Out of the Burning

By Ivy Williams Stone

(Previous chapter)

Chapter Seven

Like a nine days’ wonder the news spread through the town — Judge Harrison had found his lost daughter! People began to recall the occasion of the kidnapping. Women engaged in heated arguments over whether it had been a lilac or a snowball bush that had sheltered the twin-buggy. The story of the dyed hair and the injured foot skipped from mouth to mouth, losing nothing in the telling. The poor child had been bald-headed; no, her hair had been gray from abuse and malnutrition, like the Prisoner of Chillon: All ten of her toes had been torn and bleeding. Miss Eunice had snatched her from death. The child had shown good blood; funny the judge hadn’t noticed her before that graduation night.

How would the pampered, indulged Portia accept her sister? Speculation ran high on this point, for Portia’s gay, defiant attitude was common talk. Spike Reeves’ yellow roadster, with its strident horn, had whirled madly along all the streets and highways, with Portia his constant companion. Consideration for another was foreign to Portia’s standards. The necessity of sharing would hard.

While the town marveled and women gossiped, Portia and Pamela entered upon a difficult re-adjustment. They faced each other across a broad abyss. This chasm of life, nineteen years in the making, could not be bridged by the judge’s announcement, “Portia, this is your long lost sister!” There was no guest chamber, so Portia had to share her room. The closet had to be divided, half the dresser drawers had to be emptied of a strange assortment, space had to be made for Pamela’s intimate belongings.

“It’s like a dream; it doesn’t seem real,” mused Portia, pushing a pile of run down, soiled shoes into a far corner of the closet. “To think we are twin sisters, and have never slept together before!”

“It’s less of a surprise to me than to you,” replied Pamela, “for I’ve known all about it for three years. You see, I knew Father would want me sometime, so I was content to wait. And Mother has been so kind. I saw her nearly every day. And always I had Aunt Eunice.”

“It’s all so sudden,” Portia was really trying to be nice. “When you’ve been the only one, it makes you feel sort of queer to find your importance cut in two. I don’t mean to be selfish, I’ve just never had to divide.”

“The difference between our childhood,” laughed Pamela, “is that you had more than enough of everything, and I never had enough of any one thing. I was always a little bit hungry. I never had enough shoes to keep my feet warm and dry. I can’t recall a winter’s day when I wasn’t just a little bit cold.”

“It made us different; it couldn’t be otherwise,” added Portia. “We look alike, and that’s all. You are serious and sensible and bright. Harrison intelligence, Father calls it. I am frivolous and flighty. I hate studying. We are as different as if we came from separate worlds! What would you do Pamela,” Portia continued with a touch of levity, “if you made a hole in one?”

Pamela glanced in quick alarm at her new sheer silk hose. “I’d darn it immediately,” she replied.

Portia enjoyed this immensely. “Do you know the difference between a mashie, a niblick, a driver and a putter? What do you know about tennis? What would you do first if you were put in a car and made to drive it?”

Pamela sensed that Portia was flaunting her own superior knowledge, so she hastened to answer with questions of her own.

“Where would you look to find a cardinal’s nest?” she retorted. “And what are doty chips? What would you do if a huge kettle of sorghum boiled over? And do you know what would happen if you swept the floor after sundown? Do you know how many kernels of corn to drop in a hill? Which is better, to shell dried beans, or hang the vines from the rafters? Can you tell the difference between toadstools and mushrooms? Can you distinguish the cry of a preying hawk? Do you know how many broods of babies cardinals raise in a year?”

“Good gracious,” cried Portia, “I’d get zero on all those questions. You are just like Father. He fires questions at me so fast, I forget all I ever knew. I guess education only means how much you know of all you ought to know. I can swim and dance and ride. I play golf and bridge and tennis, but I couldn’t cook a meal to save me. I’ve never worked a single day; I’ve never earned one penny.”

“And I,” added Pamela, trying in her turn to get the point of view of her sister, “would be a misfit in your circle. I may learn to play, but I’ll never forget how to work. Hot days, aching shoulders, poor food have left an indelible mark. I will always work.”

“Why worry about work?” queried Portia in a bored tone. “I know you had a hard childhood, but better forget it. Dad has plenty of money. Enjoy yourself now, while you may. Mother will fix up this room with twin beds, and presently all will be lovely between us. Some day a nice man will marry you because you are the Judge’s daughter.”

