyes could
soften and attract, and there was no doubt as to his business capacity
and positive genius in bargaining.
With a more or less clear idea as to the outcome of his desires,
Crothers was perfectly explicit as to his desires. He wanted to get
Sandy Morley away, permanently away, from Lost Hollow. Could he
achieve this, his business might prosper as in old days, his command of
the community gain power and his future be secure. If he could bring
this desired consummation to pass, by harming Sandy and, incidentally,
Cynthia Walden and Marcia Lowe, so much the better. They were
disturbing elements in the place and nothing was secure, not even the
suppression of the women and the degeneracy of the men.
"In the family and the town," Crothers had said once to Tod Greeley,
"there must always be a head; a final voice, or there will be hell."
"Who do you want to boss your family and town?" Greeley had innocently
asked. Crothers had not committed himself; he believed actions should
speak louder than words!
Seeking about for a beginning of his campaign to turn Sandy Morley from
his course, Crothers landed upon Lans Treadwell.
Treadwell could not always be at Trouble Neck while Sandy and Martin
were at the factory-building back in the woods; reading palled upon
Lans, too, and the bad cooking for his private meals began to attract
his attention. That he did not resent anything in his friend's home
and make his farewell bow was characteristic of Lansing Treadwell. He
was thoroughly good-natured, inordinately selfish, and was consumed by
deep-rooted conviction that Sandy Morley owed him a great deal and that
he was conferring a mighty honour upon the young man by accepting his
hospitality. No doubt arose as to his right in sharing Sandy's home,
but as time went on he did, as all weak and vacillating natures do,
resent young Morley's strength of character, simplicity and capacity
for winning to himself that which Lans felt belonged to him by inherent
justice. It had been one thing to know that his Uncle Levi Markham had
taken another young man and set him on his feet, but quite another to
realize that his uncle had adopted a poor white from the native hills
of the Hertfords and was providing him with wings. A new element had
entered into Lans.
"It's like Uncle Levi," he bitterly thought, with his Aunt Olive's
instructions well in mind, "to so degrade me, my father, and our
family. If he could put every upstart on a throne who had hewed his
way to the throne, he would be supremely happy."
In these frames of mind Crothers and Treadwell met and exchanged views.
If Morley could put a factory up and hope for success, Lans wanted to
see the workings of a similar business already on the ground. So,
during listless hours, the young man frequented Crothers'
neighbourhood, ate at Crothers' boarding-house, and drank with him at
The Forge hotel. Not looking for any shortcomings, Lans did not
observe them. He found Crothers an agreeable man with a desire to
uplift The Hollow by practical, legitimate methods, not fool-flights of
fancy. Then, too, Crothers had a fine sense of the fitness of things.
He deplored the fact that a man of Sandy Morley's antecedents should,
by the vulgar power of money, gain control over the people.
"I tell you, sir," Crothers exclaimed, "the South has got to be
reclaimed through blood; not mongrel blood backed by dirty money!"
This sounded very fine to Lans Treadwell.
"Now, I was a thinking this-er-way lately: 'Spose young Hertford came
and took command 'stead of young Morley? 'Spose the old place of the
Hertfords was rebuilt and the family established here again--what would
happen, sir? I put it to you right plain and friendly."
Lans was thrilled. He rose to any vision called up by another; as for
himself he was no vision-builder. His face flushed and his eyes
flashed.
"I have never thought of it that way," he said; "as you put it, it
seems almost an imperative duty that the best Southern blood should
return to the hills and reconstruct where and in the manner it alone
understands."
"Exactly. Now I reckon you don't know, sir, but there are mighty big
back taxes unpaid on the Walden place and--and your forefathers' land,
sir. I'm thinking of buying both places in simply from a sense of
public spirit. I ain't going to let those smiling acres go into alien
hands if I know myself--not if I ruin myself in the deal."
"Few men would show such spirit as that, Mr. Crothers!"
Lans was deeply impressed.
"Well, sir, a man as has the right stuff in him gets sentimental about
something. My weakness is my--South! I came from mighty good stock,
sir. I was in the university when the war broke out; I left and did my
share of fighting and then came back to--well!" Crothers' eyes grew
misty. His feelings almost overcame him and Lans Treadwell was equally
moved.
