Читать книгу A Son of the Hills - Harriet T. Comstock - Страница 4

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Tod Greeley, the postmaster, was sitting on his cracker box contemplatively eying the rusty stove enthroned upon its sawdust platform, in the middle of the store. Every man in The Hollow had his own particular chair or box when the circle, known as the County Club, formed for recreation or business. No one presumed to occupy another's place: Tod Greeley's pedestal was a cracker box and its sides were well battered from the blows his heels gave it when emotions ran high or his sentiments differed from his neighbour's. Greeley was not a Hollow man; he had been selected by Providence, as he himself would have said, to perform a service for his country: namely, that of postmaster, storekeeper, and arbiter of things in general. He was a tall, lean man of forty, good looking, indolent, and with some force of character which was mainly evinced by his power of keeping his temper when he was facing a critical situation. While not of The Hollow, he was still with The Hollow on principle.

When Marcia Lowe paused before the store and emitted her call, which flavoured of friendliness and the North, Greeley was vacantly looking into space, hugging his bony knees, and listening to an indignant fly buzzing on the dirty glass of the back window, protesting against any exit being barred to its egress.

It was three o'clock of a late July day and, while the sun was hot, the breeze gave promise of a cool night.

"Ooh! ooh!"

Just at first Greeley thought the fly had adopted a more militant tone.

"Oooh—ooh!"

Greeley pulled himself together, mentally and physically, and stalked to the porch; there he encountered the very frank, smiling face of a rather attractive youngish woman who greeted him cordially with a high-pitched but sweet:

"Good afternoon."

"Good evening, ma'am," Tod returned.

"I just came up from The Forge; your roads are really scandalous, but the scenery is beautiful. I want to see if there is any place near here where I can get board? I've come to stay for a while, anyway; probably for years, at least."

The young person seemed so eager to share her confidence that Greeley was on his guard at once. He did not approve of the stills back among the hills, but he did not feel called upon to assist any government spy in her work, no matter how attractive and subtle the spy was.

It was two years now since a certain consumptive-looking young man had caused the upheaval of a private enterprise back of The Hollow and made so much unpleasantness, but Norman Teale had served his term in prison and had got on his feet once more, and Greeley had a momentary touch of sympathy for the Speak-Easy magnates as he glanced up at this new style of spy.

"Nobody stays on in The Hollow lest he has to," he said cautiously, "and as for boarding-places, there never was such a thing here, I reckon. I certainly don't expect they would take any one in at the Walden place, not if they-all was starving. Miss Ann Walden is quality from way back. The Morleys couldn't entertain, and what's true of the Morleys is true of all the others."

"Couldn't you folks take me?"

At this Greeley collapsed on the one chair of the porch, and actually gasped.

"I ain't got what you might call folks," he managed to say, "unless you call a brace of dogs, folks."

"Oh! I beg your pardon." Miss Lowe flushed and gave a nervous laugh. "You see I just must manage to find a home here, and—and I've heard so much of Southern chivalry and hospitality I rather hoped some one would take me in until I could look around. The place at The Forge, where I've been for two nights is—impossible, and the darkies have their hands stretched out for tips until I feel like a palmist, and a bankrupt one at that!"

A merry laugh rang out and in spite of himself and his grave doubts Greeley relaxed.

"If you don't mind doing for yourself," he ventured, "there's a cabin over to Trouble Neck that you might get."

"Do for myself?" Miss Lowe cried energetically. "I'd just favour that plan, I can tell you! I could get all the furniture I need at The Forge, I am sure. The name of the place isn't exactly cheering, but then I've waded through trouble and got on top all my life long. Who owns the cabin over at Trouble Neck?"

Property rights in and around The Hollow were rarely discussed; it was a delicate question, but what was not actually held down by another generally was conceded to a certain Smith Crothers and to his credit Tod Greeley now put the Trouble Neck cabin.

"Oh! He's the man who owns the factory a few miles from The Forge? I drove past it yesterday at noon time. I thought it was an orphan asylum at first. I never saw such babies put to work before. It's monstrous and the law ought to shut down on your Smith Crothers!"

At this Greeley had a distinct sensation of pain in the region known as the pit of his stomach. That Smith Crothers should fall under any law had never been dreamed of by mortal man or woman in Greeley's presence before. The right of free whiskey was one thing; the right of a man to utilize the children of the district was another!

"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."