“Father may not always be judge,” ventured Pamela.

Portia 1aughed scornfully. “He’ll die in office, never fear! Why, he’s married to that court room. No one would dare oppose him! My dear girl, for the last twelve years, both parties have endorsed his candidacy. It’s too simple for words.” She lay back upon the bed, kicked off her shoes and reached for a box of candy from under the pillow. “Wish they were better,” she commented, “but my allowance was that near gone.”

“I heard of a young lawyer who thought he might run against Father,” began Pamela, but Portia was dozing and Pamela thought best not to press the subject.

Through the summer months the Harrison twins were dined and feted. Echo made plans for another bedroom; wanted to order an expensive wardrobe for Pamela, but she desisted. “If Portia can put up with me for three months, all will be well,” she explained. “I’m going in training as a nurse in September.”

“I wish I had your courage and decision,” lamented Portia. “You seem so confident. I sulk and pout and refuse to study. but all to no avail. I am a fatalist. Father will pack me off to some law school, in spite of all I may do. I wish I might dare tell him I won’t go. Where do you get your courage, Pamela?”

“From within me,” stated Pamela simply. “I know what I wish to be, and I intend to train for it. I have to live my own life.”

Pamela tried to please her father. Anything she chose to do suited Mother Echo. And so Pamela played at golf. She struck wildly at the elusive little balls, missed, endangered her caddie. She could see no pleasure in the long hot tramps. She much preferred the huckleberry hikes of her youth. She was shocked to see cultured women haggle over technical points in a game and vie for a trivial prize. But by listening and having little to say, she was soon able to confirm her suspicion. Judge Harrison was to have an opponent at the approaching election. A candidate was coming up in the Democratic party. They would no longer endorse Judge Harrison.

Having lived away from her people, Pamela had a better opportunity to observe. Judge Harrison had not been able to please everybody. There were people disgruntled over his decisions. Some objected to his slogan, “The Law is no Respecter of Persons.” An ambitious young lawyer, a Legionnaire slightly wounded in the World War, announced his candidacy. Twenty years was long enough to serve. The bench needed new blood, more leniency, less literal interpretation of statutes. Pamela, with keen insight, sensed the danger to her father’s position. He was a poor mixer. He was too austere. She knew he would not solicit votes, that he would have no paid workers. He would not campaign. If people wanted his services, they should take the initiative at the polls.

At first Judge Harrison refused to believe that anyone would dare to oppose him. Finally, when forced to believe, he muttered contemptuously, ‘The arrogant little upstart. Why, he hasn’t even cited a case in point!”

“Portia,” said Pamela solemnly, toward the end of summer, “that war veteran is going to defeat our father.”

“Pooh!” answered Portia. “You’re a trouble borrower. He hasn’t a ghost of a chance.”

“But you are wrong,” persisted Pamela. “Father is too stilted. He simply won’t unbend to people. You and I will have to elect him.”

“And how?” queried Portia.

“You will go to yorr society friends. Tell them all what few people really know — that Father returned Steve Turner’s farm to him, after paying the taxes for nearly thirty years. Tell them he never prosecuted the Turners for kidnapping me. I shall go into Crow’s Nest, and tell all the people there. I can speak their language. I shall persuade people to vote who have never done so before. It would nearly kill Father to be defeated.”

“He doesn’t need the job,” boasted Portia.

“Can’t you see it is his life? That he knows nothing else? He would be lost — go into a decline — rust! If you will do your full part, and he is elected, I shall undertake to persuade him to let you choose your own college.”

“Whoopee!” cried Portia all enthusiasm. “I’ll work for that bait. Spike will help me!”

When Pamela explained their plans to her father, he was emphatically opposed. “No daughter of mine shall pollute her maidenly reserve,” he began pompously, and suddenly stopped. He remembered a similar speech with its quick result. Once he had said, “No daughter of mine shall carry trays and linens.” And here Pamela had already signed up for training in the hospital.

“We shall work honestly, openly, courteously,” explained Pamela. “The voting public doesn’t really know you, Father. Only a very few people do. You are known to the first family settlers and those people who have to come to court. Hundreds of other voters never saw you. I am going to see that the women of the mountains register and cast their ballot. It’s a privilege.”

“That impudent young scamp!” spluttered Judge Harrison. “Presumptuous! Untrained! Not even native born!”