"Since then it has been an upward climb. I gave up love, home, and
marriage. I've become a coarse man in the fight, but my heart is true
to the ideals and principles of the South. I have dreams, too, of the
day when the best blood--blood such as yours, sir, recognizes the need
of the hills and comes back with its tradition and force
to--to--reclaim us-all socially, religiously, and--and--morally. It
will mean sacrifice, sir. The North, with its luxury and ease, will be
hard to leave, but life is sacrifice to men, sir, and the day will dawn
when the Hertfords will come to The Hollow with determination to
control affairs. I'm going to hold their place ready, sir, for that
day!" This sounded almost too fine to be true, and even Lans demanded
details.
Then it was that Crothers laid his foundations. He would buy the
Hertford plantation; the Walden, also, if he could. He suspected that
back taxes could not be met by the legitimate owners--if they could be
disentangled from the mists that surrounded their possessions--he meant
to get them into his own power. Then it further appeared that should
Lans Treadwell desire to return to the hills of his fathers, the way
would be made easy, and with Crothers to back the efforts of the "blue
blood" a very respectable opposition would evolve to check the growing
strength of such men as Sandy Morley.
"Morley's all right as far as he goes," Crothers interjected; "I ain't
got nothing to say against Morley as Morley, but what I do say is--does
the South want to be led out of darkness by a poor white when its own
blue blood only needs a chance to flow through?"
Lans looked serious. He felt disloyal to Sandy; old associations
tugged at his heart; but all at once the story of Sandy's relations
with a girl in Boston, the story coloured and underlined by Olive
Treadwell, rose and confronted him. If Sandy could deceive and
hoodwink Levi Markham, what could others expect? Personally, Lans had
no desire to stone Sandy, but a fine glow was filling his heart. If
the way could be opened for him to help his people, could he not
achieve as much as Sandy: defeat his uncle's revenge--it seemed only
that to Lans, then--and, perhaps, when Sandy had come to terms, work
with him for the good of Lost Hollow?
It was splendid! Purpose and strength came to Treadwell. He was ready
for sacrifice; ready to forego the ease and joy of his city life; ready
to renounce his claims upon a certain little woman fighting her battle
apart from him! He would show Morley that he _could_ be pure and
resourceful, he could put his longings aside for the greater good!
Lans must always have his mental, spiritual, and physical food served
on dainty dishes! While he stood by Crothers he saw, in fancy, a noble
home arise above the trees on the old Hertford place. He saw his Aunt
Olive--no! it was not his Aunt Olive that he saw; it was--Treadwell's
breath came fast--it was Cynthia Walden who stood at the door of the
uprisen house of the Hertfords and smiled her radiant smile of welcome
to him!
Lansing Treadwell was always a victim of suggestion and flashes of
passion. The polished brutality of his father and the mystic
gentleness of his mother had been blended in him by a droll Fate and,
later, confused and corrupted by his Aunt Olive's ignorant training.
From that day Lansing Treadwell fell into the hands of Smith Crothers,
and the plotting evolved so naturally, so apparently wisely, that no
shock or sense of injustice aroused all that was good in the last of
the Hertfords. Crothers gradually assumed the guise of public
benefactor, a man who, resenting the obvious stupidity of men like Levi
Markham, for no ulterior motive other than human rights, undertook the
placing of Lansing Hertford upon the throne of his ancestors!
Secrecy was absolutely necessary. Conditions might arise to defeat
Crothers' philanthropic schemes, but when all was concluded Morley must
be taken into their confidence and made to understand that open and
fair competition was both right and democratic.
And while all this was going on Sandy toiled at the buildings all day,
reported progress to Levi every evening, tried to do his duty by
Treadwell, while he sought for some reason to get him away before any
harm was done.
It was difficult to account for what happened to Cynthia Walden at that
critical time. It all happened so quickly, so breathlessly. The child
in the girl was flattered, amused and uplifted by Lans Treadwell. He
was so gay, so captivating. He taught her to play on Marcia Lowe's
mandolin, and when he discovered how splendidly and sweetly she could
sing the plaintive songs of her hills and the melodies of the old
plantation days, he was enraptured and gave such praise as turned
Cynthia's head and filled Marcia Lowe with delight.
