A Son of the Hills

by Harriet T. Comstock

"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!"