Out of the Burning

By Ivy Williams Stone

(Previous chapter)

Chapter Five

Environment could not transform Curly Harrison overnight. For weeks she remained the timid, shy child of the hills. But gradually the dipped hair regained its natural color and lustre, the pimples disappeared, the grimy skin yielded to proper foods and tender care. The worn nails yielded to polishing, and a dentist managed to save her teeth. Dr. Locke cured the injured toe, all the while berating the mountain people for ignorance and neglect. Echo came frequently, timing her visits to court sessions. She brought clothes surpassing Curly’ s wildest dreams. Trim oxfords encased the feet which had only known shoes for winter; stylish coats, clever hats, always duplications of the clothes purchased for the judge’s daughter Portia. A beautiful white bed, all her own, was the most valued gift. Curly thought often of the home-made, narrow, hard couch on which she and Millie had slept for so many years.

Unlike Portia Harrison, Curly did not accept her new fortune as a divine right. While Portia’s eyes became calculating and appraising, Curly’s filled with the wonders of her good fortune, and joy in her surroundings. She never ceased to marvel at the changes. Water, hot or cold, flowed into the beautiful white sink as you willed. No toting of heavy buckets up a hill. Milk in shiny bottles appeared on the porch over night. No weary hunt for an elusive cow over barren hills. The kitchen stove cooked at the turn of a button. Aunt Eunice did not know what doty chips were. She did not even put the precious coal in her stove, which the beautiful cardinal had helped Curly to find. It became a pleasure to watch the girls of Harrison Home do their laundry. No barrel tubs; no back-breaking rubbing over faded old clothes; no “bilin’” over outdoor fires. A wonderful machine did all the work and the waste water miraculously disappeared through a hole in the floor! A little at a time, as they felt she could grasp it. Eunice and Echo told Curly the story of her life. She learned that the dignified, stern judge, who always wore a white carnation in his buttonhole, was really her father; that the pretty Echo, who showered her with kisses and hugs and clothes, was actually her mother; that the dainty, overdressed, spoiled Portia Harrison was her twin sister. She learned with astonishment that the Turner family were not father, mother, brother and sister, but in reality, kidnappers who had altered her whole childhood.

Curly accepted all these changes and alterations with the adaptability of childhood, and an older philosophy flavored with the knowledge of privation and want. She felt no bitterness toward the mountain family, for they had loved her as their own. She felt no resentment toward the real father who refused to acknowledge her as his child. She expressed only humor at her sister Portia’s superior airs, at her ill-mannered stare which never hinted of recognition. Whenever Portia encountered Curly dressed like herself, she flushed in anger, hurried arrogantly on, and later berated her mother for allowing Aunt Eunice to copy her clothes for a foundling! It became a game between them — Portia and her father on one side; Eunice and Echo on the other, secure in their claims, but willing to allow time its own course of adjustment. While Portia learned to swim and dance and ride, her sister passed through a period of marvelous readjustment. While Portia quarreled with her governess, quelled her mother and wheedled her father, Pamela acquired a real education from Aunt Eunice. The old judge had owned a fine library, enlarged by many additions from Eunice. Curly had free access to this treasureland. While Portia spoiled her digestion with too frequent sodas and vexed her riding master with wild rides, Curly learned the secrets of the masters. Dickens and Scott, Hugo and Maupassant, Cooper and Longfellow became her friends. History and poetry, essays and fiction were consumed avidly by the starved soul. Studies that were irksome tasks to Portia were privileges to the child who had known so much poverty and privation. While clothes, amusements and entertainment made up Portia’s life, they were only accessories to Curly, who dreamed daily of future accomplishments.

“Dad,” announced Portia at one of the morning classes, “I want a car — all my own. There’s a clever little roadster over at Beacon’s; pale blue. My, but it’s keen!”

“Who,” continued Judge Harrison unperturbed, “who was the predecessor of Charles the first of England?”

“It can do fifty per, easy,” mused Portia. “Now, Dad, please, lay off that musty old history. Why worry over dead kings when the hills are green and blue cars are coaxing?”

“If you want a car, you will merit it. You cannot go on to law college unprepared. You must have grounding in languages, history, literature and mathematics.”

“Who wants law college?” countered Portia. “Not me!”

“You will be educated as an attorney, Portia. Meet me at the library tonight at five, and I will examine you for an hour. Sort of a quiz. If you meet my expectations, we will then discuss cars.”

“I was going riding after school with Spike Reeves. We want to gather violets. Mother likes them so much.”

“If you pass my requirements, I may consider the purchase of a car,” reiterated her father. For once Portia’s tactics of persuasion were unavailing. She coaxed and pouted, and finally flounced from the room. She had only one solace. She was wearing the becoming new spring outfit of green which her mother had purchased.

