A Son of the Hills

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"He ain't my Smith Crothers!" Greeley inanely returned, feeling in a
dazed way that he did not want to put in any claim for Crothers with
those apparently innocent eyes upon him.

"Well, I'll try to buy the Trouble Neck place from Smith Crothers at
once. You see I've been very sick; they said I'd lost my health, but I
know I've only misplaced it."

Again the cheerful laugh set Greeley's nerves tingling.

"They-all say that when they-all come up here."

Greeley felt in honour bound to give the young woman a hint as to his
reading of her and her mission.

"It's a good spot, then, for weak lungs?"

"None better," Tod nodded sagely, "but they don't last long."

"What? The weak lungs? That's splendid! And now would you mind giving
my horse a drink? Isn't it funny what nice horses they manage to evolve
in the South on food that would end a cart-horse's existence up North?
But such vehicles! Do look at this buggy! And no springs to mention.
My! but my back will ache to-morrow."

By this time Greeley had procured a pail of water and was courteously
holding it to the nose of the very grateful horse.

"I wonder," Miss Lowe casually remarked, as she let the reins fall in lap
and looked about, "if you happen to have known a Theodore Starr who once
lived here?"

"I've heard of him," Tod returned; "I ain't a Hollow man. I only came
here on business six years ago, but the memory of Starr sort of clings
like it was a good thing to keep alive."

"How beautifully you put it!"

Greeley was thinking how well the government had stocked this dangerous
spy with facts, and so he did not observe the tears in her eyes.

"There was a little church he built himself--is it still standing? You
may not have heard, but he had a very simple little religion quite his
own. He thought the people up here were more in need of help than
foreign folks, but no regular sect would--would handle him. So he came
up a road he used to call The Appointed Way and just settled down and
learned to love all--the people and the work!"

Greeley was so utterly amazed that the hands which held the pail shook
with excitement.

"That road what you came up is called The Way--short for Appointed Way.
Yon is the little church."

Marcia Lowe raised up and through the thicket behind her she saw the
deserted structure, which still bore the outlines of a church.

"Why, it's all boarded up!" she exclaimed. "Who owns it now?"

The exacting nature of the stranger's questions was unsettling to
Greeley. She seemed determined to tag and classify all the real estate
in the county.

"No one ain't damaged the building," he said drawlingly; "some of the
folks think it is han'ted. I reckon Smith Crothers owns it."

"That man owns too much!" Marcia Lowe gave again her penetrating laugh.
"And I should think the place would be haunted. Just think of boarding
Uncle Theodore up! He who loved sunshine and air and sweetness so much!"

At this Greeley dropped the pail to the ground, and the indignant horse
reared angrily. This was carrying things too far, and the man's eyes
flashed.

"Uncle?" he gasped sternly.

"Yes, Uncle Theodore Starr. He was my mother's brother. I have no one
to keep me away now--and I loved him so when I was a little child. They
say I am much like him--but then you never saw him. Lately I've been
real homesick for him. He seemed to be calling me from the hills. I'm
going to get your Smith Crothers to let me open up the little church. I
want the sunshine to get in and--and Uncle Theodore to--get out! I'm
going to find where they buried him, and make that a beautiful place too.
You see I've a good deal to do up here! Besides," and now the cheerful
face beamed radiantly on the gaping postmaster, "I'm like Uncle Starr in
more ways than one. He learned to mend men's souls and I have learned to
mend their bodies--it's much the same, you know--when you love it.
I'm--well, I'm an M. D., a medical doctor--Doctor Marcia Lowe!"

At this Greeley dropped on the bottom step of the porch, wiped the
perspiration from his brow with the back of his hand, and emitted one
word.

"Gawd!" He was not a profane man, but the audacity of this stranger who
was about to settle down among them for purposes best known to herself,
and them who sent her, quite overcame him. Marcia Lowe gave a hearty
laugh and gathered the reins.

"I suppose you never heard of such a thing up here?" she asked amusedly,
"but they are getting commoner down where I hail from. It's all very
foolish--the restrictions about a woman, you know. She can nurse a body
up to the doors of death, but it's taken a good while to bring people
around to seeing that she can mend a body as well, just as well as a man.
You will let me stay among you anyway, I am sure. I do not want to
physic you. It is so much more interesting to live close and help along.
Good-bye, Mr. Greeley--you see your name is over the door! I am, do not
forget"--the woman's eyes twinkled mischievously--"Doctor Marcia Lowe of
Torrance, Mass. Good-bye! You have been very kind and helpful. I feel
that you and I will be good friends. Get-up, pony!"

