Out of the Burning

By Ivy Williams Stone

(Previous chapter)

Chapter Four

Two hours after Curly started her lonesome pilgrimage to the city, the Turner family wakened to a warm kitchen. No odor of green wood or doty chips permeated the room. The stove held a bright, steady glow, with embers dropping through the grates. Granny Turner was preparing a treat. Johnny cake and molasses! Young Bud, half boy and half man, grinned his appreciation and voluntarily filled the water bucket. Cassie hurried out, wondering at the celebration. Millie rose reluctantly, looking pale and heavy-eyed. Lastly came Steve, deliberate and dignified, as befitted the head of the house. They gathered around the stove, praising the pleasant warmth and the cheery glow. Never had the oven been so hot or the cake such a golden brown.

“Whar’s Curly?” demanded Steve as he and Bud sat to eat while the women folks served.

Granny’s gaunt old face became more set and leathery. She served Steve a huge wedge of steaming cake, covered with molasses.

“You-all listen good,” she declared. “Curly’s gone. I sent her ter town — ter thet thar Town Lady what sends things hyar. Curly ain’t ourn. Cassie’s least one died abornin’, an’ Steve fetched thet thar baby from town. Ef he’d nary brung her, Cassie’d died, she would. Weuns never told nobody — just me an’ Steve knowed. Weuns brung her up fair, but she couldn’t stay no more. I bin awatchin’ Abe Walters. He’s bin ahangin’ round hyar lots. Last night he tried ter tote Curly off an’ marry her. He’s gotta marry Millie, he has. I give her the things she had on when she come hyar, an’ she ain’t acomin’ back no more. Weuns’re agoin’ ter hev a weddin’ right smart.”

Granny had never spoken so much at any one time before. Now she felt exhausted and turned to more familiar tasks.

The effect of her announcement was varied. All eyes turned accusingly upon Millie. She faced them boldly, defiantly. Then sensing the fact that her parents were more grief-stricken than angry, she lost her defiance, slumped down on the kitchen bench and sobbed audibly. Cassie sank into the solitary rocker, flung her apron over her head and moaned as she rocked. “My least one! I wants my least one!” Steve Turner reached for his gun, cleaned and shiny, above the door.

“I’ve a mind ter shoot thet thar Abe Walters,” he threatened. “He’s just no count, he is.”

“You all best get him fur the weddin’!” Granny raised her voice above the laments of the two crying women. Steve reluctantly replaced his gun, and putting his arm awkwardly around Cassie’s shoulders, tried to offer consolation.

“Don’t youns carry on so,” he admonished. “Weuns didn’t have no hold ter her. She’s the least one of thet jedge. I fetched her partly cause he took this hyar farm, partly cause youns war thet near dead. Our least one died — he war all blue. Granny an’ me buried him out under thet big tree what I never would cut down.”

“She war my least one,” sobbed Cassie. “I nussed her in this hyar chair, I did.”

Bud stood up, squared his shoulders, faced his family with new determination.

“Do youns mean honest, she warn’t ourn?” he demanded. “Not my sister?”

“She war thet jedge’s baby. Thar war two of ’em in a buggy, side the court house, the day Silas Hoggan went ter trial. I fetched one, an’ left one. Weuns did a good job, Granny an’ me.”

“She hed larnin’ ways,” lamented Cassie.

“Ain’t she never comin’ back hyar no more?” piped Millie.

“No!” Granny’s quick response seemed final. But close on her decision Bud put in a hearty “Yes!”

Defiance of a grandmother in the mountains is defiance indeed. But Bud Turner’s boyhood seemed to drop from him like a cloak as he continued, “She air a comin’ back. I allers liked her better’n Millie. I couldn’t help it. She war so little and thin. I uster hoe her corn rows an’ tote her wood. I walloped Millie good the time she let go the hoe on Curly’s toe. I aims ter get her some day an’ marry her. She hed larnin’ ways. Don’t youns fret, Ma; I’ll bring her back, an’ youns kin listen ter the end of that thar book.”

