The day that civilization and education took Sandy Morley into its
keeping, saw Cynthia Walden astride Crothers' mule jogging down The Way
to the factory. Sandy, arrayed in immaculate attire, was borne to his
school among the New Hampshire hills by train and coach. He was
desperately lonely; thoroughly frightened, but he was well in body;
healthfully sustained by good food, and he had so much money in his
pockets that he was in deadly fear of being waylaid and robbed.
Cynthia, on the contrary, was dressed in a shabby gingham gown freshly
laundried and stiffly starched, but much mended, and her pocket was
guiltless of money. She had no fear of being attacked, so she sang
sweetly and joyously as she bobbed about getting her blood circulating,
for the old coat and hood she wore were pitifully inadequate for the
crisp weather. Cynthia was young and hope led her on; besides, she had
just deposited a most poetic letter to Sandy in the hole of the tree.
Old Sally Taber had smoothed the problem of Stoneledge for the time
being, and there was going to be plenty of money now that Crothers had
opened the way for Cynthia to employ her talents!
Cynthia tried the bird-note Sandy had conquered so successfully.
"Why don't we-all have birds in winter 'stead of summer?" babbled Madam
Bubble from her mule; "and moons on dark nights, and hot suns at
Christmas?" Then she laughed, and the laugh left the dear, slow smile
as a reminder after the joyous sound died away.
"The Cup-o'-Cold-Water Lady is in the church," Cynthia exclaimed
suddenly as she neared Theodore Starr's small edifice from whose
chimney smoke was rising. Then she kicked the fat sides of her mule
and turned her supercilious head aside in order to escape Marcia Lowe's
eyes, were they scanning The Way.
"It's right noble of her to take care of Sandy's father," the just mind
granted; "but Aunt Ann and I--must do without her!"
A touch of yearning lay in the words. Cynthia needed what Marcia Lowe
might mean to her, and only loyalty to Ann Walden restrained her.
But Marcia Lowe did not see Cynthia pass. For months now, through the
doors and unbarred windows, the light and air had come into the little
church, and the spirit of Theodore Starr had, in some subtle manner,
been permitted to live again. People dropped in occasionally and sat
and thought of the dead parson. Sometimes Marcia Lowe welcomed them
and coaxed them to tell her of her dear uncle. She always sat in what
she called "the minister's pew," and there were times in her lonely
detached life when she seemed to see the calm, fine face looking down
at her from the poor pulpit. He never looked the weak man who was
afraid of Ann Walden; to his loving niece he was ever the strong
brother-of-men who had died while serving them not worthy of him! As
Cynthia rode by, Marcia was building a fire in the drum stove, lately
placed in the church, and singing, prayerfully, a favourite hymn.
"Alone with Thee, amid the mystic shadows,
The solemn hush of Nature newly born;
Alone with Thee in breathless adoration,
In the calm dew and freshness of the dawn.
"So shall it be at last, in that bright morning
When the soul waketh and life's shadows flee."
The fire responded and outside the shadows of the dark trees of The Way
enshrouded Cynthia as she hurried on.
That day in the factory was the hardest day of Cynthia's life. To a
young girl born in freedom, be that freedom of the meanest, the
confinement and authority were deadly. Then, too, to witness the
utilization of the baby-things that were mere cogs in the machinery of
Crothers' business, hurt the mother-heart of the girl cruelly. At the
noon hour she tried to make the sad little creatures play--but they had
forgotten how, if they ever knew; they, stared at her with wondering
eyes; ate all of her lunch she offered, and shivered in their thin
clothes by the wretched fire in a shed provided for their leisure time.
"Oh, Sandy, Sandy," murmured Cynthia as she looked about, "I'll help
you get them away from here some day."