She flapped the reins in the most unprofessional manner, and the horse
turned to The Appointed Way with briskness that bespoke his impatience
and a desire for more familiar scenes.

With curious eyes Greeley watched the ramshackle buggy bounce up and down
over the rutty road; he saw the small, slight figure bob about
uncomfortably on the uneven seat, and when the conveyance was lost behind
the trees he went inside with a sure sense that something was going to
happen in The Hollow.

Once again within his own domain he sought his cracker box as if it were
his sanctuary. The fly was still protesting against the dirty window,
and the stillness, except for the buzzing, was unbroken.

Presently, from out the nowhere apparently, old Andrew Townley came in
and shuffled across the floor to the armchair by the stove. Then Mason
Hope appeared, hands in pockets and lank hair falling on his shoulders.
Norman Teale came next, with Tansey Moore in tow.

"Howdy, Tod?" was the universal greeting as the County Club took its
place. The chair of Smith Crothers, and two or three overturned potato
baskets--seats of the junior members of the club--were empty. It was
beneath the dignity of any man present to question what had just
occurred, but every son of them had witnessed it and in due time would
touch upon the subject.

The stove, summer and winter, focussed their wandering eyes and acted as
a stimulus to their dormant faculties. From long practice and
inheritance every man could aim and hit the sawdust under the stove when
he expectorated. Even old Andrew Townley had never been known to fail.

"There be some right good horses down to The Forge," Tansey Moore
ventured after a while.

"It's a blamed risky thing, though," said Mason Hope, "to let a--lady
drive 'em. I've allus noticed that a woman is more sot on gittin' where
she wants to git--than to considering _how_ to git there. It's mighty
risky to trust horseflesh to a female. They seem to reckon all horses is
machines."

"I've seen men as didn't know a hoss from a steam engine," Norman Teale
broke in, glancing sharply at Moore. "Times is when a hoss has to be
sacrificed to man--but I reckon The Forge folks was taking some risks
when they-all hired out a team to a stranger."

"That stranger," said Greeley, hitting the nail on the head with a
violence that brought his audience to an upright position, "ain't nothing
short of, to my mind, than"--he glanced at Teale--"well, she ain't, and
that's my opinion! She comes loaded with facts up to her teeth. Knows
all the names, and says she's going to settle down over to Trouble Neck
and--live along with us-all quite a spell. Weak lungs and all, but she's
a right new brand."

"Hell!" ejaculated Teale, springing to his feet. "If the government has
got so low that it has to trifle with ladies--it's in a bad way. I
reckon I better git a-moving. Any mail, Tod? I take it right friendly
that you give me this hint. A lady may be hard to handle in some ways,
but we-all can at least know where she is--that's something."

After the departure of Teale the club fell into moody gloom. It was
always upsetting to have outside interference with their affairs. Even
if Teale wasn't arrested the whiskey would be limited for a time, and
that was a drawback to manly rights.

Andrew Townley fell into an audible doze; he was the oldest inhabitant
and a respected citizen. He was given to periods of senile dementia
preceded or followed by flashes of almost superhuman intelligence. There
were times when, arousing suddenly from sleep, he would bring some
startling memory with him that would electrify his hearers. He was an
institution and a relic--every one revered him and looked to his simple
comfort. Suddenly now, as the dense silence enveloped the club, old
Andrew awoke and remarked vividly:

"I was a-dreaming of Theodore Starr!"

"Now what in thunder!" cried Tod Greeley, who had purposely refrained
from mentioning some part of his late visitor's conversation,--"what made
you think of--Theodore Starr?"

"I reckon," whined the trembling old voice, "that it was 'long o' Liza
Hope. I was a-passing by and I heard her calling on God-a'mighty to
stand by her in her hour. Theodore Starr was mighty pitiful of women in
their hours."

Mason Hope felt called upon, at this, to explain and apologize. He did
so with the patient air of one detached and disdainful.

"Liza do make a powerful scene when she is called to pass through her
trial. This is her ninth, and I done urged her to act sensible, but when
I saw how it was going with her, I just left her to reason it out along
her own lines. Sally Taber is sitting 'long of her ready to help when
the time comes. I done all I could." Tansey Moore nodded significantly.
He had an unreasonable wife of his own, and he had no sympathy with women
in their "hours."

