Marcia Lowe was mistaken. Sandy did not know. He knew that Treadwell
had not returned the evening before, but Tansey Moore, who was now
manager of Crothers' new factory, had told him that Treadwell had gone
to look up a piece of land back of Sudley's Gap, and the storm had
naturally detained him.
The sudden growth of intimacy between Crothers and Lans surprised and
amused Sandy. Full well he realized Crothers' motive, and he could
afford to laugh at that, but he felt annoyed and hurt at Lans's weak
falling into the trap. The disloyalty to himself did not affect Sandy,
he was far too sensible and simple a man to care deeply for that, and
it somehow made it easier for him to reconcile his conscience to the
growing distrust and contempt he had for Treadwell, but he disliked the
idea of Crothers using his friend to gain his mean ends.
"Lans is not one to tie up to," he said to himself, and then smiled at
the quaint expression which he had learned from Levi. "And to-morrow I
will tell him that I must make ready for the Markhams."
The day after Cynthia's marriage Sandy had gone early to the buildings.
He and Martin had worked hard; settled a difficulty among the men,
which they both felt confident Crothers had instigated, and, upon
reaching home late in the afternoon Sandy was told that Old Andrew
Townley was ill and wanted him. Liza Hope had sent word.
"I reckon you can wait to eat," Sally Taber had suggested; "ole Andy
has been dyin' with consumption ever since dat time when he went to The
Forge an' got baptized in his wife's night shift--him not being able to
get a robe! Andy took a mighty stiff chill that-er-day an' it war like
a finger pintin' the way to his grave. Andy war thirty when he waddled
into de Branch in dem swaddling clothes, an' he's over ninety now. I
expect he can hol' on till you've tended to yo' stummick."
But Sandy had not waited. He went to Andrew and found the old man
wandering on to the end of his journey in a very happy frame of mind.
He was, to himself, no longer the weak creature dying in his poor
cabin. Lying on the comfortable cot Sandy had provided, smilingly
gazing through the broad window Sandy's inspired saw and hammer had
designed, he believed himself to be a young and strong man helping
another up The Way with guiding hand and cheerful courage. Sitting by
the bed, Sandy took the cold, shrivelled fingers in his warm young
ones, and the comforting touch focussed the wavering mind.
"Eh, there, son, it's a right smart climb, but the end's just yonder!
See that-er-light?"
"Yes, old friend, I see the light."
Sandy bent low and whispered gently.
"That-er-light, son, is in Parson Starr's window. Starr, Starr! He
war a mighty clear star an' his light ain't going out, I reckon. Hold
fast, son! A few more steps and the totin' will be over. It's been
right heavy goin'--but----"
The poor old body struggled to rise and Sandy, putting an arm under the
shoulders, lifted Andrew to a sitting position.
"Do you see the--light, old friend?"
"I--see--the star!"
"Yes. The star and the light, Andy?"
"Yes--that's--home!"
Facing the west with wide welcoming eyes, Andrew slipped from life so
gently and quietly that for some minutes Sandy held him without knowing
that the light had gone out and the weary soul had reached home by The
Appointed Way. When the knowledge came to him, his eyes dimmed and
reverently he lay the stiffening form back upon the pillow; crossed the
thin, worn hands upon the peaceful breast, and turned to his next duty
with a murmured farewell to ears that no longer could be comforted by
his kind words.
Sandy went home and ate his evening meal with his father. He did not
mention Andrew's death. Martin was so genuinely happy at having his
son to himself and Lansing Treadwell out of the house, that Sandy
disliked to shadow the joy.
"Suppose we read a bit," he suggested when the two were seated in the
study. Martin accepted joyously. "What shall it be, Dad?"
"Well, son, it do seem triflin' to set your mind to anything but Holy
Writ when you're idle, but to-day I found an ole paper up to the works
with a mighty stirrin' picture on it; a real techersome picture of a
man danglin' from a high cliff by his two hands, and nothin' 'twixt him
an' certain death, I reckon, but the writingman's understandin' of the
scene. Yo' know, Sandy, I ain't had my specs fitted yet an' so I
couldn't fin' out about the picture an' it's been right upsettin' to me
all day."