“Now I knows why Granny allus dipped her hair,” wailed Cassie. “She war af eared ter let folks see them thar golden curls.”

Millie sat upright, rubbing her reddened eyes. “Kin I hev her things?” she queried. “I wants thet thar red shawl an’ her lookin’ glass, an’ the long blue ribbons. I don’t want them thar books nor them thar tooth brushes.”

Cassie turned belligerently toward her erring daughter. “Youns air ter blame fer all this hyar trouble,” she cried. “I ought ter wallop yer.” She raised a threatening arm over the cowering Millie. Then suddenly realizing the weary months which lay before the child-woman, her anger changed to compassion. “Set up an’ eat, Millie,” she admonished. “Youns kin hev my ‘lasses on youns cake. ‘Pears like ets thet sweet it hurts my teeth.”

Harrison Home had reached its capacity. Twenty beds and twenty girls had been Miss Eunice’s ambition. Orphans seeking home life, country girls seeking education, girls escaping from the drudgery of poverty-ridden environment. The last comer, crippled Amy, had the sleeping porch. Every night Miss Eunice made the rounds of the twenty sleepers, tucking in loose covers, turning off forgotten lights, locking doors. Then on to her own room, body weary but soul happy.

“What would you do, Miss Eunice, if another girl drifted in, say tonight?” queried Amy as Miss Eunice passed her door. “If she had to sleep in the street if you didn’t keep her, what would you do, now honest?”

“Gracious, Amy! I would have to let her stay all night anyway. I’d wrap her in one of my gowns and tuck her in with me. If she were little, like you, it would be a real wrap around, wouldn’t it?” Miss Eunice laughed, for she never had time to count her calories.

She passed on to her own room. For twelve years she had never failed to pray for the return of the lost Pamela. While Judge Harrison had tabooed the subject in his own home, and Echo was afraid to discuss it, Miss Eunice watched and waited and prayed. Many girls of varied types had sought the shelter of Harrison Home during those twelve years, but none had ever answered the description of the missing child. But on this eventful night, as Miss Eunice turned off her own light, there came an urgent ring of the bell.

“I just feel it’s the twenty-first girl,” cried crippled Amy. “O Miss Eunice, do let me come down too!”

But Eunice Harrison scarce heard her. On the porch stood an oddly assorted pair. Dr. Locke, the good, kindly physician who had ministered to the many needs of her growing family, stood waiting for admission. He half led, half carried a young girl, or a large child, Miss Eunice could not tell which. As she admitted them the child’s strange appearance seemed like a page from a fairy tale. Her bare feet were grimed and coarsened; her tousled bare head was startling. The black hair suddenly whitened at the roots, forming a straight contrasting line in the middle. She looked fatigued and frightened. A pair of worn shoes were flung over one shoulder; a small tin box was clutched under the opposite arm. She wore a brown flannel dress which somehow seemed familiar to Miss Eunice. One hand was clutched in a firm grasp, as if something precious were being guarded. The round molded face was too neglected for beauty; and was strangely dark, as if grimed. Her hands were rough and cracked, and bore unmistakable marks of toil. Only the eyes, in spite of fatigue, looked at Miss Eunice unflinchingly and beseechingly. “Where have I seen this child before?” was the question which flashed across the mind of the kind Miss Eunice, even before Dr. Locke spoke.

“I’ve brought you another daughter,” he laughed. “Sit down, child. You’re here, so you can let loose of that tin box and rest your arm.”

“But Dr. Locke, who — where and why?” cried Miss Eunice. “I can’t take girls in this way. No clothes; no letter. Perhaps she’s run away.”

“I picked her up about ten miles out. She’d lain down beside the road, too weary to walk farther. She was coming from Crow’s Nest. She’s got a tiny piece of paper in that closed hand. It has your name on it. Torn from a parcel post package, looks like. Give the lady the paper, child.”