A new fear and hate of Crothers grew in her heart as she impotently
suffered for the children, but Crothers was as gentle and kind to her
as any wise and considerate father could have been. He was patient
with her bungling and errors; he did not turn her off to his clerks for
instruction, he spent his own time upon her. Every moment that he was
near her Cynthia trembled, and when he accidentally touched her she
recoiled sharply. Crothers noticed this, and at first it angered him;
then caused him much amusement. Unconsciously the girl was fanning
into sudden and violent flame that which might have slumbered on for
months. Before the end of the first week Crothers had noticed how
lovely Cynthia's shining braids were as they twined around her pretty,
bent head. His eyes grew thoughtful as he noted the lines of the
softly rounded shoulders and dainty girlish bosom. The little dent in
the back of the slim neck was like a dimple and even the small
roughened hands were shapely and beautiful.
"How old are you, little miss?" Crothers asked her the third day of her
business life, and Cynthia fearing that her youth might prove an
obstacle answered blindly:
"Going on--fourteen!" She looked more, for her South, in spite of all
her meagre upbringing, had developed her rapidly. Crothers smiled
indulgently.
When Saturday night came four dollars was handed to Cynthia by Crothers
himself.
"It was to be three," she said, holding the money toward him. He took
the fingers in his, closed them over the bills, and said:
"Just a little present for a nice little girl who has tried so hard to
be good."
Cynthia drew back and her eyes flashed dangerously.
"I do not want it!" she said quickly, and flung a dollar on the desk.
"I only want what is mine!" After she had gone Crothers swore a little;
then laughed. The laugh was more evil than the oath, but no one was
there to hear.
Cynthia had no one to speak to about her fear and loathing of Crothers.
Besides, she had entered upon her career and dared not turn back. She
did not understand herself, nor the man who was her employer; she did
not understand conditions nor the yearnings that possessed her; she
only knew that she must fight against becoming a poor white, and learn
to overcome the limitations of her birth, and Crothers seemed her only
chance. On the long rides to and from the factory she thought often of
her poor mother and wondered about her bad father. She wished she had
learned more about them while Ann Walden was capable of telling her.
The time was past now when the mistress of Stoneledge could impart any
reliable information to the girl. When the weather permitted the old
woman paced the upper balcony crooning to the hills, and as cold and
storm shut her inside she seemed only happy in the library. So Sally
Taber, reinforced by the money which supposedly she so miraculously had
saved, had the room made habitable. Mason Hope was coaxed into giving
some of his valuable time to the repairing and by mid-winter the place
was comfortable.
"Ole miss is jes' a plain moon-chile now," Sally confided to Marcia
Lowe at one of their private conferences; "it's right silly to oppose
her."
"Yes, give her everything you can, Sally, and oh! if she ever has
flashes of reason get her to talk and--remember what she says!"
"Deed and deed I will," promised Sally. "And if she ever do get her
wits back it will be in dat ole libr'y-room. She acts right human thar
at times."
Marcia Lowe was sorely puzzled about Cynthia those days. If she were
only sure that Ann Walden would never recover her reason she would take
her chances with the girl and plead Theodore Starr's cause, but with no
actual proof, and with Ann Walden's evident past instruction to
Cynthia, she hesitated to make her own claims. Then, too, there were
times when doubt rose in her mind, not as to her uncle, but Cynthia's
parentage. There might never have been a child born to Queenie Walden.
The Hollow story of adoption might be true after all. That would have
accounted for old Miss Walden's bitter resentment. It was all very
difficult and confusing, but in the meantime she could love the girl,
and do, indirectly, for her what personally she could not.
Oftener and oftener the little doctor went to the church by The Way and
"sat with Uncle Theodore," as she put it. It was less lonely there;
the store was near by and the passers-by were becoming more friendly.
Occasionally they dropped in. Tod Greeley and old Townley more than
the others, and chatted sociably. Marcia Lowe had much to be grateful
for, and when, one morning two weeks after Morley had been pronounced
cured by his faithful doctor-nurse, he came to her, as she sat in the
church, and said quietly:
"Miss Lowe, I'm going up yon----" pointing to his own cabin, seen now
between the bare trees, "to straighten it up a bit," she wept as if her
heart would break. Martin did not witness the outbreak; he had set
forth upon his task. Marcia Lowe was alone and upon her knees.
"Dear God!" she repeated over and over; "dear God! he is saved. He'll
open the way to others."
