CHAPTER XIV
And there Marcia Lowe found her. Fortunately the little doctor went early to the church, for she had conceived of a Christmas such as The Hollow had never known, and it seemed fitting that Theodore Starr should be the host!
Quite merrily she entered and went directly to the stove to start a fire. As she drew near, the outstretched form of Cynthia Walden caught her eyes and she cried aloud in astonishment and fright. At first she thought the girl was frozen to death, for she lay so still and her thin clothing was evidence of the danger run.
"Dear heart! dear heart!" whispered Miss Lowe, overcoming her desire to take the girl in her arms until she had made a fire. Once the genial heat began to spread Marcia Lowe set a kettle of water on the stove and then gave her maternal instincts full play. She gathered the slight form close and kissed again and again the thin oval cheek and close shut mouth.
"Poor little, little girl!"
The warmth and sound stole into Cynthia's far place and summoned her back. Her first look was full of terror; her second was one of unearthly joyousness, and then because the woman of Cynthia had no need to battle longer for her, the child made its claims and, clinging and sobbing to the little doctor she moaned again and again:
"I am so afraid; so afraid!"
It was long before Miss Lowe could quiet her. She wrapped her heavy coat about her and forced some drops of hot water between the stiff, chilled lips. Then she bathed the face and hands gently with water cooled with snow, murmuring tenderly meanwhile:
"Dear little girl; poor little Cynthia! It's all right now."
When the girl was soothed and comforted she went to the store to buy food—anything to be had, for she knew instinctively that whatever was the cause, Cynthia had tasted no food that day.
"Come back soon!" moaned the girl crouching by the stove, "I am so afraid."
After she had eaten some stale crackers, soaked in diluted condensed milk, Cynthia sat up, still and pale, and faced Marcia Lowe dumbly, imploringly.
"Can you tell me, little Cyn?"
"No!" The voice was distant and monotonous.
"But something has happened, dear. I want to help you."
"The factory—is burned down!" A shudder ran over the rigid young figure. Marcia Lowe saw that she might hope to win her way if she did not startle the benumbed mind.
"Were you hurt, dear? Was any one hurt? When did it happen? How did you hear?"
After each question Marcia waited, and then put another. Still that fixed, steady gaze.
"I—I was there. It was night. He—he kissed me—don't look like that! look away! your eyes hurt me!"
Marcia came closer and took the girl in her arms.
"Now, darling," she whispered, "close your eyes and I'll close mine—there are only you and I and—God here."
"He—he kissed me, Crothers did! Then he wanted me to do something—oh! I do not know what, but something he thought I could do—I felt it, and—and I threw the lamp at him. It was lighted and he went down in a heap and I—I ran right hard, but I went back and pulled him out when the fire started. I do not know why—for I want him out of the world. I shall be afraid always while he is in the world!"
"It's all right now, little Cyn, all, all right."
This only could the horrified woman repeat over and over, as she swayed to and fro with closed eyes and Cynthia on her breast.
Vividly she seemed to see the late scene. The helpless girl; the brutish man; the lonely night shutting them in and only a miracle to save. Details did not matter, and the miracle had come, but the after effects were here and now.
It was near noon before Marcia Lowe dared take Cynthia away from the shelter of the church, and when she did so she chose an hour when all but Greeley were absent from the store, and he was in the rear, eating his dinner.
"You must come to Trouble Neck, little Cyn," she said firmly; "you'll be safe there, and we must think this out."
Cynthia made no demur, and wrapped in Marcia Lowe's coat—Marcia had a lighter one beside—she clung close to the little doctor and walked the three miles to Trouble Neck without a word of complaint.
"It's plain good luck," Marcia Lowe thought, "that Martin Morley is out of hospital." And then she smiled grimly up into the girl-face beside her, for Cynthia was fully as tall as she.
It was late afternoon when Tod Greeley strode over to Trouble Neck for no particular reason. Outside the door he stood and listened to low-spoken words and snatches of song.
"'Taint nowise normal, I reckon," mused he; "a woman's tongue and mind has got to have some one to hit up against, or the recoil is going to do some right smart damage to the woman herself." Then he knocked, and went in at the word of command to enter.