Like an automaton Curly handed over the crumpled, moist scrap. Miss Eunice smoothed it out and recognized her own name and address in her own handwriting.

“What is your name, dearie?”

“Curly — Curly Turner,” in an almost inaudible whisper.

“And your daddy’s name?” prompted Miss Eunice.

“Steve Turner.” Then noticing the flash of understanding that came over the face of Miss Eunice, the child quickly added, “Granny sent me. She said I couldn’t stay no more. She sent youns this hyar box.”

“Give her this pill and put her to bed,” ordered Dr. Locke. “She’s walked farther today than most girls her age do in a year. Maybe she’ll sleep all day tomorrow. Wonder I didn’t run over her, she was that close to the road. I’ll take a look at her in the morning.”

“I’ll give her supper,” the mothering instinct was always uppermost in Miss Eunice. “Have you had any supper?”

“Granny gev me bread, an’ hawg meat, but ets all gone. Ets a right smart ways ter youns house.” Knowing the natural reticence of mountain folks, Miss Eunice asked no further questions, but fed her youngest charge some light food, washed off the surface dirt and wrapped her around in one of her own voluminous gowns.

“Weuns nary takes our clothes all off,” volunteered the child when the night gown appeared. “Just the top dress. Weuns ain’t got no white quilts,” she looked with awe at the sheets and pillows. And as blessed sleep crept quickly upon her, she muttered, “I can’t tote water ter night Pa, I’s thet weary.”

As soon as the child slept, Miss Eunice hurried down to inspect the precious box. Why had Steve Turner sent his child to her? There was no lock upon the box, but the lid stuck as if rusted, and it took considerable strength to pry it open. Finally, out on the table fell a complete outfit of clothes for a small infant. Little white kid shoes, silk hose, an embroidered dress, a cashmere coat and bonnet. All were partly mildewed and exuded a musty, stale odor. In the toe of one shoe Miss Eunice found a delicately wrought gold locket and chain. She recognized it instantly as one of the pair she had given her brother’s babies at their christening. She did not need to open the locket to know the word “Pamela” would be engraved within, but she did so, for the pure joy of double assurance.

“Oh,” cried Miss Eunice, as tears coursed down her cheeks, “no wonder Steve Turner never tried to kill James. He took a deeper revenge. Oh, the poor, forlorn little thing! They have dyed her hair and worked her nearly to death. Her hands are bleeding and one toe is all black. Oh James, and Echo and Portia, the lost is found! My prayers are answered! I’ll wait till morning and bring them all over together. What a rejoicing we will have!”

The Hon. James F. Harrison shaved every morning at seven-thirty. He breakfasted at eight, seven days a week, twelve months a year. After what he termed “endless patience” he had succeeded in teaching Echo the nicety of soft boiled eggs, the fine point between brown toast and burned, and the superiority of overnight grape fruit. At eight-thirty he tutored Portia for an hour. At least he thought he tutored Portia. Since he could not have a son, he was determined this surviving daughter should fill the niche in his scheme of life reserved for the boy. Portia, however, had well defined, if private, plans concerning her own future. At ten the judge sat in court, ready to mete out justice, unfavored with mercy.

On the morning following Miss Eunice’s discovery, the judge had just lathered one cheek when a sharp ring at the front door arrested his attention. The voice of an excited woman rapidly approached his sanctuary, despite Echo’s pleadings. “Please wait until he finishes shaving, Eunice. I’ll ask him to hurry.”

But Miss Eunice did not hold the reverence for her brother which he had instilled into his wife. “I’ve seen him shave before,” she retorted, taking a bit of pleasure in disturbing his careful plans. “Come with me, Echo. Such news! James, Echo, I’ve found Pamela! Your lost baby has come back. She has come to Harrison Home. I have her in my home; in my bed, in my night gown. Get Portia, and come quickly!” Echo gave one wild glance backward toward the convenient couch and quietly effaced herself from the little drama by fainting. James F. Harrison proceeded to lather the other cheek.