"Theodore Starr, he done say," Townley was becoming lachrymose, "that
women got mighty nigh to God when they reached up to Him in their trial
and offered life for a life. He done say if God didn't forgive a woman
every earthly thing for such suffering, he was no good God. He done say
that to me onct."

"That be plain blasphemy," Tansey Moore remarked. "I reckon he was a
right poor parson. The religion he doctored with was all soothin' syrup
and mighty diluted at that, where women was concerned. I never trusted
that Yankee."

"The women, children, and old folks counted some on him in his day."
Greeley was getting interested in this heretofore myth. Moore nodded his
head suspiciously.

"They sho' did, and a mess they made of it. Did you ever hear 'bout his
mix-up with the Walden girls?"

Greeley never had and, as the last Walden "girl" was a woman of sixty and
over, he looked puzzled.

"Miss Ann, her as _is_ now, was considerable older than Theodore Starr,
but she shined up to him and let him lead her about considerable--some
said him and her was--engaged to marry. Then there was the Walden girl
as _isn't_ now, her they called Queenie. She was a right pert little
thing what growed into a woman like a Jonas gourd, sudden and startling!
That was the summer that young Lansing Hertford came back to the old home
place of his forebears to look about--there was a general mess of things
up to Stoneledge those days, and all I know is that Starr he went up into
the hills to nurse a fever plague and there he died. Lansing Hertford
went off like a shot--but them Hertfords allus lit out like they was
chased--never could stand loneliness and lack of luxury. Queenie, she
done died the winter following that summer; died of lung trouble off to
some hospital way off somewhere, and Miss Ann she settled down--an old
woman from that time on! You can't get her to speak Starr's name. You
never could. Us-all tried. When things got too hard for Miss Ann she
done adopt little Miss Cyn--that chile has considerable brightened up
Miss Ann, but Lord! she never was the same after that summer, and I hold,
and allus shall, that Starr wasn't what we-all thought him at first. A
man don't go dying off in the hills for folks what hadn't any call upon
him, lest he has a reason for doing so."

Moore loved to talk. Some one always has to be the orator of a club, and
Tansey, self-elected, filled this position in the circle around the old
stove. Greeley was bored. Past history did not concern him and Moore's
opinions he ignored. He had not been listening closely, for his thoughts
would, in spite of him, follow the ramshackle buggy down The Way.

"She had a right pleasant look and manner," he pondered. "I reckon
she'll get some fun out of her job, no matter what that job is."

CHAPTER III

It was something of a jog to The Hollow people to find Miss Lowe
actually settled at Trouble Neck. They had looked upon the possibility
of her coming as an evil which threatened but might be averted. She
had come, however; had actually bought the cabin from Smith Crothers,
and fitted it up in a manner never known to cabin folks before.

Through all the pleasant summer days the broad door of the little house
stood invitingly open and flowers had grown up as if by magic in the
tiny front yard. A few choice hens and roosters strutted around the
rear of the cabin quite at home, and a bright yellow cat purred and
dozed on the tiny porch by day and slept in the lean-to bedroom by
night.

"She takes a mighty heap of trouble to hide her tracks," Norman Teale
confided to Tansey Moore; "but spy is writ large and plain all over
her. I put it to you, Moore, would any one that didn't have to, come
to Trouble Neck?"

Tansey thought not, decidedly.

"And did you ever hear on a woman doctor?"

Again Tansey shook his head.

"That woman's bent on mischief," Teale went on. "I got chivalry and
I've got honour for womanhood in my nater when womanhood keeps to its
place, but I tell you, Moore, right here and now, if that young person
from Trouble Neck comes loitering 'round my business, I'm going to
treat her like what I would a man. No better; no worse."

Moore considered this a very broad and charitable way of looking upon
what was, at best, a doubtful business.

But Marcia Lowe did not seek Teale out, and if his affairs interested
her, she hid her sentiments in a charming manner. Her aim, apparently,
was to reach the women and children. To her door she won Sandy Morley
with the lure of money for his wares. The second time Sandy called he
told her of his ambitions and she fired him to greater effort by
telling him of her home state, Massachusetts.

"Why, Sandy," she explained, "when you are ready, do go there. In
exchange for certain work they will make it possible for you to get an
education. I know plenty of boys who have worked their way through
college with less than you have to offer. Get a little more money and
learning, and then go direct to Massachusetts!"