Martin Morley went upon his new course unheeded for a time, for a
tragic happening to Cynthia and a calamity to the community threw the
little doctor and many others into chaos.
Cynthia had been a month in Crothers' factory, when one late afternoon
he said to her:
"Little miss, could you bide at The Forge tonight?" Cynthia started
back and looked at him.
"It's this-er-way; you've become mighty helpful to me and I've got a
batch of letters to get off by the morning's mail. It looks like there
is going to be snow, too, and I'd hate to keep you late and then send
you toting home after dark. Now if you can stop over and work 'long o'
me till--say ten o'clock, we can finish the work and I'll set you down
safe and sound at my boarding-house for a good night's rest."
Cynthia gave her usual shudder and sought about for an excuse. She
knew Crothers' boarding-house keeper; knew her to be a decent soul who
had more than once, lately, brought a hot meal to her at midday when
she brought Crothers'. There was snow in the air, too, and a late ride
through the woods at night was almost more awful than to stay at the
factory.
"They-all will worry," she faltered in her pretty, slow way.
"I sent word by Hope's boys," Crothers reassured her, "they've just
gone. I knew I could depend upon you."
Cynthia struggled to control herself, and finally gave her smile and
shrugged her shoulders.
The mistress of the boarding-house brought to the factory a piping hot
supper for two at seven o'clock. She seemed to know all about
Cynthia's proposed stay, and showed no sign of misunderstanding it.
"You better fotch the chile in 'bout nine," she suggested to Crothers
as she went out; "she do look clean beat now. Quality don't last out
at work like trash do; they certainly do tucker out sooner."
Crothers bade the garrulous woman a pleasant good night, and then set
himself busily to the task of mastering a pile of correspondence on his
desk. Cynthia went to the little table by the window that served as
her writing-desk and asked quietly what she should do. Crothers handed
her a list of names and a package of envelopes and told her to address
them. The old clock on the wall ticked away comfortably; the warmth
and the late hearty meal combined to drive away fear and apprehension
of, she knew not what, and Cynthia was soon absorbed in the task set
her.
Presently the kerosene lamp on her table flickered and went out; then
glancing over at Crothers' back she asked timidly:
"Please, may I sit by your desk, sir? The light's failed."
Crothers turned about and smiled at the pale little creature in the
shadows.
"Come right along, little miss! Here, let me fetch your chair. There,
now!"
Seated at the end of the flat-topped desk, Cynthia tried to resume her
work, but the unrest of the early afternoon possessed her and she felt
a tear roll down her cheek--the cheek nearest the man at her left side.
What happened after that Cynthia never could tell clearly; she only
knew that a large, hot hand wiped the tear away and a burning kiss fell
upon her cheek!
Horrified, and shaking with fear, the girl sprang to her feet and
reached the opposite side of the desk near the window looking out
toward The Way. She had but one thought: she would break the window
and make a dash for safety! But Crothers was upon his feet also. He
did not offer to come nearer, but he leaned over the desk and said
quietly:
"What you afraid of, lil' girl?"
"You!" The word was like a hiss.
"Of me? Can't you give me a kiss? I don't want to hurt you; I'm your
best friend; why, see here, I'll give you a right smart new coat and
hat and dress--for a kiss; just a little kiss."
Cynthia's eyes seemed fastened to the smiling, cruel face, but she did
not tremble now. Calmly, clearly, she was thinking what she could take
with which to defend herself.
"Just--one--more--kiss--lil' girl," and now Crothers was coming around
the corner of the desk. It seemed like some fearful nightmare, but
Cynthia was ready!
"Just one--more--kiss right on the pretty mouth!" The large, white
hands were extended and the teeth showed through the red lips. At that
instant Cynthia seized the lighted lamp which stood near, and with
desperate strength flung it toward the reaching body! There was a
crash, a curse, a fall, and then the room was blotted out by darkness.