That afternoon Curly Harrison hastened from school to the library. She was trying for the debating team and the bibliography of her subject called for varied references. How happy she was! She felt confident of a place on the team. Mother Echo, as she affectionately called Mrs. Harrison, had furnished a beautiful suit of green. Curly worked on, unconscious of time, until she felt, rather than saw, a shadow pause over her. In the subdued light she looked like Portia — green suit, tight green hat. Judge Harrison, punctual to the minute, sat down, laid his cane and silk hat on a chair, and proceeded with the verbal examination. He jumped from Savonarola to Mary, Queen of Scots; from the Renaissance to the World War ; from geometry to Ben Hur; from the nebular hypothesis to Evangeline. Other students put up their work and left, but the couple in the corner stayed on. The man was pompously erect, the girl deferentially attentive. Curly Harrison knew her father had made a mistake. Other people had made the same error. But he had never spoken to her before, and she could not resist this opportunity to prove her accomplishments. Finally he sat back, reached for his cane and hat, visibly pleased. “Really,” he conceded, “you are better informed than I had hoped. Tomorrow we will inspect roadsters.” He rose to leave, waiting for her to follow. “If you don’t mind, I have more references to look up,” Curly shrank from spoiling his complacency. “I will come later.”

Deliberately, dignified, his carnation seeming to revive with his own jubilancy, the judge descended the library steps. He collided with a young woman hurrying in.

“Pardon me,” she cried, then shrank back crestfallen. The judge, too, was nonplussed. “Portia!” he cried, “You — here? I have been interviewing — what does this mean?”

“Spike ran out of gas, and we had to walk home. I couldn’t make it sooner. My chest hurts now, I’ve hurried so.”

“Whom did I talk with?” demanded her father. “For a long hour I have questioned a young woman whom I mistook for you. She was wearing your clothes. Who is she?”

“Ask her,” flashed Portia, visioning a lost roadster. “Her answer might interest you.”

Judge Harrison did not re-enter the library. But he paced his study half the night, battling with his traditional pride. The next morning he wrote the Governor and the Board of Pardons, recommending the pardon of Silas Hoggan. He intimated that the sentence might have been too severe.

The enticing days of April rolled on to June and commencement. Portia was determined to keep the matter of her graduation dress a secret. She did not want Aunt Eunice to duplicate it, as she seemed to have done so frequently before, so Portia refused to discuss its color or style with her classmates. Some quirk of nature had made this other girl similar in appearance; Aunt Eunice had given her the same surname, and duplicated their wardrobes whenever possible. It was unpleasant to Portia to be twitted about her double; to be asked concerning her understudy; to have their scholastic standings compared ; to be questioned about her lost twin, who was buried out in Montana. Fortunately, the girl herself did not force her company upon Portia. She had other avenues of occupation. While Portia played tennis, she studied Cicero; while Portia and Spike Reeves broke speed regulations, the quieter girl walked for exercise, marked papers for overtaxed teachers, or assisted Miss Eunice in the many tasks of Harrison Home. She gave no thought to her commencement gown; Mother Echo had taken that responsibility,

Commencement night. Judge and Mrs. Harrison in a box. Privately, the judge was chagrined that Portia was not chosen valedictorian. Still he knew the principal had stretched a point in permitting her to graduate. Portia was a sad scholastic failure. If she had only enjoyed school as she did a golf course! All this was buried deeply beneath the dress suit. Only a calm, unruffled dignity was presented to the proud, whispering audience in the pit.

The principal had addressed the graduates on the solemnity of this occasion; had told them that diplomas must be engraved with proper christian names. Thus Spike Reeves, football hero, had to confess to the name of Harold Benjamin; other queer names furnished much mirth, while the titles Pamela Harrison and Portia Harrison followed each other in alphabetical order. The Governor bestowed the diplomas with a flowery speech, while the audience tired itself with plaudits. Portia was beautiful in nile green crepe, gold slippers, profuse flowers. Her curls were immaculately arranged, her poise perfect. But her pleasure was short-lived. Pamela Harrison looked like her shadow, walking across the stage. Golden curls, gold slippers, pale green gown. The audience howled its appreciation — the resemblance was too evident to be longer ignored. A voice from the balcony called out “The Harrison twins! Speech!”

Judge James Flemming Harrison was so perturbed he nearly lost his dignity. He even failed to notice Echo smiling and gesticulating to Eunice, down in the orchestra row. Later, at home, he turned a deaf ear to Portia’s protests and tears.

“She’s ruining my youth!” wailed Portia, tossing the offending dress to a chair. “I can’t have a pair of shoes without that girl getting a duplicate of them. It’s just too mean of Aunt Eunice. I feel like going over there and telling her so, too!”

