THE LITTLE GIRL WHO LOST THE ECHO
Shocked by the discovery of the child's misfortune, Janice scarcely
appreciated at first the peril that menaced the blind girl. It was a
mystery how her unguided feet had brought her so far along the
wharf-beam without catastrophe. But there--just ahead--was the end of
the half-ruined framework. A few more steps and the groping feet would
be over the water.
With a sudden, stifled cry, Janice darted forward. At that moment the
child halted; but she gave no sign that she was aware of Janice Day's
presence. The child faced the not far-distant line of thickly-ranked
spruce upon the opposite shore of the little inlet, and from her parted
lips there issued a strange, wailing cry:
"He-a! he-a! he-a!" she repeated, three times; and back into her face
was flung the mocking laughter of the echo.
Janice had stopped again--held spellbound by wonder and curiosity. The
little girl stood in a listening attitude.
"He-a! he-a! he-a!" she cried again.
The obedient echo repeated the cry; but did the blind girl hear it?
She seemed still to be listening. Janice crept on along the broken
wharf, her hand outstretched, her heart beating in her throat.
The child ventured another step, and, indeed, she stamped upon the
beam. "He-a! he-a! he-a!" she wailed again--a thin, shrill,
unchildlike sound that made Janice shudder.
The cry was almost one of anger, surely that stamping of her foot
denoted vexation. Janice could see the profile of the child's face, a
sweet, wistful countenance. Her lips moved once more and, in a thin,
flat voice, she murmured over and over again: "I have lost it! I have
lost it!"
Janice spoke, her own voice shaking: "My dear! do you know it is
dangerous here?"
Her hand reached to clutch the child's arm if she was startled. A
little misstep would send the blind girl over the edge of the wharf.
But it was Janice who was startled!
The child gave her not the least attention--she did not hear. Blind
and deaf, and alone upon the shaking, broken timbers of this old wharf!
She raised her wailing cry again, and then listened for the echo that
she could no longer hear. The older girl's hand was stayed. She dared
not seize the child, for they were both in a precarious place and if
the little one was frightened and tried to wrench away from her, Janice
feared that they might both fall into the lake.
But the girl from Greensboro thought quickly; and this was an emergency
when quick thought was needed. She remembered having read that blind
people are very susceptible to any vibration or jar. She herself
stamped upon the old wharf-beam, and instantly the child turned toward
her.
"Who is it?" asked the little girl, in a flat, keyless tone.
"You don't know me, my dear," Janice said, instinctively; then,
remembering the blind eyes as well as the deaf ears, she drew quite
close to the child and gently took her hand.
The child responded and touched Janice lightly, gropingly. The latter
could see her eyes now--deep, violet eyes, the appearance of which
belied the fact that the light had gone from them. They were neither
dull-looking nor with a film drawn over them. It was very hard indeed
to believe that the little girl was sightless.
She was flaxen-haired, pink-cheeked, and not too slender. Yet Janice
could not say that she was pretty. Indeed the impression the afflicted
child made upon one was quite the reverse.
The little hand crept up Janice's arm to her shoulder, touched her hair
and neck lightly, and then the slender fingers passed over the older
girl's face. She did this swiftly, while Janice took her other hand
and with a soft, urgent pressure tried to draw her along.
But although she seemed so sweet and amenable, Janice did not breathe
freely until they were both off the old wharf. Then she demanded,
quickly:
"Do they let you come here alone? Where do you live?"
The little girl did not answer; of course she did not hear. She was
still looking back toward the tall wall of spruce across the inlet,
from which the sharp echo was flung.
"He-a! he-a! he-a!" she wailed again, and the echo sent back the cry;
but the little girl shook her head.
"I have lost it! And I don't hear what _you_ say--do I? You can
speak, can't you?"
Janice squeezed her hand quickly, and the child seemed to accept it as
an affirmative reply.
"But, you see, I don't hear you," she continued, in that strange, flat
voice. Janice suddenly realized that hearing had much to do with the
use of the vocal cords. It is because we can hear ourselves speak that
we attune our voices to pleasant sounds. This unfortunate child had no
appreciation of the tones that issued from her lips.
"I used to hear," said the afflicted one. "And I could see, too. Oh,
yes! I haven't forgotten how things look. You know, I'm Lottie Drugg.
I can find my way about. But--but I've lost the echo. I used to hear
_that_ always. I'd run down there to the wharf and shout to the echo,
and it would answer me. But now I've lost it."
Janice squeezed the little hand again. She found herself weeping, and
yet the child did not complain. But it was plainly an effort for her
to speak. Like most victims of complete deafness, it would not be long
before she would be speechless, too. She "mouthed" her words in a
pitiful way.
Blind--deaf--approaching dumbness! The thought made Janice suddenly
seize the child in her arms and hug her, tight.
"Do you love me?" questioned Lottie Drugg, returning the embrace. "I
wish I could hear you. But I can't hear father any more--nor his
fiddle; only when he makes it quiver. Then I know it's crying. Did
you know a fiddle could cry? You come home with me. Father will play
the fiddle for you, and _you_ can hear it."
