Eliza never could tell how long it was before she opened her eyes again.
She was conscious at first of the sun beating down upon her face.
Bewildered she opened her eyes only to close them again quickly against
the unbearable light of the sky at midday. She tried to move, but her
muscles were bound. A delicious sense of languor was again stealing over
her, when she moved her hand slightly and felt water running over it.
This aroused her again, and set her thoughts in motion. Little by little
it all came back to her; her drive, the woman and child and the run-away
horse. She knew now where she was. She need not open her eyes to see.
She was lying at the foot of the stone wall at Paddy's Run hill. She
could hear the noise of running water. She thought of these things in a
dreamy, far-off fashion as though it were something she might have read
sometime. The child! Then she realized the awfulness of what had
happened. Had she killed them both! She did not dare think of anything
so horrible. She lay quite still, straining every nerve to listen for
some sound of life. She heard it at last. It was the most beautiful
sound she had ever heard in all her life. A low gurgly coo and then the
touch of baby fingers on her face.
"Pitty ady--det up. Pitty ady, don't seep so long." The laughing dimpled
face of the child looked down at her. It had escaped then. It was with a
delicious feeling of thankfulness that she closed her eyes, not to open
them again for several hours.
She was back in her own home then, lying on the old mahogany davenport
with all the neighbors for miles about bending over her. She could hear
Sam Houston holding forth in the kitchen. She listened, and there came
to her in a listless sort of way that Sam always was a brag.
"I was just settin' out to walk down to the office," he was saying, "and
when I came on to the road, who should I see but that old rascal of a
Prince come walking along with one shaft hanging to his heels and the
reins floppin' down on his side. He looked as quiet as a lamb, for all
the world as though he had been put to grazin' instead of up to some
devilment. I tell you right here, it didn't take me long to know that
something was up. I called Jim-boy, and off we started as fast as legs
could carry us, and sure enough there the hull three of them lay--"
"Three! Three! Three of them!" The words kept running off in Eliza's
mind. There were three--herself, the baby and--she could not remember
who the third was. Then she did remember. Like a flash all was clear.
She raised herself and was about to get up.
"There--there, Liza, you mustn't." Mrs. Kilgore would have forced her
back on the pillows.
"I must get up. There's nothing at all the matter with me." Pushing
aside the detaining hands, she stood upon her feet. For an instant she
was a little giddy, but she steadied herself. Her muscles ached as she
moved. Her black silk waist had been cut open the full length of the
sleeve and she saw that her arm was black and blue. It was badly
swollen. She could move it though, and bruises will soon heal.
"Where's the woman--the woman who was with me?" she asked. She looked
about on the faces. Every woman in Shintown was there. Old Granny Moyer
sitting hunched up in the corner, using snuff and gloating. Mrs.
Kilgore, bustling about with liniments and medicine bottles, her face
radiant with the happiness of waiting upon the sick. From the room
beyond came the heavier tones of men's voices. None of the women had
attempted to answer Eliza's question. Her head was whirling so that she
forgot in an instant that she had asked it. She listened to the voices
from the parlor. Then, with all the energy of which she was capable, she
moved quickly across the room and entered what the countryside termed
'the parlor.' This room was one of the things which Eliza disliked. She
never said so. She never gave her thoughts tangible form even to
herself. She simply avoided the room because she never felt at ease or
comfortable when she sat within it.
There was a heavy Brussels carpet with bold design in bright colors. The
chairs had backs as stiff as a poker. They were upholstered in red plush
with ball fringe everywhere it could be stuck on. The walls were made
hideous with life-sized crayon portraits. Chenille curtains were draped
at the windows and a rope portiere impeded the opening and closing of
the door. A large marble-topped table stood in the center of the room.
It was all hideous enough even if the odor of camphor and moth balls had
not been in the air. It was an awful example of clinging to customs
which are hideous.
Eliza never could sit there. She always felt irritated and fussy
whenever she put it to rights, but yet she had not reached the stage of
advancement which seeks the cause and removes it.
Bracing herself against the jamb of the door, she raised her aching,
bruised hand and pushed aside the rope drapery. The center-table with
its marble top had been removed from its accustomed place and something
else was there.
Eliza stood for a moment to look about her. Squire Stout stood by,
leaning on his cane. He was a little shriveled-up creature with snowy
hair. His lips were thin and cruel. There was the air of an autocrat, a
demagogue about him. Near him was Doctor Dullmer, whose face even now
had lost nothing of its helpful, cheery, optimistic expression. There
were other men in the group. They had all been talking; but they ceased
at the sight of Miss Eliza standing in the doorway.
"You?" exclaimed Doctor Dullmer, advancing and extending his arm for
support. "What do you mean? You should be in bed!"
"I am all right. Just bruised. That is all."
She clung to his arm as she moved toward the little group, which
separated to make room for her as she advanced.
Then she saw why the center-table with its square marble top had been
pushed to the wall The woman lay there. Her beautiful yellow hair was
coiled about her head like a golden crown. She looked so smiling and
happy that Eliza could not feel one pang of sorrow for her. She bent
over and smoothed the stranger's forehead.
"I wonder who she was," she said at length.
"Don't you know?" the question came from every man there and from the
group of women who had packed the narrow doorway. They were too fearful
and too nervous to enter.
"No, I do not," said Eliza. "I know neither her name nor her
destination."