"Just conversationing with yourself?" he asked.
"Yes. Poor company's better than none. Sit down, Mr. Greeley; you're always welcome."
"I brought some news. Crothers' factory is plumb burnt to the ground."
"Land sakes!" ejaculated the little doctor in the idiom of her home town; "any damage besides the factory?"
"Crothers is right used up. They say he tipped over the lamp in his hurry to get up and—things happened."
"Dear suz!" Marcia Lowe was lapsing into old-fashioned speech.
"And Miss Lowe, little Miss Cynthia was thar after hours! They do say she acted like she was possessed. She pulled Crothers out of the flames and saved his life I reckon—that is, if it is saved! He ain't perked up much yet, 'cording to reports. But Miss Lowe—little Miss Cyn ain't come home! I'm tumble feared lest she went back again for something, and——"
Miss Lowe got up from her chair and cautiously motioned Tod to the doorway of the lean-to.
"Look!" she whispered. Greeley expected still to see Martin, but instead he saw the delicate, sleeping face of Cynthia Walden. He drew back with a stifled cry.
"That there room o' yours," he faintly said when he reached the fireside again, "is right nerve-racking. It's like one of them Jack-boxes at Christmas."
"She only stopped here because she was tired. When she awakens I will take her home," explained Miss Lowe.
Greeley was nonplussed, but when he was in doubt he turned the subject and talked more than usual.
The following day Cynthia was taken home. Providence and the strain and excitement saved her from serious harm, but when Marcia Lowe left her by the gate of Stoneledge there seemed to be something tragic in the fact that after such an experience, no explanations were necessary. Ann Walden was past any earthly worriment, and Sally Taber could not understand then, or ever, the soul-hurt little Cynthia had received.
"It's good friends now and always, little Cyn?"
"Yes, dear Cup-o'-Cold-Water Lady!"
They stood by the dilapidated gate.
"And you will come often to Trouble Neck?"
"Right often."
"And you are not afraid? Remember I have a care over you."
"I am not afraid."
"Then kiss, little Cyn, and God bless you."
On her way home Marcia Lowe stopped at the church to rest and "talk it over with Uncle Theodore."
The golden winter sunset streamed through the window and lay bright and fair like a shining way up to the altar. Marcia walked the brilliant strip and sat down in the minister's pew. Wrapping her heavy coat about her she raised her eyes to the pulpit and a great comfort came. Then she closed her eyes and the pale, fine face of her uncle seemed to rise before her.
"If you could only tell me all about it, dear," she whispered. "I would help any little girl. God knows, but I could help yours so much easier! Isn't there some way, uncle, that you can make me understand? Is your place so far away?"
A step fell upon the floor; a shambling, tottering footstep. Miss Lowe turned and saw Andrew Townley.
"Sit here beside me," she said; "this is a good place to be."
"It's a right good place, ma'am. Seems like we-all can't kill Parson Starr. I seem to feel like it was only yesterday when he rode up The Way and sorter settled down like a blessing long o' us-all. Lately, as I pass by or turn in yere I get a call back to something what he spoke. To-day it came to me right sharp how he said 'greater love' and then went on to explanify. I'm right old in years, ma'am, and I'm doddering, I expect, but I reckon I knows as much as that po' moon chile o' Hope's. You know Crothers has got him, too, 'mong the wheels, and the po' lil' boy he comes home all wild and sicklike, and mornings Hope has to lick him down The Way—he hates that-er-much to go. Come to-morrow, I'm going down to Crothers' and I'm going to offer up myself 'stead o' that moon chile. When I go to join Parson Starr I'd like to have something to offer him by way o' excusing myself. 'Parson, I'll say to him, parson, this I done 'long o' "Greater Love."'"
Marcia Lowe's eyes filled with tears as she took the poor old fumbling hands in her own.
"Dear, dear friend," she faltered, "God will not need your service. He has chosen a burnt offering instead of a human sacrifice. The factory is in ashes now, and for a time, the children may rest."