Sandy took the crumpled paper Martin produced from an inside pocket and
began to read the hair-raising tale. Toward the end he discovered it
was a serial which left the hero, at the most breathless point, still
hanging. Thereupon Sandy evolved from his own imagination a fitting
and lurid ending that appeased Martin's sense of crude justice and left
nothing to his yearning soul unanswered.
"I call that-er-tale a mighty good one," Martin remarked when, hands
upon knees, eyes staring, and chin hanging, he heard the grand finale.
"Taint allas as the ungodly gets fetched up with so cutely. It's right
comfortin' to think o' that low-down trash a-festerin' in the bottom o'
the gulch."
Then Martin, the gentlest of creatures, went pattering up to bed in his
stocking feet, muttering cheerfully to himself as he mounted the dark
stairs, candle in outstretched hand:
"A festerin' eternally at the bottom!"
After his father departed Sandy sat by his fire alone and waited. So
Lans found him, and gloomily took a chair across the hearth.
"Have you had supper, Lans?" Sandy asked after greeting him cordially.
"Yes. The storm kept me last night. I got back--not long ago. I had
a bite while I waited for the horse to be seen to. The poor beast was
pretty well worn out."
There did not seem to be anything more to say on that subject, so Sandy
remarked:
"Smoke if you care to, Lans; don't mind me."
But Lans did not care to smoke and suddenly he jumped up, plunged his
hands in his pockets and faced Sandy with crimson cheeks and wide eyes.
"Sand," he blurted out, "I'm in a devil of a hole; I've pulled about
all Lost Hollow in with me. I'm a fool and worse, but you know how I
am. Any big passion that seizes me--holds me! I'm not responsible
while the clutch is on me. I ought to be taken out and shot. I----"
But Sandy's blank stare called a halt.
"I--I wouldn't take it that way, Treadwell," he said, thinking that
some obvious villainy of Crothers' had opened Lans's eyes to facts; "I
may be able to get you out of the hole."
Then, ludicrously, the story he had just read to his father came into
his mind. Lans seemed to be the creature at the bottom of the gulch,
and it was up to him, Sandy, to rescue the knave in spite of Martin's
satisfaction in leaving him there to fester. Sandy smiled.
"Good God, Morley, what are you laughing at?" Lans cried; "this is no
laughing matter."
"I beg your pardon, Lans. An idiotic thing occurred to me and you are
such a tragic cuss that I never can think things are as bad with you as
you imagine."
"Sand, this is a--hell of a thing! I don't know what you will say.
Fellows like you with their hands always on their tillers, fellows with
cool heads and calm passions never can understand us who fly off at
every spark that's set to us. All I can promise you is this--help me
now and, by God! I'll let your hand rest on my tiller till I get into
smooth waters again and--I've learned my lesson! What I've got to tell
you sounds like a yarn, Sand. All the time I was coming up The Way I
kept repeating 'it's not true!' but good Lord--it is! Morley, I'm
married. I was married early this morning!"
The little woman struggling with her problem up North came to Sandy's
mind. She had not been able to keep up the fight; she had followed
Lans and--but no! If there had been a wedding then the husband must
have died! Sandy looked puzzled.
"If it was the best, the only way, old man," he said, "I don't see why
you should take it this fashion. You--loved her; you cannot have
changed in so short a time."
And now it was Lans's turn to stare blankly. With his temperament,
time and place had no part. He was either travelling through space at
a thundering speed or stagnating in a vacuum. He had almost forgotten
Marian Spaulding and his present affair took on new and more potent
meanings.
"I--I married Cynthia Walden!" he gasped. "I married her--this
morning. We were out alone all last night. The--storm--you--know!
She didn't understand--I tried to--to shield her--she doesn't
understand--now. Good God! Morley, stop staring! Say something, for
heaven's sake!"
