The work God had sent Cynthia to do came to hand very shortly after Miss
Markham's return to Bretherton. Cynthia had spent one blessed day at the
quiet old farm, then Mrs. Treadwell and she went down together and stayed
over one night, and once Lans ran down and had an hour's talk with his
Aunt 'Tilda before she slipped back to Lost Hollow and Cynthia's task
came for her doing.
Lans's visit had sent Matilda to her knees beside the four-post bedstead
in the room that had once been Caroline Markham's.
"Caroline," the trembling old lips had breathed, "it was _your_ boy who
came home to-day. _Your_ boy!"
For Lans quite frankly and naturally had told his story. The hot blood
of the South was well in command and the light of reason was in the sorry
eyes.
"Aunt 'Tilda, all my life I've been excused and forgiven for my
faults--bat I'm going to work my way out now, God helping me! I'm going
to take whatever punishment and joy comes. Up there in the hills I was
like a devil caged. I had passed through a trouble and been worsted; I
saw Morley standing where I should have stood, had I been less a fool
years ago. I couldn't seem to see, up there, how he deserved all that
was his. I was just maddened. I wanted to get on top and--I let go
myself! Cynthia seemed a child at first but all of a sudden she flashed
upon all that was evil in me--and I went blindly ahead until I stood
among them all in Morley's cabin. They all seemed so big and fine and
true and I saw--myself! All at once I found myself wanting more than I
had ever wanted anything in my life--to make good! I took my own way.
Some day you will all understand. That little girl is going to have her
choice by and by--I only wanted my fair chance to win out. When she
makes her choice her soul will be hers--I promised Sandy Morley that!"
It was this that had sent Matilda to her knees beside the bed of Lans's
mother.
And one evening--it was two days before Christmas, Lans took Cynthia and
his Aunt Olive Treadwell to a theatre in Boston. The play was a popular
one and, being late, Lans was obliged to take a box in order to get
seats. Cynthia felt and looked like a child. The excitement and
brilliancy brought colour to her cheeks and made her eyes dance. She
hardly spoke and only now and then heard what her companions said.
"Lans," Olive Treadwell said during the first act, "there is Marian
Spaulding in the tenth row!"
This did not interest Cynthia but Lans's sharp start did. She turned and
looked at him and then followed his eyes. A pale, slim woman in black
was looking at them from the orchestra seats. The expression on the thin
face remained in Cynthia's memory even when the scenes of the enthralling
play drove it, for the time being, into shadow.
"Blue is Cynthia's colour," Mrs. Treadwell next remarked apropos of
nothing. "She's right handsome, Lans. You ought to be less a fool and
behave normally. She'd make a mighty sensation if----" But this did not
interest the absorbed third party in the box at all.
When the play was over and the audience was crowding into the lobby,
Cynthia noticed the girl of the tenth row near them. She was not looking
at them, but she gave the impression of listening to what they said.
Again the face claimed Cynthia's attention.
"Brother," she said softly to Lans, "is that a friend of yours? She
looks mighty sad."
Lans gave another sharp start and rather abruptly replied:
"I knew her once. Come, little sister, that is our number being called.
We must not hold up the line of taxis. Aunt Olive is out of sight."
Strangely enough Cynthia did not dream of the play that night; nor did
the sad, fair face of Lans's one-time friend hold part in her visions,
but she did dream of Lost Mountain as she had not dreamed of it in many a
night. She was back among the dear, plain home scenes. She was planning
with Sandy the Home-school; she was in the cabin at Trouble Neck with the
little doctor. The sun was shining in the broad, opened door and she and
Marcia Lowe were sitting where the warm brightness flooded them. And at
that juncture of the dream something very vivid occurred. Quite
distinctly she heard the little doctor say:
"In all the world there is nothing so important as this, Cyn. Remember
it as long as you live."