For a moment there was a deathlike stillness and in it the girl crept
toward the door, unfastened it and gained the open. There were
feathery snowflakes in the air and they touched Cynthia's face like
holy kisses, wiping away the evil one that had burned there but a
moment before. Groping and running she reached The Way and, from
behind a tree, paused to take breath. Never had she felt more
self-possessed or secure; her mind was clear and sane. If Crothers
came out, she could outstrip him in a race for the boarding-house, and
she meant to go to the boarding-house that night! Something within her
guided her now; something was protecting her and saving her--it was the
Woman Cynthia was by and by to be!
As the girl by the tree panted and reasoned, she saw, from the factory
window--the window of Crothers' office--a darting tongue of light;
another followed and in a moment the glass was ruddy--and smoke was
issuing from the door left open when she ran out.
"The place is on fire!" Then--"why does he not come out?"
For a moment only a madness seized Cynthia while hate and revenge had
their way:
"Let him die!" she muttered, setting her teeth close and gripping her
hands; "let him!"
But even as the words were spoken she was running back to the factory.
She rushed into the smoke-filled hallway and, by the light of the fire,
she saw Crothers lying full length where he had fallen. The flames
were feasting on the rug by the desk and the unconscious man's head lay
upon that rug!
Cynthia knelt beside Crothers and called his name, but the ugly smiling
lips made no motion of reply. Then she seized him under the arms and
frantically tugged and tugged at the heavy body. The flames were
almost at her feet, the wool of the carpet had caught first and the
licking tongues followed the burden she bore, greedily. At last she
was at the door; outside, and the safe, black night surrounded them!
She lay Crothers down and breathed fast and hard. The snowflakes were
larger; thicker now, and there was a harshness in their touch.
Presently Cynthia began to call louder and louder, and the fire gaining
power lighted the night and crackled merrily.
"Help! help! help!"
And help came. First on the scene were the boarding-house mistress and
her sons; then followed others of The Forge, and soon a group had
gathered and were aimlessly running about, giving orders and foolishly
bemoaning the havoc that was spreading.
Quite calm and uncaring Cynthia answered the questions put to her. She
defended herself without once realizing that she was doing so.
"Crothers got up suddenly--and fell!" she said to the mistress of the
boarding-house who was working over the man on the ground, bathing his
face with snow and slapping his hands with her own rough ones.
"Yes, the lamp overturned--and the fire was so quick!"
"Yes, I could not let Crothers die; I had to pull him out!"
Then a man near by said:
"Plucky little devil." The words rang in Cynthia's ears strangely.
Why did they praise her? What had she done? She wanted Crothers to
die. Now that he was out of the fire, she did not want to see his eyes
open again, and yet she was straining her own to get the first sign in
his. Of a sudden Crothers looked full at her wonderingly, dazedly, and
at that sight Cynthia fled, and, in the confusion, no one missed her.
She did not go to the shed for her mule, she made for The Way uncloaked
and unhooded and ran for her life until, overcome by weariness, she
paused to take breath. Looking back she saw only a dull glow where the
factory had stood and black smoke was rolling thick up into the pure,
falling snow.
It was fear of Man that haunted Cynthia as she toiled up the hillside;
Man as he had loomed first on her horizon, cruel, seeking, and selfish.
When the hard branches of the tree touched her she stifled a scream,
for they felt like the demanding hands of Man; when a hungry animal
darted across her path she recoiled, remembering another animal with
face and form of Man.
It was three o'clock in the morning when Cynthia left The Forge--though
how the hours had passed from nine till three she was never able to
explain;--it was eight o'clock when she passed Andrew Townley's cabin
and saw smoke curling from his chimney. Sensation was slowly returning
to her; she felt cold, weak, and hungry, but with the senses aroused
she realized that she could not go home! She could not face Ann
Walden's vacant stare, or Sally Taber's coarse cheerfulness. In all
her world she was alone, alone! But even as she thought this her weary
feet were bearing her to Theodore Starr's little church which was never
locked by day or night. She reached the door at last, and with all her
remaining strength pushed it open and staggered up to where the steps
led to the small raised altar. Dropping down she bent her aching head
upon her arm and sobbed:
"Father! Mother!" simply because in all God's world no other words
came to her relief.
Theodore Starr's little daughter had come to him quite naturally in her
first great sorrow!