But Sandy could not speak, and his brain whirled so dizzily that he
dared not shut his eyes for fear of falling. Like a man facing death
with only a moment in which to speak volumes, he groped among the
staggering mass of facts that were hurtling around him, for one, one
only, that would save the hour. He remembered vividly the old story of
Cynthia's mother which Ann Walden had proclaimed, but he remembered,
also, the hideous belief that lay low in Lost Hollow. Dead and buried
was the doubt, but now it rose grim and commanding. Sandy tried to
form the words: "She is your sister!" But the words would not come
through the stiff, parted lips. Honesty held them in check; they must
not become a living thought unless absolute proof were there to
substantiate them.
The two men confronted each other helplessly, silently, and then Lans
Treadwell, overcome by sudden remorse, and a kind of fear, strove to
propitiate the sternness that found no expression in words.
"I've been devilishly wrong, Sand, and returned your hospitality and
friendship with bad grace, old fellow, but I drifted into it and when
it was too late--I did what seemed the only decent thing. I know I
couldn't have explained, and she turned my senses by her sweetness.
She's like a baby, Morley, and I mean to--to do the right by her, as
God hears me!"
Treadwell used the name of God so frequently and ardently that it
sickened Sandy.
"Yes," he groaned, "you will do right by her or----" the dark eyes
flashed dangerously; "and you'll do right by her--in my way!"
This was unfortunate and Sandy saw his mistake. Lans Treadwell's
shoulders straightened and his jaw set in ugly lines.
"If it's going to be man to man, Sand," he muttered, "I reckon I've got
the whip hand. She's my wife, you know, and the laws of this nice
little state are pretty explicit along certain lines. When all's said
and done--what are you, as a man, mind you, going to do about it?"
Again the staggering doubt was like a weapon for Sandy's use, but he
hesitated still.
"I--I wonder if you know what you have done?" he groaned again.
"When you talk like that, Sand," Lans whispered, his face softening, "I
don't! And I implore you to help me."
"You don't know our South, our Hollow," Sandy went on, with a pitiful
tone in his unsteady voice. "It takes us so long to--wake up! It's
something in the air, the sun, the winters--the life. Cynthia has not
roused--she is only dreaming in her sleep. She's a child, a little
girl, and you have dragged her into----"
"Hold on, Sand!" Lans warned once more.
"I have been waiting"--Sandy did not seem to heed the caution--"I've
been waiting and watching for the hour when she would realize that she
was a woman. I've loved her all my life, worshipped her, but I would
not have startled her before her time to have saved my soul from death!
Had she realized, Treadwell--had things been open and fair, I would
have taken my chance--but--you!"
Again the blaze darted to Treadwell's eyes.
"And what do you insinuate?" he asked--but he got no farther. There
was the sound of quick, approaching steps outside and a moment later a
sharp knock on the door; Sandy strode forward and opened it, then
closed it upon Marcia Lowe and Cynthia.
Quickened by spiritual insight Sandy saw that the girl was awake to the
reality of things. Shock had shattered her childishness forever, but
she was not afraid. Uncertainty and ignorance were there, but no sense
of danger in the clear, wonderful eyes.
"Oh! Sandy," she panted, going close to him and holding her hands out,
"Sandy, you know?"
"Yes."
"I wanted to be here with you-all after she"--the sweet eyes turned to
Marcia Lowe--"told me. I--I thought maybe he"--she glanced toward
Treadwell--"might not tell you, till morning. Poor dear!"
This last was to Sandy, for the look in his eyes wrung the tender heart
with divine pity.
"Sit down," Sandy urged, placing chairs near the hearth and bending to
lay on more wood, "there is much to say."
Then it was that the little doctor took command. She did not sit down
as the others had; she stood by the table with some loose papers in her
hand.
"I feel as if it were all my fault," she began. "Things lie so still
here; we seem so shut in. Cynthia has been like a child to me--I
haven't thought ahead and I just played with her and worked out--my
puzzle piece by piece. It was only a week ago that I felt sure; I
meant to tell Cynthia slowly and little by little--and then this
happened!"
Marcia Lowe's face was fixed and white. No one spoke. Then she went
on again.
"I have always believed Cynthia's father was--my uncle, Theodore Starr!