"You little genius!" Lans exclaimed one day; "try to dance, too. You
look like a spirit of the hills."
Then Cynthia danced and danced and forgot Sandy away among his
buildings; forgot his grim determination and serious manner. It was
song and dance for Cynthia, and the little doctor looking on, charmed
by the turn their dull life had taken, saw no danger. To her Cynthia
was a child still, and she was grateful that she should have this bit
of brightness and joy in her narrow, drab-coloured life.
The arrested elements in Cynthia grew apace and with abnormal force.
Through Lans Treadwell she realized all the froth and sunshine girlhood
craves--she forgot Sandy because at that moment he held no part in the
gay drama that was set to music and song. And then, quite naturally,
too, the woman in the girl pleaded for recognition. Here was a man who
appreciated her; would accept her as she was, although he asked no
questions of her, regarding her poor little past. He talked splendidly
of the big vital things of life which Cynthia thrilled at, but could
not express in word or thought. Oh! it was most sure that Lans
Treadwell would never care what had brought her into being--it was the
woman! Sandy might do a big thing from duty; Lans would do big things
because with him duty was but love of--humanity! Cynthia did not know
much about humanity and Lans never said he loved her--but it came upon
the girl all at once one day that she--she, little Cynthia Walden, was
needed, desperately, sufferingly needed by a great-souled man to help
in saving Lost Hollow! How magnificent! Sandy meant to save The
Hollow alone and single-handed--Sandy was limited, that was Lans's
modest interpretation--but Treadwell had his vision, too, and his
vision included her! It was breath-taking and alluring.
Treadwell did not make any physical or emotional claims upon the
girl--something led him dangerously, but wisely. He taught her to call
him brother and he spoke to her as "little sister." This was
particularly blinding to Marcia Lowe.
"Brother and sister in the broad human sense," pleaded Lans, and so the
net drew close around little Cyn, and she did not struggle, because the
mesh was so open and free that it did not chafe the delicate nature nor
stunt the yet blind soul.
At the end of the third week Crothers, in fatherly manner, suggested to
Lans that he was compromising Cynthia. So considerately and humanely
did the man speak of this that Lans could take no offence, particularly
as Crothers just then had brought their common interests to such a pass
that to resent anything would have been fatal. A very beautiful and
many-coloured bubble was well in sight!
"You see," Crothers explained, "them men up to Greeley's store are a
right evil lot. Knowing that Cynthia Walden was a nameless waif when
old Miss Ann adopted her, they cannot believe a right smart feller like
you has honest motives and they are getting ugly."
Lans had heard the report of Cynthia's early childhood; the girl
herself had sweetly and pathetically referred to it--and they thought
he was that kind, eh? Well, he would show them! Having accepted the
fate of the man on a desert island, Lans Treadwell meant to treat the
natives he found there, fairly and nobly. In his mind he had cut
himself adrift forever from the old life and its claims; Cynthia was
the most attractive little savage on his isolated, safety isle--he
would claim her virtuously and bravely; he would train her; educate her
to be no unworthy mate for him in his god-like sacrifice for his family
honour.
Never had Lans Treadwell been so dramatic nor such a fool, but he had
caught little Cyn, and before she realized what had happened or why she
had permitted it to happen, she drove away with Treadwell over the
hills one day to see some land Crothers had urged him to look at and, a
storm overtaking them, they were delayed in an old cabin where they
sought shelter over night and then and there Lans brought her to see
that for all their sakes they should be married before going home.
"Married?" gasped Cynthia, as if the word were foreign; "married! me,
little Cyn? Why, only _women_ marry!"
"And you are a woman, sweet!" Even then Lans did not touch her, though
she looked more divine with her big eyes shining and the blessed smile
parting her lips than he had ever seen her.
"I--a woman? Well, I reckon I am--but it seems mighty queer when you
first think of it. And--the folks would say evil things of me because
you took care of me and didn't risk my neck on the bad roads in the
dark? What could they-all say?"
For the life of him Lans could not frame the words with that lovely
face turned to his. "You must trust me, Cynthia. I will protect you
and you must protect me."
"I--protect you? You are right funny. What could they-all do to you?"