“People are sentimental about soldiers,” added Pamela. ‘They will vote for him because he went over the top, not because he knows his Blackstone!”

Judge Harrison sighed. What a comfort it was to have a daughter eager and willing to help. One who did not wheedle for money, who never pouted, who knew her own mind; who couldn’t be cowed.

Under Pamela’s systematic management the two sisters set methodically to work to sell their father to the voting public. To Pamela it was serious business. She could not bear to think of him bowed with defeat. He knew no other life. If defeated, he would cease to live. He would merely exist. To Portia, it was an exciting new game. She played more golf, attended more bridge teas, drove faster, had more people listen to her than ever before. Her active brain evolved a fantastic tale of her father’s generosity. He had been kind to the man who had stolen his child. What an example of good for evil. She stressed the great privilege of the ballot, awakened flagging interest. Women who had not voted for years, who spent their leisure at bridge tables and beauty parlors, suddenly found it was “quite the thing” to cast a ballot. You didn’t have to give your real age!

Pamela postponed her hospital training until after the election. Dr. Locke demurred, fearful lest she never come. “I sort of wanted you in good form when my boy Dick starts his internship,” he explained. “He’s got good stuff in him, Pamela, even if he is my boy. Girls like you make wonderful nurses, Pamela. Level headed. No hysterics at the sight of a drop of blood.”

“I will come the day after election,” promised Pamela.

Pamela went into Crow’s Nest, where the meaning of election day was scarcely known. Because she spoke their language, the people listened. She had been one of them; knew their privations, their pride, their superstitions. She had no fear of the shaggy haired men who carried guns.

She offered no criticism of their mode of living. She could lend a hand at the kitchen tasks, could be trusted to watch a pot of bilin’ syrup. She could read to starved souls, listen sympathetically to tales of physical miseries, could soothe a fretful child.

Steve Turner was genuinely glad to sponsor the cause of the man who had restored his home. Abe Walters, with unlimited leisure, volunteered to urge voting in the more remote dwellings, to see that people were registered. Had not this jedge returned the farm to Millie’s father? Surely they should vote. Cassie alternately cried and laughed over the return of Curly, told tales of her dipped hair to Millie’s children, related all the details of the finding of the coal. Millie begged forgiveness for thp precious book she had destroyed, and volunteered to name her next daughter Curly.

Pamela insisted upon one definite course. No campaigner should disparage her father’s youthful opponent. She merely wanted people to vote; to know of her father’s twenty years of service.

Bud Turner, stalwart, dark eyed, keenly observant, said little in the presence of this new, confident Curly. He felt there was no need for speech. Had he not promised his mother he would marry her and bring her back to Crow’s Nest? But this was no time for love making or settin’ up. Curly’s thoughts were centered upon the election. When that was over, Bud decided he would go down to town, marry Curly and bring her home. She didn’t need no more larnin’. She had plenty now. She had better marry than live in that queer smelling hospital where people moaned and screamed and most often died! Et warn’t no place for his Curly. Reasoning thus, he contented himself by making her gifts of early nuts and autumn leaves, and secretly biding the time of his wedding day. She would be a joy to Cassie, whose eyes were getting too weak for the difficult task of wool spreading.

“I’ll tell ye, Judge,” volunteered the county surveyor, dropping into the chambers after court, “that young soldier lawyer had a pretty good chance to beat you, if your girls hadn’t a got into it. As ’tis now, I calculate you’ll win. But et’ll be close; mighty close.”

“I cannot reconcile myself to it,” even to his court house associates the judge was frigidly polite. “Until this queer venture of my sister’s, the Harrison women were always content to remain in their homes. But my daughter Pamela is determined that the mountain people, particularly those residing in Crow’s Nest, shall be educated to the full meaning of the ballot.”

Election day found the whole town more keenly interested than they had been for years. Other offices faded into insignificance besides the struggle for district judge. Why should a newcomer, unseasoned and unproven. displace one whose decisions had always been unbiased interpretations of the state’s statutes? Did people think Jimmy Harrison had
a hundred year lease on that office? Wasn’t it time for newer blood, a more youthful slant on life? Did the American Legion think they could run the town and displace a scion of a first family? Shouldn’t a man’s war sacrifice be rewarded? What a shame to take the office away from Judge Harrison, just when he had finally found his daughter. Thus conflicting gossip ran riot and through it all, Judge Harrison remained calm, dignified and reserved. He held court while ballots were being scratched and the whole court house was agog with excitement. He refused interviews, contending his previous record was his sole platform.