I came to Lost Hollow because I believed that, but I had no absolute
proof and Ann Walden denied me support. But look at her--look at
Cynthia and me! Of course I am old, old, and she's a baby, but can't
you read God's handwriting in our faces? See the colour,
form--expression----"
Morley and Treadwell stared at the two faces and into their benumbed
consciousness something vital struggled to life. It brought a gleam to
Lans's eyes; a groan of surrender to Sandy's lips! The contrite voice
was going on and on.
"There was no marriage certificate. There had been an unhappy
engagement between my uncle and Ann Walden--he, poor, timid, gentle
soul, dared not speak at the proper moment, he dreaded giving pain, and
he married Cynthia's mother privately, and before things could be made
plain--he died up in the hills, serving men! The man that married them
went away--only a year ago he came back; recently Mr. Greeley drove
over to Sudley's Gulch to make a will for this man; Cynthia and I went
with him. The man died a few days ago. Among his papers was a
notebook in which was recorded the marriage of Queenie Walden and
Theodore Starr! The man was a--a magistrate, the thing was
legal--Little Cyn is--my niece!"
An empty room never seems so still as one in which living, wordless men
and women are held by breathless silence. Treadwell dared not speak.
He seemed a stranger; one who had no right to be there. Cynthia's eyes
were lifted to Sandy Morley's face and did not fall away. Having said
what she had come to say, Marcia Lowe held out her written words of
proof and waited. After a long pause Cynthia spoke and her voice was
electrical in its effect.
"Sandy," she said, going close to him and holding him with her clear
gaze and slow, brave smile, "you know I did not mean--to do wrong?"
"Yes, little Cyn."
"I'm right glad I'm--I'm my dear father's child. All my life he's been
a happy name to me--and I'm mighty proud to be his, really. I'm going
to be brave for him and my mother! Sandy--I am not afraid--I am not
afraid!" The words came slowly, drawlingly but unbrokenly.
"My aunt," and for an instant the eyes rested on the bowed head of
Marcia Lowe, "has told me many things--I understand right many things,
now! I know you-all want to help me; want the best for me--but what's
done, is done, Sandy Morley, and I can do my part. If--if--my husband
wants me--I am ready--to go to him. Sandy, I am not afraid!"
Then they waited. Sandy stood with his back to the fire, motionless
and white; Marcia Lowe had sunk into a chair and bending forward hid
her face in her hands; Cynthia drew back from Sandy and stood alone in
the middle of the room.
What emotions and thoughts swayed Lans Treadwell, who could know? But
looking from one to the other of the little group the craven distrust
died from his face and an uplifted expression took its place. He stood
straight and tall and good to look upon as he realized that he was at
last the final judge.
"Cynthia!" he said calmly, and his voice was low and firm; "I do--want
you! you are my wife! You are not afraid?"
Slowly he stepped over to her; he forgot the others--he and she were
all! He put out his hands and Cynthia laid hers in them.
"I am not afraid," she whispered. And before the light in her upraised
eyes Lans Treadwell did not flinch.
"I, too, wish to help you--in my own way. Can you trust me?"
"Yes."
"Will you leave the hills with me--me alone?"
For an instant the sweet smile faded, but it was for the loss of her
mountains; not her doubt of her husband which drove it away.
"Yes," she murmured.
Then Sandy found his way back from his place of torment and he strode
to the two in the middle of the room. He laid his hand upon
Treadwell's shoulder, and all the smouldering passion in his heart rang
in his words.
"Lansing Treadwell, swear to me, that you will leave her soul to her
own keeping until----"
Treadwell gave him a long, steady look.
"I swear!" he said.
"When--her hour comes to--understand and choose--let her be white and
pure as she is now!"
"I swear it, Sandy Morley."
"Then," and now Sandy's eyes dimmed, "good-bye, little Cyn. You'll
miss the mountains--but there are good, true hearts--down beyond The
Way."
At this Marcia Lowe drew near:
"Little girl--come home! She is mine until you take her from Lost
Hollow, Lansing Treadwell."
The hands that held Cynthia's let her free. A pause followed. Then:
"Good-night--good-night!" The pretty, pale face flushed tenderly.
"Good-night. And now come, dear Cup-o'-Cold-Water Lady!"
The sweet attempt at cheer all but crushed those who heard and
understood.