CHAPTER II.
Eliza never could tell how long it was before she opened her eyes again.She was conscious at first of the sun beating down upon her face.Bewildered she opened her eyes only to close them again quickly againstthe unbearable light of the sky at midday. She tried to move, but hermuscles were bound. A delicious sense of languor was again stealing overher, when she moved her hand slightly and felt water running over it.This aroused her again, and set her thoughts in motion. Little by littleit all came back to her; her drive, the woman and child and the run-awayhorse. She knew now where she was. She need not open her eyes to see.She was lying at the foot of the stone wall at Paddy's Run hill. Shecould hear the noise of running water. She thought of these things in adreamy, far-off fashion as though it were something she might have readsometime. The child! Then she realized the awfulness of what hadhappened. Had she killed them both! She did not dare think of anythingso horrible. She lay quite still, straining every nerve to listen forsome sound of life. She heard it at last. It was the most beautifulsound she had ever heard in all her life. A low gurgly coo and then thetouch of baby fingers on her face.
"Pitty ady--det up. Pitty ady, don't seep so long." The laughing dimpledface of the child looked down at her. It had escaped then. It was with adelicious feeling of thankfulness that she closed her eyes, not to openthem again for several hours.
She was back in her own home then, lying on the old mahogany davenportwith all the neighbors for miles about bending over her. She could hearSam Houston holding forth in the kitchen. She listened, and there cameto her in a listless sort of way that Sam always was a brag.
"I was just settin' out to walk down to the office," he was saying, "andwhen I came on to the road, who should I see but that old rascal of aPrince come walking along with one shaft hanging to his heels and thereins floppin' down on his side. He looked as quiet as a lamb, for allthe world as though he had been put to grazin' instead of up to somedevilment. I tell you right here, it didn't take me long to know thatsomething was up. I called Jim-boy, and off we started as fast as legscould carry us, and sure enough there the hull three of them lay--"
"Three! Three! Three of them!" The words kept running off in Eliza'smind. There were three--herself, the baby and--she could not rememberwho the third was. Then she did remember. Like a flash all was clear.She raised herself and was about to get up.
"There--there, Liza, you mustn't." Mrs. Kilgore would have forced herback on the pillows.
"I must get up. There's nothing at all the matter with me." Pushingaside the detaining hands, she stood upon her feet. For an instant shewas a little giddy, but she steadied herself. Her muscles ached as shemoved. Her black silk waist had been cut open the full length of thesleeve and she saw that her arm was black and blue. It was badlyswollen. She could move it though, and bruises will soon heal.
"Where's the woman--the woman who was with me?" she asked. She lookedabout on the faces. Every woman in Shintown was there. Old Granny Moyersitting hunched up in the corner, using snuff and gloating. Mrs.Kilgore, bustling about with liniments and medicine bottles, her faceradiant with the happiness of waiting upon the sick. From the roombeyond came the heavier tones of men's voices. None of the women hadattempted to answer Eliza's question. Her head was whirling so that sheforgot in an instant that she had asked it. She listened to the voicesfrom the parlor. Then, with all the energy of which she was capable, shemoved quickly across the room and entered what the countryside termed'the parlor.' This room was one of the things which Eliza disliked. Shenever said so. She never gave her thoughts tangible form even toherself. She simply avoided the room because she never felt at ease orcomfortable when she sat within it.
There was a heavy Brussels carpet with bold design in bright colors. Thechairs had backs as stiff as a poker. They were upholstered in red plushwith ball fringe everywhere it could be stuck on. The walls were madehideous with life-sized crayon portraits. Chenille curtains were drapedat the windows and a rope portiere impeded the opening and closing ofthe door. A large marble-topped table stood in the center of the room.It was all hideous enough even if the odor of camphor and moth balls hadnot been in the air. It was an awful example of clinging to customswhich are hideous.
Eliza never could sit there. She always felt irritated and fussywhenever she put it to rights, but yet she had not reached the stage ofadvancement which seeks the cause and removes it.
Bracing herself against the jamb of the door, she raised her aching,bruised hand and pushed aside the rope drapery. The center-table withits marble top had been removed from its accustomed place and somethingelse was there.
Eliza stood for a moment to look about her. Squire Stout stood by,leaning on his cane. He was a little shriveled-up creature with snowyhair. His lips were thin and cruel. There was the air of an autocrat, ademagogue about him. Near him was Doctor Dullmer, whose face even nowhad lost nothing of its helpful, cheery, optimistic expression. Therewere other men in the group. They had all been talking; but they ceasedat the sight of Miss Eliza standing in the doorway.
"You?" exclaimed Doctor Dullmer, advancing and extending his arm forsupport. "What do you mean? You should be in bed!"
"I am all right. Just bruised. That is all."
She clung to his arm as she moved toward the little group, whichseparated to make room for her as she advanced.
Then she saw why the center-table with its square marble top had beenpushed to the wall The woman lay there. Her beautiful yellow hair wascoiled about her head like a golden crown. She looked so smiling andhappy that Eliza could not feel one pang of sorrow for her. She bentover and smoothed the stranger's forehead.
"I wonder who she was," she said at length.
"Don't you know?" the question came from every man there and from thegroup of women who had packed the narrow doorway. They were too fearfuland too nervous to enter.
"No, I do not," said Eliza. "I know neither her name nor herdestination."