Upon awakening, Cynthia, in her still, dark room, found herself haunted
by the dream and the little doctor's words. They were startling, yet
strangely familiar. When, before, had Marcia Lowe spoken them; what had
she meant? Then suddenly it came back to Cynthia. It was about little
children!
"Our loves and our poor selves!" Marcia Lowe had often said, and
especially when she and Cynthia were working over the little ones of the
hill cabins, "what do they matter compared to the sacred lives of these
helpless creatures?"
She had been quite fierce about it once when she had told Liza Hope that
God would hold her responsible if she brought any more blighted souls
into existence through Mason's passion and her own weak yielding.
Lying awake and trembling in the small room off of Olive Treadwell's,
Marcia Lowe's words returned with sharp insistence and kept Cynthia
wakeful for many an hour.
The next morning she was alone when the maid came to her and said a lady
wanted to see her on very important business and had asked that they
might be undisturbed for a half hour. Cynthia, puzzled and half afraid,
bade the girl bring the caller to the sitting-room in which she then was.
What followed was so vital and impressive that all her life Cynthia was
to recall the setting of the scene. The whiteness of the sunlight
streaming into the east windows, the deep red of the wall paper, the tick
of the marble clock on the shelf, and the crackle of the cannel coal fire
on the hearth. While she waited for the visitor she was unconsciously
preparing for the part and the lines of what was to follow. By the time
the slow, light steps were at the room door, Cynthia seemed to know who
the stranger was. The maid closed the door after the guest and then
Cynthia said quietly to the tall, black-robed girl:
"You--are--Marian Spaulding!"
"He--he has told you?"
"No. Mrs. Treadwell--told me! Please sit down."
They faced each other with only a few feet between them. Cynthia was
obsessed with but one conscious thought--she must go on as she was led;
say what she would be told to say. She could not think for herself. But
the stranger--distracted and ill at ease, leaped at conclusions; hurried
to her goal and took no heed of the obstacles in her path.
"I did not know until last night that he--that Lans had a sister," she
said. "Our own affairs were so engrossing and--and exclusive--at that
time!"
Marian Spaulding had an odd habit of spacing her words as if the sharp
breaths in between were dashes to emphasize her thought. "I knew Mrs.
Treadwell was aware of--of our arrangement--I knew, from Lans, that she
was broad minded and generous but when I saw you two together last
night--I--I wanted to come to you instead of to her!"
An overpowering excitement in the speaker began to affect Cynthia. She
drew her chair closer and whispered:
"Please tell me--all about it!"
The significant words rushed Marian Spaulding breathlessly onward.
"I--I could not go to him--to Lans--until I made sure--as sure as
possible--that I would not be injuring him by--by my demands. I wanted
to tell some one who loved him and would think of him, first. He was
always so heavenly good to me--I would not harm him even--now!"
"No!" Cynthia's deep eyes were fastened on the white, strained face. "I
reckon no one would want to hurt Lans."
"I was so unhappy when--when he saved me from my life of shame and
misery. There was no other way--and--and we had to choose! He was so
noble--it was I who--who--gave myself to him; he never exacted--anything.
I--loved him as only God and I can know! Poor Lans never comprehended
why I left--but he--my husband was ill; dying and I could not help it.
Something made me go back. It was the good in me that Lans had created
that most of all compelled me to go. If Lans could believe that! oh! if
he only could! A woman could, but could a man?"
Poor Cynthia was struggling to understand a strange language.
"I'm right sure," she faltered, "that Lans could understand."
"Do you think so? Oh! I have been so tortured. He told me to come to
him if I needed him and God knows I need him now--but I wanted most of
all--not to hurt him--or exact too much from his goodness. You see----"
a palpitating pause followed. Then: "I did not _know_ of my condition
when I went away; I only heard and saw the wretched man who was once, who
was still--my husband. I stayed and nursed him; he died--a month
ago--and now--I must think of--of--the child!"