Janice did not know how to reply. There was so much she wished to say
to this poor little thing! But her quick mind jumped to the conclusion
that the child belonged to the person whom she had heard playing the
violin as she came down from High Street--the unknown musician in the
store above the door of which was the faded sign of "Hopewell Drugg."
She squeezed the little girl's hand again and it seemed to suffice.
"I know the way. My feet are in the path now," said little Lottie,
scuffling her slipper-shod feet about on the narrow footpath. "Yes! I
know the way now. The sun is behind us. Come," and she put forth her
hand, caught Janice's again, and urged her along the bank of the lake
to the foot of the lane down which the girl from Greensboro had
wandered.
Up the hill they went, Janice marveling that Lottie could be so
confident of the way. She seldom hesitated, and Janice allowed herself
to be led. Mr. Cross Moore was still smoking his pipe out in front of
his house.
"I calkerlate that child's goin' to be drowned-ed some day," he said
calmly, to Janice. "Jest a marcy that she ain't done it afore now.
An' Hopewell--Huh! him sittin' up there fiddlin'----"
It seemed to Janice as though a spirit of criticism had entered into
all the Poketownites. There was Walky Dexter scoffing at her Uncle
Jason; and here was Selectman Moore criticising the father of little
Lottie. Yet neither critic, as far as Janice could see, set much of an
example for his townsmen to follow!
Lottie, with her hand in the bigger girl's, tripped along the walk as
confidently as though she had her eyesight. She was an affectionate
little thing, and she "snuggled" closely to Janice, occasionally
touching her new friend's face and lips with her free hand.
"I guess I love you," she said, in her strange, little, flat voice.
"You come in and see father. We are most there. Here is Mis' Robbins'
gate. I used to see her flowers. Her yard's full of them, isn't it?"
"Oh, yes!" replied Janice, fighting her inclination to burst into
tears. "Oh, yes, dear! beautiful flowers." She pressed the hand
tightly.
"I can smell 'em," said the child, snuffing with her nose like a dog.
"And now here is the shade of our big trees. It's darker and cooler
under these trees than anywhere else on the street. Isn't it?"
Janice agreed by pressing her hand again, and little Lottie
laughed--such a shrill, eyrie little laugh! They were before the
gloomy-looking store of Hopewell Drugg. The wailing of the fiddle
floated out upon the warm afternoon air.
The blind girl tripped up the steps of the porch and in at the open
door. "Silver Threads Among the Gold" came to a sharp conclusion.
"Merciful goodness!" croaked a frightened voice. "I thought you was
asleep in your bed, Lottie."
Janice had followed the little girl to the doorway. She saw but dimly
the store itself and the shelves of dusty merchandise. From the back
room where he had been sitting with his violin, a gray, thin,
dusty-looking man came quickly and seized Lottie in his arms.
"Child! child! how you frighten me!" he murmured. Then he looked over
the little girl's head and blinked through his spectacles at Janice in
the doorway.
"I'm certainly obliged to ye," he said. "She--she gets away from the
house and I don't know it. I--I can't watch her all the time and she
ain't got no mother, Miss. I certainly am obliged to ye for bringing
her home."
"She was down on the old wharf at the foot of the street, trying to
wake the echo from the woods across the inlet," said Janice, gravely.
The gray man hugged his daughter tightly, and his eyes blinked like an
owl's in strong daylight, as he peered through his spectacles at
Janice. "She--she loved to go there--always," he murmured. "I go with
her Sundays--and when the store is closed. But she is so quick--in a
flash she is out of my sight."
"Can--can nothing be done for her?'" questioned Janice, in a whisper.
"She cannot hear you--now," said Hopewell Drugg, gloomily, shaking his
head. "And the doctors here tell me she is almost sure to be dumb,
too. If I could only get her to Boston! There's a school for such as
her, there, and specialists, and all. But it would cost a pile of
money."
"You play the fiddle, father," commanded little Lottie. "And make it
quiver--make it cry, father! Then _I_ can hear it."
He set her down carefully, still shaking his head. Her strange little
voice kept repeating: "Play for her, father! Play for her, father!"
Hopewell Drugg picked up the violin and bow from the end of the
counter. He leaned against the counter and tucked the violin under his
chin. There was only a brown light in the dusky store, and the dust
danced in the single band of sunlight that searched out a knot hole in
the wall of the back room--the shed between the store proper and the
cottage in the rear.
"Darling, I am growing old,
Silver threads among the gold----"
The old violin wailed out the tune haltingly. The deaf and blind child
caught the tremulo of the final notes, and she danced up and down and
clapped her little hands.
"I can hear that! I can hear that!" she muttered, her lips writhing to
form the sounds.
Janice felt the tears suddenly blinding her. "I'll come back and see
you again--indeed I will!" she said, brokenly, and hugging and kissing
little Lottie impetuously, she released her and ran out of the ugly,
dark little store.
It is doubtful if Hopewell Drugg even heard her. The violin was still
wailing away, while he searched out slowly the minor notes of the old,
old song.