"Sho'!" murmured Andrew. "Sho' to be sure." Then he wandered back to that past which held Starr.
"The last time I saw the parson was that-er-day when he went a riding off to the Gulch to help ole Miss Lanley out o' life. He had lil' Miss Queenie long o' him—she was the Walden girl as was."
Marcia Lowe sat up straighter and again gripped the wandering, wrinkled hands. Her uncle's letter came vividly to mind and she felt suddenly that she was being led by old Townley back to clear vision.
"Go on!" she whispered soothingly, seeking not to confuse the rambling wits. "Just where was old Miss Lanley's place?"
Andrew laughed foolishly.
"Lanley!" he pattered on. "Susie May Lanley! I reckon she was a right putty one in her day. I uster set and watch her and say this-er-way: 'plenty o' them! I'm going to get one!' meaning to make her jealous long o' gals, but she never took no heed—but Landy! she died forsaken and lone, and times is when I think she would have been a mighty sight better off if she had took me!"
Townley's long reminiscence had tired him woefully and he began to cry pitifully, swaying to and fro and repeating:
"She done died forsaken and lone!"
Then he fell asleep, his white head on Marcia Lowe's shoulder, the full radiance of the late sun flooding over them through the western window. For a half hour he slept and when he awakened he seemed hopelessly addled. Muttering and groping, hardly seeming to notice his companion, he made his way out of the church.
"Old Miss Susie May Lanley!" the little doctor repeated over and over. "I must hold to that until I get it on paper. I guess Uncle Theodore was married by some one living near old Miss Susie May Lanley's!"
Just as Marcia Lowe was leaving the church, Cynthia came running down the trail. She was smiling and calm.
"I came back," she said confidingly, "to tell you something. I've worked it out myself."
"Yes, dear;" the girl's face struck Marcia strangely. A new expression rested upon it.
"I'm—not—going—to suffer any more."
"Why, little Cyn?"
"No. No more! It hurts and hurts and then you get over it, and go on just the same. I'm not going to suffer!"
Miss Lowe went close and took the pretty face in her hands.
"See here, little girl, if suffering is a teacher it is not such a cruel thing; be a good learner."
"No. Last night in the blackness and fear something happened—here!" The girl put her hand over her heart. "But now with the sun shining over Lost Mountain, it's all so right safe and still and happy that I'm sorry for the hurt of last night. No, I am not going to suffer. I'm going to be just lil' Cyn again. I thought you would like to know."
"Oh, dear," and then Marcia laughed. "You-all make me want to cry so easily! I am glad, dear. Surely I do not want any one to suffer; but see here, will you come to me every day, Cynthia? I want to teach you some necessary things. Things like—well—book things! Things that Sandy just loved."
"I reckon I will, Cup-o'-Cold-Water Lady!"
Then she was gone as she had come. Crothers' touch had only alarmed her; it had not soiled her.
"Thank God!" murmured the little doctor; "the woman in the child shielded her from all but physical shock! And what a quaint philosophy for a girl to evolve."
That evening as Marcia Lowe stood before her little mirror in the lean-to, braiding her long smooth hair, she talked a bit for comfort's sake.
"It's plain luxury to lie in my own bed again," she said, "the bench in the other room can never be made anything but a martyr's cot." Then she glanced up and faced her own smiling image with the braids twisted about the head.
"Oh!" she faltered, falling back, "oh! Uncle Theodore!" For there, smiling at her with the slow, lingering smile, the face of Cynthia seemed to shine out by the flickering candlelight, instead of her own!
The long dressing-gown gave a childish setting to the little doctor's form, the coronet braids; the happy, smiling face was young and wonderfully, strikingly like Cynthia's.
"They always said I was so like Uncle Theodore! I've got Cynthia to her father by way of—me!"
Then the Cup-o'-Cold-Water Lady did a most unaccountable thing—she fairly pranced about the room.
"I've found it!" she sang; "without resurrecting old Miss Susie May Lanley! What's a stupid marriage certificate compared to God's plain handwriting? I can keep my secret now, Uncle Theodore, until the right time. It was so good of you, dear, to give me proof."