Sandy's breath came quick and fast. Work was part of his daily life,
but that it and education could be combined he had not considered.
From that time on his aim became localized and vital.

"Perhaps I can help you a bit?" Miss Lowe had suggested. She was often
so lonely that the idea of having this bright, interesting boy with her
at times was delightful.

"I'll--I'll bring all your vegetables to you if you will," Sandy
panted. "I'll dig your garden and weed it. I'll----"

"Stop! stop! Sandy." Miss Lowe laughed, delighted. "If you offer so
much in Massachusetts they will give you _two_ educations. They're
terribly honest folks and cannot abide being under obligations."

So Sandy came; did certain chores and was given glimpses of fields of
learning that filled him at first with alternate despair and
exultation. He confided his new opportunity to Cynthia Walden and to
his amazement that young woman greeted his success with anything but
joy.

"I thought you'd be right glad," said Sandy, somewhat dashed. "I
thought you wanted me to learn and get on."

"So I do," Cynthia admitted, "but I wanted to do it all for you, until
you went away."

"What's the difference?" argued poor Sandy.

It was middle August before Marcia Lowe took her courage in her hands
and went to see Miss Ann Walden. With city ways still asserting
themselves now and again in her thought, she had waited for Miss Walden
to call, but, apparently, no such intention was in the mind of the
mistress of Stoneledge.

"Perhaps after a bit she will write and invite me up there," Marcia
Lowe then pondered. But no invitation came, and finally the little
doctor's temper rose.

"Very well," she concluded, "I'll go to her and have it out. I'm not a
bit afraid, and, besides, Uncle Theodore's business is too important to
delay any longer. She doesn't know, but she _must_ know."

So upon a fine afternoon Marcia Lowe set forth. Grim determination
made her face stern, and she looked older than she really was. When
she passed the Morleys' cabin she smiled up at Mary, who was standing
near by, but the amiable mistress ran in and slammed the door upon the
passerby. A little farther on she came to Andrew Townley's home and
she paused there to speak to the old man sunning himself by the doorway.

"You certainly do favour your uncle, Miss Marching," Andrew mumbled; he
had heard the stranger's claim of relationship and trustingly accepted
it; but her name was too much for him.

"Since you come I git to thinking more and more of Parson Starr. He
was the pleasantest thing that ever happened to us-all."

"Oh! thank you, Mr. Townley!"

So lonely and homesick was the little doctor that any word of
friendliness and good-will drew the tears to her eyes. They talked a
little more of Theodore Starr and then the walk to Stoneledge was
continued.

Marcia Lowe had never seen any of the family except from a distance,
and she dreaded, more than she cared to own, the meeting now. Still
she had come to set right, as far as in her lay, a bitter wrong and
injustice, and she was not one to spare herself.

Her advance had been watched ever since she left Andrew Townley's
cabin, but in reply to her timid knock on the front door, Lily Ivy
responded with such an air of polite surprise that no one could have
suspected her of deceit.

"Certainly, ma'am, Miss Ann is to home. She am receiving in the
libr'y. Rest your umbril' on the table, ma'am, and take a char. I'll
go and 'nounce you to Miss Ann."

Left alone, Marcia did not know whether she wanted to laugh or cry.
The brave attempt at grand manner in the half-ruined house was pitiful
as well as amusing.

"This way, ma'am. My mistress done say she'll receive you in the
libr'y."

And there, in solemn state, sat the mistress of the Great House. She,
too, had had time to prepare for the meeting, and she was sitting
gauntly by the west window awaiting her guest.

"It was right kind of you to overlook my neglect," Miss Walden began,
pointing to a low chair near her own, "but I never leave home and I am
an old woman."

The soft drawl did not utterly hide the tone of reflection on the
caller's audacity in presuming to enter a home where she was not wanted.

The window was almost covered by a honeysuckle vine and a tall yellow
rose bush; the afternoon breeze came into the room heavy with the rare,
spicy fragrance, and after a moment's resentment at the measured
welcome, Marcia said cheerfully:

"You see--I had to come, Miss Walden. I've only waited until I could
become less a shock to you. You believe I _am_ Theodore Starr's niece,
do you not? I know there are all sorts of silly ideas floating around
concerning me, but I need not prove my identity to you, need I?"

The winning charm of the plain little visitor only served to brace Miss
Walden to greater sternness.