Again the judge walked his study floor half the night. The result was that early the next morning Pamela Harrison received the following message by special messenger:

Your resemblance to my daughter Portia Harrison was so pronounced last night, that I will investigate your claims to my parentage. Come to my office at eleven.

Judge James Fleming Harrison.

“What shall you do, my dear?” smiled Miss Eunice. “Poor James! Surrender is so hard for his stern pride.”

Even as she spoke her attention was called to a tall, lank man coming up the walk. “What now?” she muttered, but Pamela cried out “Oh, Aunt Eunice, it’s Mr. Turner! The man I thought was my father!”

“Granny’s got a turrble misery,” after Pamela and Miss Eunice had put him at ease, Steve Turner hastened to deliver his message. “She’s afeared her time air come. She aims ter see Curly agin ‘fore she passes on. So, I aims ter tote you-all back.”

Pamela’s decision was swift. An appointment with Judge Harrison was not nearly as important as the chance to be kind to the old soul who had stood between her and many a severe punishment. While Miss Eunice summoned Dr. Locke and his dependable car, Pamela answered the judge’s note and packed a bag. While Dr. Locke hurried four anxious people back to Crow’s Nest, Judge Harrison read the following answer:

An urgent call from a sick friend makes it impossible for me to call upon you today. I offer no claims for you to investigate.

Pamela Harrison.

A hour later unmindful he was eating an excellent lunch, James Harrison addressed his wife accusingly.

“Echo,” he began in the admonitory tones she knew so well, “I feel you are guilty of maternal neglect. You have wilfully and knowingly ignored this Pamela Harrison. I feel she is my lost daughter.”

“Why, James!” gasped Echo, nearly choking over a mouthful of salad. “You told us she was dead!”

James raised his hand, commanding silence. “That was camouflage; to discourage pretenders. I had had no less than seventeen different claimants. Orphans, poor white trash, even foreigners, had offered to be my lost child. Portia’s future was being menaced, so I elected that method of elimination. It was effective, too. No claim has ever come up since. But I had a suspicion of this young lady when I interviewed her, that night in the library; on that occasion she displayed Harrison intelligence. Last night she revealed Harrison beauty. The women of my family were always beautiful. Now I know she is my daughter. This morning she refused to call upon me. Invented an excuse. Declined to come at my bidding! That is Harrison pride. Intelligence, beauty, pride. Of course she is my daughter. I regret, Echo, that you have neglected her so!”

Portia, so interested that she forgot to sulk as she had planned, cried excitedly.

“Are you so dense, Father, that you think the identity of our graduation gowns was accidental — a mere coincidence? This girl has been dressed exactly like me for years. Mother has been at the bottom of it all. She has planned this method of making you see. I wondered why she no longer gave me money from grandmother’s estate. She spends it on Pamela. Suppose she is my sister? I don’t know what a sister could mean. It’s too late now to bring her into my life! She’s been a thorn in my side ever since that horrid mountain woman tried to kiss me. You’ll take her in, and kill the fatted calf and fuss over her. She is bright. She likes books and calculus and astronomy. She can go to your old law college. I’m only a fickle shallow thing, and it’s no use trying to make me study law. I’m going to marry Spike Reeves some day, so there!” Quivering with emotion, she fled from the room.

Judge Harrison turned toward Echo. “I fear,” he began and stopped short. Once again Echo had fainted. He had no audience, but solemnly commented to the deserted table.

“If women ever become jurors, I shall retire!” He felt aggrieved and injured. This weaker sex was incomprehensible. Portia was an intellectual failure; or, if not a failure, a disappointment; but self-willed. Echo was subtly clever, when he had thought her shallow. Eunice was grimly determined. And lastly, Pamela, just when he became convinced of her identity declined to acknowledge him! Such independence and indifference!

He began to feel old. “I have freed Silas Hoggan,” he mused, anxious to reestablish a full measure of self esteem. “Next, I will develop my coal prospects in Crow’s Nest. Then I will make this independent young woman recognize me as her father.”

As rapidly as he dared drive, Dr. Locke whisked Pamela over the road to Crow’s Nest, back 😮 the familiar settings of her childhood. It seemed as though the long, lonely trek had been but yesterday. “Remember where I found you, Pamela?” the doctor called affectionately, “Right on the road by that bush? Wonder I didn’t run over you!”

The rain-soaked, weather-beaten house looked exactly as it had four years before, when Granny pushed the frightened child down the path toward the town road. The same old hounds came barking from their holes under the house. Pigs still enjoyed the freedom of the yard. Millie was washing, her figure heavy and prematurely old. She stepped wearily from the barrel tubs to the “bilin’ ” pot, swinging over a coal fire. A small boy, clung to her skirts, whining, begging to be held. On a bench in the shade of the cellar house Abe Walters lounged, whittled and sang sonorously:

“I sold my cow and bought me a calf
And knowed I lost the bargain by half.
I sold my calf and bought me a mole
And the durned old thing run in its hole.”