"Sit down," said Doctor Dullmer brusquely, pushing forward a chair and
forcing her, none too gently, into it. She sat bolt upright and looked
at the men about her. She forgot that her arm was aching with its
bruises, and that a great cut near her temple, which the doctor had
stitched, was making her head throb and tremble like an over-pressure of
caged steam.
"But she was with you."--"You were driving her." "We supposed right
along that she was some of your kin."
Eliza shook her head. "I'll tell you how it happened so," she began. "I
never saw her--"
"Don't talk about it now. Better wait until to-morrow, until you are
better," advised Doctor Dullmer.
"I must talk now. It's better to tell about it at once so there can be
no misunderstanding. It will help me to get it off my mind."
"Well, just as you please," said he, but he drew a chair beside her and
watched her closely. He alone realized that she was on the point of
collapse which might come suddenly upon her. He thought only of her
physical condition. He had not estimated the power of will which is able
to put aside all physical discomfort and carry a thing through because
it is right to do so.
So Eliza sat bolt upright in the stiff chair, hideous with its red plush
upholstery, and related all that had happened the several hours before.
The men listened with a question at intervals. When the story was ended,
Miss Eliza got upon her feet.
"You'll go to bed now," said the doctor.
"Send everyone home but Mrs. Kilgore. I cannot rest with so many about
me."
Mrs. Kilgore had overheard the words and was already ridding the house
of the neighbors.
"You'd better go, Granny. Your old man will want supper soon."
"I think your baby would be crying for you, Mrs. Duden."
"Hain't you afraid to leave the twins alone in the house with matches
and oil about?" So by dint of suggestion, she turned them all homeward
and locked the door.
Miss Eliza went back to the davenport and, arranging the pillows, laid
down her throbbing head and closed her eyes.
Mrs. Kilgore bustled about, closing doors and drawing shades. She was as
happy as could be. She was in her element in the sick-room. She found
thorough enjoyment in officiating at the house of sorrow. She drew down
the corners of her mouth and assumed a doleful expression, but a pleased
excitement showed itself in spite of all.
"Pitty adee--pitty adee." A few toddling steps, and the child came close
to the davenport where Eliza lay. Her baby hands rested lightly against
the bandaged head.
"Pitty adee--hurted. Me's sorry. Me kiss 'ou an 'ou get well." Standing
on tip-toe, she put her lips again and again against the bandage.
Miss Eliza trembled. A strange thrill went through her. She had never
known much about children. She had been the only chick and child of her
parents. She had not realized that a baby could be so sweet. A strange
joy filled her at the touch of the lips. The term 'Pretty lady' found a
responsive chord in her heart which vibrated. She had lived alone all
her life. No one had ever touched lips to hers. No one had ever found
her attractive or beautiful. For as many years as she could remember, no
one had ever called her 'pretty'. She did not think whether it were true
or false. She accepted it as something new and delightful. She was a
human being, though she had always been alone, and she craved affection
just as every one of humanity does.
She drew the child close to her. It cuddled up as though it had known
only love and tenderness and feared no one. At length it crawled up on
the davenport and nestled close in her arms, with the little head on her
breast. All the while, it kept up a prattle of sympathy for the 'pitty
adee who was hurted' and the baby hands touched Eliza's cheek lightly.
So both fell asleep.
The news of the accident had spread quickly enough. Telegrams had
flashed over the country and local newspapers sent reporters at once to
secure particulars. Williamsburg was the nearest city of importance.
_The Herald_ was the daily with the largest circulation. It was always
looking for a "scoop."
When the telegrams came in telling of the accident, Morris was the only
man in the outer office. McCoy nailed him at once.
"Get to Shintown as fast as you can. Find out everything. Write a column
or two and get back before the press closes for the morning edition."
Morris started. Until this time, he had written nothing but personals.
He was eager to advance. This looked to him like a rung in the ladder.
He would "make good" for himself and his paper. There was no passenger
train due, but he caught a fast freight and "bummed" his way to the Bend
and walked from there to Shintown.
He was admitted without question to the parlor of the old Wells place.
The men had departed, leaving only a watcher beside the dead.
The boy took out his note-book and asked questions which the man who sat
in waiting and Mrs. Kilgore eagerly answered. He looked at the woman
with her mass of yellow hair about her head like a crown. He had been
brought up inland. He knew little of that great wave of surging humanity
which yearly seek our shores in search of a home. He had seen the German
type with fair skin and yellow hair. It did not come to him that a far
northern country had these characteristics intensified.
The presses closed at midnight. He had four hours to reach the city and
have his copy ready. He fired questions rapidly, and wrote while the
answers came. Then he fairly ran down the country road to the Bend where
he caught the late flyer.
It was almost eleven when he began to make copy. Suddenly he stopped. He
had neglected to ask the sex of the child who had been made motherless
by the accident. He paused an instant. He had no time to find out. He
would use a reporter's privilege.
The next morning's edition of the _Herald_ came out with triple headings
on its front page.
Accident at Village of Shintown
One Killed--Two Badly Hurt
A German Woman Who Cannot be Identified
Killed by Runaway Horse. Her Little
Son in Care of Strangers.
Then followed an incorrect account of the accident. The nationality of
the woman, her relation to the child, the sex and age of the latter were
so far removed from the truth, that people hundreds of miles away read
in eager hope, only to lay the paper aside, disappointed that this was
not she for whom they were searching.