“Eunice, you are too sentimental for words. Has some over-burdened mountaineer inveigled you into taking one of his flock? Or has some indigent auto tourist prevailed upon your credulity with a likely story? Do not worry about Echo; she will revive promptly.”

Miss Eunice gazed at her brother in astonishment. “Jimmy,” she pleaded, “I’m not joking. I have the child — your child. I have the clothes she wore when she disappeared. The stockings and shoes, the bonnet and coat, the locket I gave her, with her name engraved upon it, they are all there! Now will you believe and come?”

“Some one is a clever impostor,” added James. “No wonder you believed. You are sentimental and credulous. Undoubtedly these people, whoever they are, figured that out ahead of time. Are you going to keep the child?”

“She’s yours,” flashed Eunice. “She even looks like Portia, only she’s smaller, weaker and thinner.”

“Since you are so insistent and my breakfast is cooling, I must disillusion you, Eunice. Last June when I supposedly went fishing in Montana, I really went to attend the funeral of Pamela Harrison. She lies buried in a little mountain cemetery. Aged twelve years, six months. I erected a modest but suitable monument. So that chapter is closed.”

OH,” gasped Eunice, “You paid for the funeral of some other child!”

“The people — her foster parents, telegraphed me collect. They had taken her from a wreck, of which she was the sole survivor. They kept her until she died. Measles I think, or maybe pneumonia. Really, I was so glad to have the long uncertainty ended, I asked few questions. I paid the bills, paid the good people who had kept her and hastened home. Now Portia’s future will not be menaced with the uncertainty of a possible double.”

“Oh,” gasped Eunice again. “Who was credulous this time? Did you see any proof that the child was your lost baby? Did they produce a locket engraved Pamela? Did she look like Portia? How did she get into the wreck? Did you see her?”

“Really, Eunice, you might have made an attorney had you been a man. But my child is dead, and thank God, I know where she is! This terrible uncertainty has unnerved me for years, and now threatened to become a menace to Portia’s youth. I will not come to your home to see your foundling. I told you years ago, I would not enter my old home if you desecrated it. Echo will not come either. And please, do not make Portia’s life unpleasant by thrusting this child in her face. Keep her, if you choose, but she is not Pamela Harrison!” He struck the wash basin with his shaving brush with much the same gesture he would have used when striking his desk with a gavel. Eunice felt herself dismissed. She cast a quick glance toward the prone Echo. A flutter of half closed lids gave her the assurance she wanted. Echo had not really fainted.

As soon as James was safely in court and Portia had gone for her riding lesson, Echo hurried to Eunice. She had not been permitted to enter the house since the death of the old judge.

“You dared to come!” cried Eunice. “He said you could not come.”

“He said so, but I said nothing,” Echo displayed a spirit hitherto foreign to her nature. “Show me the clothes, Eunice. Hurry! My baby ! My Pamela!”

Alternately crying and laughing, verging on hysterics, Echo identified the tiny clothes. “Look, Eunice, here is the embroidery I spoiled. See how I bungled the French knots. And the basting thread is still in the back of the bonnet. And the locket! I tied blue silk on Portia’s and pink on Pamela’s, to tell them apart without opening them. O she is our child! Tell me, Eunice; honest; is she all right? Has she been maimed or abused? Let me see her!”

“She is asleep. Perhaps she is so weary she will sleep all day. Be quiet and do not cry out. If she wakens, ask no questions. She has suffered privations. She has never been sheltered like Portia. She has been living there in Crow’s Nest all the time. Will you remember to be quiet?”

Echo gulped and nodded. Together they tiptoed into the big bedroom.

A still little form lay in the bed, the face in marked contrast to the white pillows. Grimy, hardened hands protruded from the voluminous sleeves of the overlarge gown. A foot stuck out from the covers, revealing a misshapen toenail.

“She was barefooted and carried these shoes,” whispered Eunice.