"The child?" Faintly Cynthia repeated the words and her bewildered mind
struggled with them and fitted them, somehow, into the Hopes' cabin, and
that scene where Marcia Lowe arraigned Liza.
The door of the sitting-room opened and Lans entered noiselessly. Marian
Spaulding's back was toward it and in her slow, vague way Cynthia was
wondering why he should be there just then. The last shielding crust of
childhood was breaking away from Cynthia--her womanhood, full and
glowing, was being fanned to flame by the appeal this strange woman was
making upon it. Cynthia, the girl who had been caught in the net, had no
longer any part in this tragedy--she was free!
"The child?" she again repeated, "what child?"
"Why, Lans's and mine!"
Then Cynthia stood up quite firm and straight. She looked full and
commandingly at Lans who was leaning, deadly white, against the door he
had closed behind him.
"Here is Lans, now," she said, more to the haggard man than to the pale
woman.
It was as if, in those four simple words, she appealed to the best and
finest of him to deal with this fearful responsibility which was his, not
hers. In that instant she relinquished all the forced ties that held him
and her--she cast him off superbly at this critical time of his life; not
bitterly or unkindly--but faithfully.
Marian Spaulding turned and rose unsteadily to her feet, then with
outstretched arms, she staggered toward Lans. Over her pitiful, wan face
a flood of passion and love surged--her lonely, desperate soul claimed
its own at last!
"Lans! Lans!" she cried, falling into his arms; "you will understand!
you must understand--and there is--our child!"
Lansing Treadwell held the little form close, but his wide, haunted eyes
sought Cynthia's over the head pressed against his breast. Cynthia
smiled at him; smiled from a far, far place, helpfully, bravely. She
demanded his best of him with confidence, and the unreality of it all
held no part in the thought of either.
"I must take her--away!" Lans found words at last to say.
"Yes," Cynthia nodded, still smiling her wonderful smile at him.
"I will return--soon. Come--Marian!"
Cynthia saw them depart, heard the lower door close upon them and then
she awoke from her spell. Sitting down in a deep chair before the fire
she took the incidents of the past few moments, one by one, and set them
in order. Like an ignorant child selecting block after block and asking
some wiser one what they meant, she demanded of her new self the answer
to all she had witnessed.
The travail was long and desperate--and when Lans Treadwell found her, an
hour later, he was shocked at the sight of her face.
"My God!" was all he could say.
"We must--talk it over," Cynthia said gravely. "I can understand now.
You see, dear, I couldn't have her hurt--her and--and the child."
Lans dropped in the chair Marian Spaulding had sat in and bowed his head
in his hands.
"Was there ever such a cruel situation?" he groaned. Cynthia came to him
and knelt beside the arm of his chair. She had never come to him so
before and the touch of her body thrilled the man.
"You did not tell her--about me, big brother? did you? You let her
believe I am your sister."
"Good God! how could I tell the truth? I was afraid of killing her."
"And--the child. Of course you must not tell--now."
"Cynthia, in heaven's name, don't be too hard upon me--you are my wife!"
Fiercely Lans proclaimed this as if, by so doing, he could find refuge
for her as well as himself. But Cynthia shook her head and drove him
back upon his better self again.
"Those little words spoken by that man in the hills," she whispered,
"couldn't count, I reckon, against--all the rest."
"They can! They shall, Cynthia. I can make the past clear to you,
little girl----" Then he stopped still before the look in Cynthia's eyes.
"I am a--woman, Lans!" it seemed to say.
Presently he heard her speak.
"You told Sandy, dear, that night in the cabin, that you would leave my
soul to me--until--well! You have left it to me, and the time has come!
I have much to learn; but I understand a mighty lot now. It came to me
while I waited, for you to come back from her! My soul would never be
clean again, Lans, if--I forgot--the little child--hers and yours! God
will be very kind to us-all, dear, if we do right. It's mighty
puzzling--but it will come straight. You once loved her?"
