At last the answer came and Matilda read it with the door of her bedroom bolted and the washstand barricading it as well.
Olive Treadwell wrote:
I'm mighty glad to say something about this affair to some one who can understand me. Imagine my feelings when, out of the blue, as one might say, Lans brought this girl home and said, "I'm going to leave her with you, Aunt Olive, until I can see my way clear. I am brother to her and she is sister to me until—the way's made plain." That was all and then Lans betook himself to his old quarters and began to work. He's taken a position on the Boston Beacon and calls, actually calls, on his wife evenings or takes her and me out to theatres and dinners. I'm supposed to be training this young woman, for what, heaven only knows! but I have my hands full. Lans was always erratic and poetic, but this is beyond my comprehension, He has had affairs of the heart, of course, but this is different. The girl is the strangest creature I ever saw; she is uncanny. After I got her into proper clothing I saw she had beauty and charm of a certain kind. She takes to ways and expressions mighty quick, and she is the sweet appealing kind that attracts even while one disapproves. I confess I am utterly dumb-founded and if you can throw any light on this matter, pray do so. The girl seems to me to be half here and half somewhere else; she isn't unhappy, and she seems to adore Lans in a detached and pretty childish way, but why did he marry her and why should he, having married her, regard her in this platonic fashion?
Of course Matilda could not answer these questions but she cried over the letter a great deal and brooded over Sandy with all the motherhood that nature had not legitimately utilized. And then, one night, Sandy came to her quite simply and directly and claimed, in his great suffering need, what she alone had to give.
It was the week before Christmas. The cabin was gay and festive, for Marcia Lowe, in a lavishness of good cheer, had decorated everything she could command beginning with the little chapel and ending with the post-office. The County Club sat now 'neath an arbour of greens, and the lowliest cabin had its spray of pine or holly.
Martin and Levi were bent over a backgammon board in Sandy's study. Markham had undertaken to correct Morley's neglected education as to games; and Martin had, after the first week, so outstripped his instructor that Levi was put upon his mettle and every victory he wrenched now from Martin gave him a glow of pride he was not slow to exhibit. Seeing the two men engrossed, Sandy stole to Matilda Markham's little sitting-room and there found the dear lady asleep before the fire, her thin white hands sunk in a mass of beautiful wools. He stood and looked at the quiet, peaceful old face; he recalled, one by one, her kindnesses to him, her growing pride and love for him, and presently his eyes grew misty. The frail creature before him became touched by the magic of his gratitude and need, the most vital and mighty factor in his life. She, in this hour of his hidden craving, was the only one to whom he could turn, and right well he knew that she would stand by him.
Suddenly Matilda Markham opened her eyes and looked directly into Sandy's. It may have been that some dream had prepared her, God may have spoken to her in vision; however that may be she said gently:
"Son, you need me? Come, tell me all about it."
Quite naturally Sandy sat down at her feet and looked frankly into the dear, old face.
"I am going to ask you to do a great thing for me," he said; "I must ask you to do it without my explaining things to you to any extent—I want you to do it as a mother might for her son—trusting me if you can."