A Son of the Hills | Page 2

themselves. They intermarried and reaped the results with sullen
indifference. Their hopes and longings sank into voiceless silence. Now
and then Inheritance, in one form or another, flared forth, but before it
could form itself into expression it was stilled and forbidden, by
circumstances, to assert itself.
Sad, depressed Lost Hollow! Over it loomed darkly the mountain
whose peak was so often shrouded in clouds. The people loved the hills
and the shadows; they glided like wan ghosts up and down The Way or
took to the more sheltered trails. When they were sober they were
gentle, harmless folk, but when whiskey overpowered them the men
became dully brutal, the women wretchedly slavish, and the children
what one might expect such sad little creatures to become! Lacking in
intellect, misshapen and timid, they rustled among the underbrush like
frightened animals; peered forth like uncanny gnomes, and ate and slept
how and as they could.
After the Civil War these people became "poor whites" and were
ground between the nether millstone of their more prosperous
neighbours and that of the blacks, until they sank to the lowest level.
Their voices were hushed and forgotten; their former estate blotted out
in their present degradation, and just then Sandy Morley and Cynthia

Walden were born and some high and just God seemed to strengthen
their childish voices; vouchsafe to them a vision and give their
Inheritance charge over them.
Marriage form was not largely in vogue among the Lost Hollow people;
it was too expensive and unnecessary. The rector of the small church at
The Forge looked upon the hill people as altogether beyond and below
the need of any attention of his, and was genuinely surprised and
annoyed when one of them called upon him for service. He had not
come to The Forge from an ardour to save souls; he had been placed
there because he had not been wanted elsewhere, and he was rebellious
and bitter. Occasionally he was summoned to the mountain fastnesses
for a burial or wedding, but he showed his disapproval of such
interferences with his dignified rights, and was not imposed upon often.
But Martin Morley, Sandy's father, had married Sandy's mother. She
was a Forge girl who believed in Martin and loved him, so he took her
boldly to the parsonage, paid for the service the rector performed, and
went his way.
There was one happy year following in the Morley cabin under Lost
Mountain. Martin worked as he never had before; the hut was mended
without and made homelike within. The little wife sang at her tasks and
inspired Martin to a degree of fervour that brought him to the
conclusion that he must get away! Get away from the poverty and
squalor of The Hollow; get away farther than The Forge--far, far away!
"After the baby comes!" the little wife whispered, "we'll take it to a
better, sunnier place and--give it a chance!"
The baby came on a bad, stormy night. Sandford Morley they called
him. The Forge doctor, travelling up The Way, stopped at the Morley
cabin for a bite of supper and found how things were. Sally Taber was
in command, and Martin, frightened and awed, crouched by the
chimney corner in the living-room, while his girl-wife (she was much
younger than he) made her desperate fight.
"There's only a broken head or two up at Teale's Blind Tiger," the
doctor said grimly; "they can wait, I reckon, while I steer this youngster

into port." The doctor had come from the coast on account of his lungs
and his speech still held the flavour of the sea.
Sandy Morley made a difficult mooring with more vigour and
determination than one would have expected, but the cost was great.
All night the battle waged. The doctor, with coat off and haggard face,
fought with the little mother inch by inch, but at sunrise, just two hours
after Sandy lustily announced his arrival, she let go the hand of her
husband who knelt by her hard, narrow bed, and whispered in the
dialect of her hills, "Youcum!"--which meant that Morley must come to
her some where, some how, some time, for she no longer could bide
with him.
After that Martin stayed on in the cabin with the baby. One woman
after another lent her aid in an hour of need, but on the whole Sandy
and his father made it out together as best they could. The little,
clinging fingers held Martin back for a time--the boy had his mother's
fine, clear eyes and when he looked at Martin something commanded
the man to stand firm. In those days Martin found comfort in religion
and became a power at the camp meetings; his prayers were renowned
far and near, but the evil clutched him