At the peak of the excitement, when men with lunch boxes and set determined faces, waited in line, Old Silas Hoggan created a diversion. He suddenly appeared, demanding a vote.

“I’m fur thet thar jedge what gimme the best home I ever knowed. Don’t hev ter worrit over vittels down yonder,” his high, cracked old voice expounded to all who would listen. “Sure! I’m free ter go, but ets the likeliest place I ever seed. I’m goin’ back whin I’se had a chanct ter vote!”

As on other momentous occasions Judge Harrison paced his library on election night. The birth of twin daughters, the recovery of Pamela, the loss of the coal fields, were all subordinated to this struggle. He wondered what be would do if he really lost? How would he occupy his time? The prospect of spending his days at home, with only Echo to bow to his decisions, was not inviting.

It was characteristic of Portia that she dashed in with the returns at ten thirty.

“You made it, Dad,” she announced, planting a moist kiss on each cheek of her protesting parent. “My, what a close race! Neck and neck you both ran till the returns came in from Crow’s Nest. You got every vote in that forgotten hole. Seventy-nine of ’em, Dad. Behold the judge who succeeds himself!”

Pamela, calm as her father, offered more lucid explanations.

“Your majority is seventy-five votes, Father.”

Slowly the truth penetrated to the judge’s weary brain. “Am I to understand that I owe my re-election to Crow’s Nest? That without them, I was defeated? Pamela, this was your work. It is your victory.”

Pamela smiled her gratitude. Praise from her father was a new sensation.

“I now demand that I be permitted to attend a college of my own choosing!” Portia felt the need of striking while the iron was hot.

“And you?” The judge turned to Pamela a trifle ironically.

“Only your benediction as I lead my own life,” she answered. “I go in training to-morrow.”

After the excitement had subsided and the others had retired, the judge still paced the library floor. He had food for thought. To be defeated in his own district. To be really elected by a landslide from an ignored, forlorn, forgotten district. Surely Steve Turner had paid his obligation. The judge saw a warning. That young upstart had nearly put it over. This rising generation must be considered. He would have to unbend. Mix more with people. Be more human. He had been elected through the efforts of a child to whom he had once refused shelter. Portia would have her way. She would choose some fashionable finishing school and learn seventeen polite French phrases. She would learn to paint lakes and boats and flowers on useless china, and concoct indigestible sweets.

Pamela found the life of a nurse no easy task. Long hours of petty routine; trays and baths, temperatures and linens; hot packs and cold packs. The element of suspense ever present. Doctors’ set, white faces; the struggle against death, supremacy of science over disease; complaints and moans. She early learned to distinguish between the stoical silence of genuine sufferers and the fretful wails of the near sick. Long hours and aching feet. Maddening repetition of insignificant details. The strength of near mothers, the miracle of birth. The tiny mites of humanity, individualistic with their first breath. The diet kitchen. Here Pamela learned the reasons for the unsightly risings which marred so many of the mountaineers. No wonder! Hominy, dried beans, fatty pork, macaroni, rice, Johnny cake! Pamela shuddered and increased her own consumption of green food. The clinic, with its poor, ignorant, eager mothers. The operating rooms, where life hung by a thread. The classes and lectures; the queer anatomical names, the rigid examinations. The close supervision; the long hours; the lack of recreation. Often during those three years Pamela thought of her sister Portia. A star boarder in an exclusive school, learning superficial nothings, growing prettier and more polished, spending long vacations in idleness. But Pamela had Dr. Locke’s cheery smile, his humorous banter, his never failing faith. He gave you confidence in yourself. And there was Dr. Dick, his son. With the straight-for-ward eyes and contagious smile. The nurses nick-named him “The Shadow,” because he was always in attendance upon his father. If you wanted the one, you looked for both!

Through these years Pamela had daily need for the power of endurance which early privation had taught; and an inner urge prompted her resolve. She wanted to be useful, to serve, to render return for her share of life’s generous gifts.