"Yes, Cynthia--yes!"
"And you never loved me in _that_ way, dear?"
"You are my wife!" Again the fierceness, "you must and shall come first."
"No, Lans; I am not your wife!"
And with this Cynthia stood up and clasped her hands close.
"Every law in the land says you are!" Treadwell flung his head back and
faced her; "this is a hideous tangle, but above all--through all--you are
my wife!"
"I do not know, I cannot make you feel how I see it--but I am not your
wife! I--I do not want to be! Why, when I saw the light in--in Marian
Spaulding's eyes a little time ago as she ran to you--I seemed to know
all at once--that it was not to you, Lans dear, that I wanted to run in
my trouble, but to----"
"Whom?"
"To Sandy, dear. Sandy, up there in Lost Hollow."
"Cynthia!"
Was she shamming? Was she striving, ignorantly, to make escape easy for
them all? Was she utterly devoid of moral sense? "Moral sense!" At
that Lans Treadwell paused. The glory shining from Cynthia's eyes as she
stood before him, made him shrink and drop his own. The strength and
purity of the high places was upon her. She was lovely and tender, but
primitively firm. The law of the cities she did not know; but the law of
the secret places of the hills was hers. The law of love and Love's God.
"You must take her away, Lans, dear, and be right good to her as you have
been to me, big brother," the sweet voice, the unutterable tenderness and
firmness more and more carried everything before them; "and let the
little child have its chance--poor lil' child! And by and by--oh! a long
time perhaps--when you are all mighty happy and safe, you must tell her
all about it, Lans, and make her love me--a little! Tell her--it was all
I could do. She will understand and be right glad."
"And you--little Cyn?" The words came in a groan.
"I? oh! I reckon this is what God meant me to do, Lans. For this he
brought me down The Way, and now he will let me go home!"
Mrs. Treadwell's step outside the door brought them both back to the poor
artificial environment that bound them.
"I--I cannot see her now!"
Cynthia crouched before the stern, conventional tread of the approaching
woman as if she were in a place she had no right to be and Lans quickly
opened a door leading from the sitting-room to a bedroom through which
she might escape. And as the slight figure ran from his sight he had a
sickening feeling as if, wakening from a dream of mystery and
enchantment, he found himself in the midst of sordid reality. The sweet
purity of the hills passed with Cynthia and the actualities of his future
entered with Olive Treadwell.
"Lans," she asked sharply, looking about the room, "who was the woman who
called here this morning? The woman Cynthia saw?"
"It was--Marian Spaulding."
"Good heavens! Did she talk to Cynthia?"
"She--tried to--Cynthia--could not understand."
"She will some day, though, Lans! Can you buy Marian off? I wouldn't
have believed she was so vicious. Did she--lie?"
"I rather imagine she spoke only--truth."
"Well! I reckon this is about the worst confusion that was ever brought
about. Without being positively bad, Lans, you've managed to create a
mighty lot of trouble for a good many innocent people."
"Yes, Aunt Olive."
Lans was standing by the window looking down into the empty street.
"What are you--going to do about it?"
Then Lans turned.
"Aunt Olive, I'm going to untangle the snarl--somehow! And I'm going to
stand by--Marian!"
"Marian? You talk like a madman, Lans, or a fool--and a depraved one at
that. You owe everything to Cynthia--you'll be held to it, too, by law!"
"Aunt Olive," and then Lans laughed a mirthless, cold laugh, "I wonder if
either you or I ever really seriously thought we could--hold Cynthia?
There is no law that could keep her here. She is of the hills. She came
into our lives just long enough to purify our air and--clear my vision.
She'll go back now. We--cannot keep her!"
"Go back--to whom?"
This practical question took the smile from Lans's lips.
"To Sandy Morley, I reckon," he said grimly; "most of every noble thing I
might have had--gets to him--sooner or later. He always loved her; she
has just confessed to me that she loves him."