"I have no doubt about you. You are very like your uncle, Theodore
Starr."

"Then let me tell you what I must, quickly. It is very hard for me to
say; the hardest thing I ever had to do--but I must do it!"

Ann Walden sank back in her stiff armchair.

"Go on," she said, and her eyes fastened themselves on the visitor.
She wanted to look away, but she could not. She was more alive and
alert than she had been in many a year--but the reawakening was painful.

"I only knew--the truth after mother died. I found a letter among her
things. Why she acted as she did I can never know, for she was a good
woman, Miss Walden, and a just one in everything else. You may not
understand; we New Englanders are said to love money, but we must have
it clean. I am sure mother meant nothing dishonest--we had our own
little income from my father and--the other was not used to any
extent--I have made it all up."

"I--do not understand you!"

This was partly true, but the suffering woman knew enough to guide her
and put her on the defence.

"There was a will made before my uncle came here--in that he left
everything to mother and me in case of his death, but the letter
changed all that--he wanted you to have the money!"

"Your mother was quite right!" the sternness was over-powering now;
"the will was the only thing to carry out. I could not possibly accept
any money from Theodore Starr nor his people."

For a moment Marcia Lowe felt the shrinking a less confident person
feels in the presence of one in full command of the situation. She
paused and trembled, but in a moment her sense of right and
determination came to her aid. Her eyes flashed, and with some spirit
she said:

"You are only speaking for yourself now."

"For whom else is there to speak?"

"The child!"

Had Marcia dealt Ann Walden a physical blow the result could not have
been different. Horrified and appalled, the older woman gasped:

"What child?"

"My uncle's and your sister's! Miss Walden, you could not expect me to
believe the story that the people tell around here. You perhaps think
your sister was not married to my uncle--but I trust him. I think you
and I, no matter what has passed, owe it to this little girl to do the
best we can for her. I have left my home to help; I have no one
besides her in the world--please consider this and be forgiving and
generous. Oh! what is the matter?"

For Ann Walden had risen and stood facing Marcia with such trembling
anger that the younger woman quailed.

"I wish you to leave my house!"--the words came through clenched
teeth--"leave it and never return."

"If you resist me in this way," anger met anger now, "I will have to
consult a lawyer. I mean to carry out my uncle's desires; I will not
be party to any fraud where his child is concerned. I hoped that you
and I might do this together for her--but if I have to do it alone I am
prepared to do so. I have brought the letter I found among my mother's
things--may I read it to you?"

"No!" Ann Walden stared blankly at the firm face almost on a level
with her own, for Marcia Lowe had risen also.

"You--you cannot forgive us for the long silence? But at least do me
this justice: I came when I could--as soon as possible. I was ill--oh!
Miss Walden can you not understand how hard this is for me to do?
Think how I must put my own mother at your mercy--my own, dear mother!"

Only one thought held Ann Walden--would her visitor never go? The few
moments were like agonized hours; the shock she had received had been
so fearful that for a moment she was stunned, and before the true
significance overwhelmed her she must be alone!

"I--have nothing to forgive. You and yours, Miss Lowe, have nothing to
do with me and mine--you must indeed--go! I cannot talk of--the past
to you. You--have made a great mistake--a fearful mistake. My sister
has--has nothing----"

The stern young eyes compelled silence.

"I--I wish you would let me help you--for the love you once had for
Uncle Theodore," said Marcia Lowe; "you must have forgiven your sister
when she told you; can you not forgive him?"

"Stop! You do not know what you are talking about----" Vainly, almost
roughly, the older woman strove to push the knife away that the
ruthless, misunderstanding young hands were plunging deeper and deeper
into the suddenly opened wound.

"Oh! yes, Miss Walden, I know--here's the letter!"

She held it out frankly as if it must, at least, be the tie to bind
them.

"I spoke perhaps too quickly, too unexpectedly; but it is as hard for
me as it is for you. I thought you would know that. I could not talk
of little things when this big thing lay between us. It is our--duty."

Pleadingly, pitifully, the words were spoken, but they did not move the
listener. Hurriedly, as if all but spent, Ann Walden panted:

"I reckon it is because you are young you cannot understand how
impossible it is for you and me to--be friends. You must forgive
me--and you must go!"

"But the money!"

"What money?" Something bitterer and crueller than the money had taken
the memory of that away.

"Uncle Theodore's money. You see it is not mine--neither you nor I
should keep it from Uncle Theodore's----"

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