She was relieved from duty one evening about nine o’clock, shortly after the end of her probationary period. It had been a hard case. The head nurse was nearly exhausted, many assistants were needed. Dr. Locke had lost his bantering tone. Terse, muttered orders had been the only sound in the grim battle. Even now, though Pamela was relieved, the battle was not yet won. Dr. Dick, the shadow, was in attendance for the night.

The lights of the nurses’ home beckoned to the tired Pamela. Her feet ached. Her shoulders drooped. A nausea of ether and gas assailed her. How good the fresh air seemed; hints of running water, of buttercups and pussy willows. She raised her head to breathe deeper and suddenly stopped, petrified with fear. A tall, lean man stepped from the shadows directly into her path.

“I come ter marry ye, Curly.”

“Oh!” cried Pamela, in a tone of half relief and half additional fear. “O,” she added. “Is it Bud?” None save the family of Steve Turner called her Curly now.

“I come ter marry ye,” persisted the voice in a monotone. He was under the light now and stood revealed in a store suit. Tall, straight, erect, purposeful.

“Weuns kin be married in the mawnin’ and be home fur supper. Ma air afixin’ a feast.”

“O, Bud!” cried Pamela, regret clutching her heart. “I can’t do that. I ain’t fur marryin’ nobody, Bud.” She dropped into his speech, hoping to be kind.

“Weuns has got a new room, Curly. I made et purposeful fur youns. Ets got windows; two of ’em, Curly.”

“O, Bud, I can’t marry nobody. I’m too young. I hev ter keep on larnin’. I hev ter keep ter school three years.”

“Youns air twenty,” continued Bud in a tone that seemed to consider no obstacle. “Millie hed three least ones when she war your age.” He came closer and held out a bunch of odorous mountain violets. That was what Pamela had smelled.

“I’m a comin’ fur youns in the mawnin’,” he repeated. “Maw’s fixin’ fur a party. Maw air poorly nowadays. Et air too much fur her, tendin’ Millie’s least one an’ totin’ coal, and all.” He held out his arms, blocking the path. There was no escape save retreat. Pamela’s mind flashed back seven years to the time Abe Walters waylaid her by the mountain well. Why did men court her in the dark?

Bud stood patiently waiting, the drooping violets clutched in one hand. How terrible to hurt him. Mild, kind Bud, who had shielded her youth; who had stood off Millie’s threats of violence, who had broken paths through the deep snows. Bud, who had hoed her corn rows, hunted the cow and helped fill her allotted sacks with potatoes. But she faced him bravely. “I ain’t fur marryin’ nobody. You air good and kind, but I don’t want nobody!”

Bud’s mouth dropped open. Every mountain girl hoped to marry. If she were not chosen by twenty, she was considered old, and usually had to be satisfied with a widower. It had never occurred to him that Curly would not be eager and willing. Mountain girls had long considered him desirable but unattainable.

“I’m a comin’ in the mawnin’.”

The nurse whom Dr. Locke had pronounced so dependable, so reliable, was openly crying and running back into the hospital. Down the corridor to the vacant porch. There she fell upon a bed, sobbing unrestrainedly. Poor Bud! How dreadful to hurt him.

Dr. Dick, coming from the room where death had been so imminent, sought fresh air on the porch. He snapped on the lights and gazed in amazement at the prone figure of Pamela.

“What have we here?” he called. “Why, Miss Harrison! What’s the matter? You are supposed to be in bed. Why are you crying?”

“A man wants to marry me!” blubbered Pamela. ”

“Merciful heavens!” answered the doctor. “Then why weep!” He had had no first hand experience concerning marriage, but from observation, the young women whom he knew did not weep over proposals. They were usually the result of well laid plans.

“I don’t want to marry anybody,” sobbed Pamela. “He’s waiting downstairs. He’ll stand there all night. I can’t go over to the home. It’s Bud Turner from Crow’s Nest. Your father knows him. I tell you, I don’t want to get married at all!”

“Thank heaven for that!” muttered Dr. Dick, not knowing just why he said it, and utterly unconscious that he was patting Pamela’s golden curls.

The next evening’s papers carried a brief, cursory notice to which few people paid any attention. But to Pamela Harrison and Dr. Dick it had a hidden meaning:

“Steven Turner, age 22 of Crow’s Nest, enlisted for a three-year term in the U. S. navy today.”

“Thank heaven for that!” repeated Dr. Dick, still not knowing just why he felt so relieved.

(To be continued)