On seeing the visitors, Abe jumped up with alacrity. “Curly,” he grinned familiarly, but Pamela ran to Millie.

“You poor dear,” she cried, “you shouldn’t wash. It’s too hard. Abe, you should help her; did you tote the water?”

Abe looked sullen and muttered “Washin’s is fur women.” Dr. Locke swore softly under his breath, and the little party filed into the house. Here Cassie cried over her least one, and rejoiced that her affection was not repulsed, then cried again, as she related Granny’s “miseries.” Bud did not appear. In the semi dark, windowless sleeping room beyond lay Granny Turner. The gaunt old hands were even thinner; the nose more prominent, the lips drawn with pain. The mark of death was upon her; Dr. Locke could do nothing save give temporary relief to the aged sufferer.

“I bin apinin’ ter see you-all, Curly,” the old voice quivered. “I aims ter live till I seed ef youns hair war gold agin. Mebbe it war wicked ter dip et, but ets purty now.” The crooked old hands stroked the golden mass, as if loath to loosen their hold.

“Granny, dear old granny,” sobbed Pamela, yielding to a rush of old memories, “I don’t mind about it now. Not a bit. You must rest and get well. See, we brought you a doctor; a real medicine doctor. He will cure you.”

“My time air come.” The voice was predestined and marked with finality. “I’ve fit hard, but et’s nary use. I been a hankerin’ ter hear the rest o’ thet thar story youns war a readin’, the last night youns war hyar, Curly. Cassie gev me the book hyar in bed.” From beneath the old, worn covers Granny Turner pulled forth the copy of “The Prince and the Pauper” which Miss Eunice had sent them long ago.

Pamela sat on the side of the bed. Aided by Dr. Locke’s flashlight she picked up the story where she had ceased. Steve and Cassie came in to listen. Dr. Locke and Miss Eunice stole softly out. Pamela read on and on, pausing only to listen to the labored breathing from the patient. Through the fortunes of the little prince, on to his coronation and death, the story progressed, ending happily for Tom Canty. “Youns sure has got larnin’. I’m thet proud thet thar little prince got his crown ‘fore he died,” Granny whispered happily. “Bud he tried ter read et ter me, but he can’t do et like youns can. Don’t youns ever let nobody ever dip thet thar hair of yourn agin, Curly.” She sank into a deep, stuporous sleep, from which she never roused. After a few days the harassed soul passed on to a well earned rest, where ignorance and poverty played no part, where pride and revenge were never known.

The visitors returned home, but not until Dr. Locke had expressed his indignation. He ordered Abe Walters to do the heavy work for Millie; to bring her down to the hospital for her approaching illness. He ordered Steve to cut a window in the bedroom, and to take Cassie to a dentist. The doctor found physical relief in verbal expression, but he knew full well that his orders would never be obeyed. Although they stayed until nearly dark, there was no sign of Bud. But when Pamela got into the car, a large bunch of May apple blossoms decorated the rear seat and a caged cardinal, fluttering and nervous, was marked “Curly from Bud.”

Half way home the headlights fell on the figure of an old man, tramping along at a rapid gait.

“Want a lift?” called Dr. Locke, slowing down, while Miss Eunice looked nervous. “Climb in! Who are you and where are you going this time of night?” demanded the doctor. “Somebody sick?”

“I’m Silas Hoggan,” came the drawling reply. “I’m agoin’ back ter thet thar penitoochinary ter stay. I don’t want no pardon. My old dog is dead, an’ my old woman says she kin make et better when I ain’t thar. I got some purty roses down thar, an’ a good bed, an’ no worry ’bout vittels.”

Doctor Locke laughed until the car swerved. He felt this was the one bright spot in a day marred by the evidence of human ignorance, indolence and poverty.

“Please stop, just one moment,” called Pamela. “I want to free this poor bird. Beautiful thing, go home. I was once a captive, too!”

“Aunt Eunice,” she whispered as they resumed their journey “just think, for over twelve years I slept in that windowless room! Poor old Granny has slept there all her life. You don’t know, you couldn’t be expected to understand, the poverty that binds their lives. The poor food that stunts their minds and bodies. Seems like I can smell sour dough and hominy now. I shall be a nurse,” she continued after a moment’s quiet thought. “I will learn proper ways of living and come back to Crow’s Nest to teach these poor, ignorant people how to live!”

“That’s the stuff!” cried Dr. Locke. “A marvelous life — that of a nurse. Come to my hospital any time you please Pamela, and we’ll start you out right. My boy Dick will be home from medical college next year. I want him to meet a real girl like you!”

(To be continued)