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."