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!