"Sit down," said Doctor Dullmer brusquely, pushing forward a chair andforcing her, none too gently, into it. She sat bolt upright and lookedat the men about her. She forgot that her arm was aching with itsbruises, and that a great cut near her temple, which the doctor hadstitched, was making her head throb and tremble like an over-pressure ofcaged steam.
"But she was with you."--"You were driving her." "We supposed rightalong that she was some of your kin."
Eliza shook her head. "I'll tell you how it happened so," she began. "Inever saw her--"
"Don't talk about it now. Better wait until to-morrow, until you arebetter," advised Doctor Dullmer.
"I must talk now. It's better to tell about it at once so there can beno misunderstanding. It will help me to get it off my mind."
"Well, just as you please," said he, but he drew a chair beside her andwatched her closely. He alone realized that she was on the point ofcollapse which might come suddenly upon her. He thought only of herphysical condition. He had not estimated the power of will which is ableto put aside all physical discomfort and carry a thing through becauseit is right to do so.
So Eliza sat bolt upright in the stiff chair, hideous with its red plushupholstery, and related all that had happened the several hours before.
The men listened with a question at intervals. When the story was ended,Miss Eliza got upon her feet.
"You'll go to bed now," said the doctor.
"Send everyone home but Mrs. Kilgore. I cannot rest with so many aboutme."
Mrs. Kilgore had overheard the words and was already ridding the houseof the neighbors.
"You'd better go, Granny. Your old man will want supper soon."
"I think your baby would be crying for you, Mrs. Duden."
"Hain't you afraid to leave the twins alone in the house with matchesand oil about?" So by dint of suggestion, she turned them all homewardand locked the door.
Miss Eliza went back to the davenport and, arranging the pillows, laiddown her throbbing head and closed her eyes.
Mrs. Kilgore
bustled about, closing doors and drawing shades. She was ashappy as could be. She was in her element in the sick-room. She foundthorough enjoyment in officiating at the house of sorrow. She drew downthe corners of her mouth and assumed a doleful expression, but a pleasedexcitement showed itself in spite of all.
"Pitty adee--pitty adee." A few toddling steps, and the child came closeto the davenport where Eliza lay. Her baby hands rested lightly againstthe bandaged head.
"Pitty adee--hurted. Me's sorry. Me kiss 'ou an 'ou get well." Standingon tip-toe, she put her lips again and again against the bandage.
Miss Eliza trembled. A strange thrill went through her. She had neverknown much about children. She had been the only chick and child of herparents. She had not realized that a baby could be so sweet. A strangejoy filled her at the touch of the lips. The term 'Pretty lady' found aresponsive chord in her heart which vibrated. She had lived alone allher life. No one had ever touched lips to hers. No one had ever foundher attractive or beautiful. For as many years as she could remember, noone had ever called her 'pretty'. She did not think whether it were trueor false. She accepted it as something new and delightful. She was ahuman being, though she had always been alone, and she craved affectionjust as every one of humanity does.
She drew the child close to her. It cuddled up as though it had knownonly love and tenderness and feared no one. At length it crawled up onthe davenport and nestled close in her arms, with the little head on herbreast. All the while, it kept up a prattle of sympathy for the 'pittyadee who was hurted' and the baby hands touched Eliza's cheek lightly.So both fell asleep.
The news of the accident had spread quickly enough. Telegrams hadflashed over the country and local newspapers sent reporters at once tosecure particulars. Williamsburg was the nearest city of importance._The Herald_ was the daily with the largest circulation. It was alwayslooking for a "scoop."
When the telegrams came in telling of the accident, Morris was the onlyman in the outer office. McCoy nailed him at once.
"Get to Shintown as fast as you can. Find out everything. Write a columnor two and get back before the press closes for the morning edition."
Morris started. Until this time, he had written nothing but personals.He was eager to advance. This looked to him like a rung in the ladder.He would "make good" for himself and his paper. There was no passengertrain due, but he caught a fast freight and "bummed" his way to the Bendand walked from there to Shintown.
He was admitted without question to the parlor of the old Wells place.The men had departed, leaving only a watcher beside the dead.
The boy took out his note-book and asked questions which the man who satin waiting and Mrs. Kilgore eagerly answered. He looked at the womanwith her mass of yellow hair about her head like a crown. He had beenbrought up inland. He knew little of that great wave of surging humanitywhich yearly seek our shores in search of a home. He had seen the Germantype with fair skin and yellow hair. It did not come to him that a farnorthern country had these characteristics intensified.
The presses closed at midnight. He had four hours to reach the city andhave his copy ready. He fired questions rapidly, and wrote while theanswers came. Then he fairly ran down the country road to the Bend wherehe caught the late flyer.
It was almost eleven when he began to make copy. Suddenly he stopped. Hehad neglected to ask the sex of the child who had been made motherlessby the accident. He paused an instant. He had no time to find out. Hewould use a reporter's privilege.
The next morning's edition of the _Herald_ came out with triple headingson its front page.
Accident at Village of Shintown One Killed--Two Badly Hurt A German Woman Who Cannot be Identified Killed by Runaway Horse. Her Little Son in Care of Strangers.
Then followed an incorrect account of the accident. The nationality ofthe woman, her relation to the child, the sex and age of the latter wereso far removed from the truth, that people hundreds of miles away readin eager hope, only to lay the paper aside, disappointed that this wasnot she for whom they were searching.
That Little Girl of Miss Eliza's: A Story for Young People Page 2