"They could horsewhip me; tar and feather me----"
"Oh! no!" And now the light faded from the girl's face. Once at The
Forge a man was treated so--yes! there was something about a woman, too!
The storm had raged all night. Lans made a fire and laughed and joked
the dark lonely hours through. After midnight Cynthia fell asleep from
sheer exhaustion and Lans placed his overcoat under her head while he
smoked by the fire and grew--as imagination fed upon itself--into a
being so immaculate and saint-like that the morning found him prepared
for the final and dramatic climax. He awoke Cynthia, touched her as if
she was a spirit, and took her to the little town known as Sudley's Gap
and there--married her!
Cynthia was excited and worn from her night's experience, but the
ceremony and Lans's manner made it all seem like a new play. They were
always playing together, he and she. Big brother and little sister
lived in the moment and had no care for the past or future. They had
breakfast together, after the visit to the missionary, and it was
afternoon before they started for home. At last Cynthia grew very
quiet--the play had tired her; she was frightened and unhappy. How
could what had happened secure Lans from the anger of The Hollow folks,
if staying away were wrong? It was all very foolish. They could have
gone to Sandy and explained. Already Sandy stood in the girl's life as
safety and strength.
Just then Lans turned and looked at her. To him it was beyond
comprehension that a girl of nineteen could be what Cynthia was.
Ignorant she might be, surely was, but she was vital and human; she had
witnessed life and its meaning in The Hollow--she was primitive and
childish--but she understood!
Lans felt himself, by that time, to be about the highest-minded man any
one could hope to find. He had practised great self-repression; he had
accepted his future life suddenly, but with all its significant
responsibilities. When he reached The Hollow there would be tumult, no
doubt, but every man and woman there would count on the hot, impulsive
Southern blood and, after the first shock, would glory in a Hertford
who could carry things with such a high hand and, withal, a clean hand!
Laying the reins down over the dash-board, Lans turned to Cynthia, his
passion gaining power over him as the sense of possession lashed it
sharply. The pretty big-eyed girl was his! He had secured her by the
sacredest ties, but for that very reason he need withhold himself no
longer.
"Wife!" he whispered. "Wife, come; sweet, come!"
This was no play. The call awakened no response, but fear laid its
guarding hand upon the girl as it had on that terrible night when Smith
Crothers asked of her what Treadwell was now seeking in a different
way, but in the same language.
"No!" Cynthia shuddered, shrinking from him. "No!"
The denial had awakened evil in Crothers; it aroused the best in
Treadwell. For a moment he looked at the wild, fear-filled eyes and
then a mighty pity surged over him.
"I--I would not hurt you for all the world, little Cyn," he said,
taking up the reins. "I've done the best I could for you, dear; when
you can you will come to me--won't you? In the meantime it's 'brother
and little sister!'"
Come to him! Thus Sandy had spoken, too! The memory hurt.
The strain of the Markham blood rushed hotly, at the instant, in Lans's
veins. It gave him courage and strength to forget--the Hertfords.
He took Cynthia to Trouble Neck and manfully told Marcia Lowe what had
occurred. The little doctor, worn by anxiety, was almost prostrated.
"No one knows but what Cynthia was here all last night," she said.
"I've lied to Tod Greeley. I told him you had not taken Cynthia; that
she was ill with headache."
"Now!" Cynthia laughed lightly; "you see we need not have done that
silly thing at Sudley's Gap."
Marcia Lowe began to cry softly.
"Oh! dear," she faltered, "but Smith Crothers knows and Sandy Morley,
too. Oh! I have been so blind, so foolish, and you have been such mad
children."
"I am going to Sandy at once," Lans explained. The plain common-sense
atmosphere of the cabin and the little doctor's evident suffering were
calming Treadwell's hot Southern blood and giving a touch of stern
prosaic grimness to the business.
Cynthia, once she was safe with Marcia Lowe, was so unflatteringly
happy that Lans Treadwell might well be pardoned for thinking her
lacking in ordinary mentality, and this thought was like a dash of ice
water on his growing chilliness. He became awkward and nervous. He
felt like a man who had run headlong to a goal only to find that it was
the wrong one, with no strength or power to retrace his steps he owed
to defeat and failure, and in that mood he sought Sandy.