Echo gazed at the sleeping child as if determined to impress her features upon her own mind forever. Then the sleeper stirred and muttered, “I’s too weary ter hoe thet thar corn. Them rows is so long.” Echo, unable to longer control her emotions, fled to the lower floor. There she sank into a rocker and wept, much as Cassie had done, back in the cabin on the mountain side.

“My baby! My baby!” she cried. “Her poor little rough hands!”

“Last night she talked about carrying water and shelling corn,” added Eunice.

“Something has hurt her foot,” sobbed Echo.

“She did not know what a night gown was for,” added Eunice, shedding a few tears on her own account.

“Those awful shoes!” wailed Echo. “All she had. You ought to see Portia’s closet floor! Silver and gold pumps for dancing, mules for mornings, oxfords for school, tennis shoes, hiking boots and riding boots! O Eunice, how unfair life has been. The one receiving too much; the other too little. Portia has never had an unfilled wish. Already she is spoiled and disobedient!”

“But she is here, Echo; you can overcome those physical differences.”

Echo gazed in silence for a few moments at the display of infantile proof of parentage. “James is so stubborn he will never admit he could have been wrong,” she finally added. “He will never own her as his child. Portia will never own her as a sister, she is too selfish to share.”

“I will keep her, Echo.”

“Yes, keep her.” Echo’s submission was her old self, choosing the path of least resistance. “She will be far happier with you than with me, for they won’t ever recognize her. I have a small annuity from my grandmother, Eunice. I will bring it to you for her. Educate her; clothe her; make her beautiful, more beautiful than Portia. Then they will want her.”

“If I take her, I will keep her.” Eunice Harrison could be fully as determined as her brother when occasion demanded. “I will not educate a child, remold her, only to give her up. If James does not want his child when she is forlorn and pitiful, then he cannot have her when the transformation is complete. I will name her Curly Harrison for the present. When she chooses, she can assume her rightful name.”

‘You and I together, Eunice, will make up to her for what she has been denied!”

“We will bring her out of the burning, clear, perfect china,” Eunice quoted solemnly. “She will be a stronger character for her privations, a better woman than her pampered sister!”

Two days later Portia followed by the long-ever present governess, past the court house. A party of country folks were getting out of an ancient white top. A young girl was wearing a gorgeous red shawl and a long blue ribbon bound up her hair. Portia, impelled by curiosity over the vehicle, stopped to gaze at it.

“Look, Dawson,” she called with her customary abruptness, “Aren’t they funny? The queerest ever! They might have come out of King Tut’s tomb!’

“Really, Miss Portia, it is not kind to make remarks about people’s appearances. Perhaps they cannot afford better. If —”

“Sermon enough,” interrupted Portia. “Look at the woman’s teeth!”

The mountain girl had been returning Portia’s stare. Now she nudged the older woman and called, “Ma, look, it’s Curly!”

The woman turned quickly, her face broke into a wide smile and she ran toward Portia, with a wide gesture of embrace.

“Curly! My least one!” she cried, as the girl added, “Curly, I’m agettin’ married ter Abe!”

Portia Harrison, the immaculate, the overdressed, the self assured, was embarrassed at this sudden show of affection. She retreated to the shelter of Miss Dawson whom she usually ignored.

“Curly,” pleaded the mountain woman, “don’t youns know ma?”

“Madam, you are mistaken,” said Miss Dawson with dignity. “This is the daughter of Judge Harrison.” They hastened away but the mountain woman stood gazing after them as if transfixed, while the girl beside her continued to stare and call. “Did youns see her purty clothes, ma? Weuns never knowed Curly war thet purty! Bud will be proud ter know Curly’s thet grand!”

Cassie continued to stare until Steve Turner pulled her gently and whispered, “Weuns gotter tend ter Millie, Ma. Thet war the tother least one!”

And Portia Harrison, hastening homeward at a gait that taxed her companion, spoke repugnantly: “Why did those horrid people speak to me? Who is this Curly they talked about? Oh, Dawson, if I had teeth like that I would die of chagrin!”

(To be continued)