My Doggie and I by Robert Michael Ballantyne (inspirational books for women TXT) 📕

was past midnight when I arrived at the station for Bingley Manor, where I found a gig awaiting me. A sharp drive of half an hour and I was at the mansion door.

Dr McTougall was right. There was little the matter with old Mrs Gordon, but the family were nervous, and rich--hence my visit. I did what was necessary for the patient, comforted the rest by my presence, had a sound night's rest, an early breakfast, a pleasant drive in the fresh frosty air, and a brief wait of five minutes, when the punctual train came up.

There is something inexpressibly delightful in a ride, on a sharp frosty morning, in an express train. I have always felt a wild bounding sensation of joy in rapid motion. The pace at which we went that morning was exceptionally charming. Had I known that the engine-driver was intoxicated perhaps it might not have been quite so exhilarating, but I did not know that. I sat comfortably in my corner thinking of Edith, and gazing with placid benignity at the frosted trees and bushes which sparkled in the red wintry sun.

Yes, it was a glorious ride! I never had a better. The part of the country through which we passed was lovely. One can always gaze comfortably at the _distant_ landscape from a railway carriage, however great the speed. As for the immediate foreground, it reminded me of a race--houses, trees, farms, towns, villages, hamlets, horses, sheep, cattle, poultry, hayricks, brickfields, were among the competitors in that race. They rushed in mad confusion to the rear. I exulted in the pace. Not so a stout elderly gentleman in the opposite corner, who evidently disliked it--so true is it that "one man's meat is another's poison."

"There is no reason to fear, sir," said I, with a smile, by way of reassuring him. "This is a most excellently managed line--one never hears of accidents on it."

"Too fast just now, anyhow," returned the elderly gentleman testily.

Just then the whistle was heard sounding violently.

"That is a sign of safety," said I; "shows that they are on the alert."

A severe application of the brakes caused me to stop abruptly, and the elderly man to seize the arms of his seat with a convulsive grasp.

Suddenly there was a mighty crash. The sensations in my mind that followed were suggestive of cannons, rockets, bombs, fireworks, serpents, shooting-stars, and tumbling _debris_. Then--all was dark and silent as the grave!


CHAPTER THIRTEEN.


A WONDERFUL DISCOVERY.

Slowly recovering consciousness, I found myself lying on the floor of a waiting-room, with a gentleman bending over me. Instantly recollecting what had occurred, I endeavoured to start up, but was obliged to fall back again.

"You must lie quiet sir," said the gentleman. "You're not much hurt. We will send you on, if you choose, by the train that is expected in a few minutes."

"Is the elderly gentleman safe?" I asked eagerly.

"Which elderly gentleman? There were several in the train, but none are injured, I believe, though some are much shaken. Nobody has been killed. It has been quite a miraculous escape."

"Merciful--call it merciful, my dear sir," said I, looking upwards and thanking God with all my heart for sparing my life.

Two days after that I lay on the drawing-room sofa in Hoboy Crescent. Mr and Mrs McTougall had gone out. So had the children, the forenoon being fine. Edith had remained at home, for reasons which she did not see fit to divulge. She sat beside me with one of her hands in mine. It was all arranged between us by that time.

"Edith," said I after a short pause in our conversation, "I have long wanted to tell you about a dear little old lady with whom Robin Slidder and I have had much to do. She's one of my poor patients, whom I have not mentioned to you before, but I've heard something about her lately which makes me wish to ask your advice--perhaps your aid--in a rather curious search which I've been engaged in for a long time past."

"I will go for my work, John, and you shall tell me all about it," she replied, rising. "I shall be five or ten minutes in preparing it. Can you wait patiently?"

"Well, I'll try, though of course it will be like a separation of five or ten years, but Dumps and I will solace each other in your absence.-- By the way, touch the bell as you pass. I should like to see Robin, not having had a talk with him since the accident."

When Robin appeared I asked him if he had seen the Slogger.

"No, sir, I 'aven't," replied Robin, with a somewhat cross look. "That there Slogger has played me false these two times. Leastwise, though he couldn't 'elp it the fust time, he's got to clear 'isself about the second."

"You know where the Slogger lives, don't you?" I asked.

"Oh yes, but it's a long, long way off, an' I durstn't go without leave, an' since you was blowed up i' the train I've scarce 'ad a word with the doctor--he's bin that busy through 'avin' your patients on 'is 'ands as well as is own."

"Well, Robin, I give you leave to go. Be off within this very hour, and see that you bring me back some good news. Now that we have reason to believe the poor girl is in London, perhaps near us, I cannot rest until we find her--or prove the scent to have been a false one. Away with you!"

As the boy went out, Edith came back with her work basket.

"I've been thinking," said I, as she sat down on a stool beside me, "that before beginning my story, it would be well that you should unburden your dear little heart of that family secret of yours which you thought at first was a sufficient bar to our union. But before you begin, let me solemnly assure you that your revelations, whatever they are, will utterly fail to move me. Though you should declare yourself to be the daughter of a thief, a costermonger, or a chimpanzee monkey-- though you should profess yourself to have been a charwoman, a foundling, a Billingsgate fish-woman, or a female mountebank--my feelings and resolves will remain the same. Sufficient for me to know that you are _you_, and that you are _mine_!--There, go on."

"Truly, then, if such be your feelings, there is no need of my going on, or even beginning," she replied, with a smile, and yet with a touch of sadness in her tone which made me grasp her hand.

"Ah, Edith! I did not mean to hurt you by my jesting, and yet the spirit of what I say is true--absolutely true."

"You did not hurt me, John; you merely brought to my remembrance my great sorrow and--"

"Your great sorrow!" I exclaimed in surprise, gazing at her smooth young face.

"Yes, my great sorrow, and I was going to add, my loss. But you shall hear. I have no family mystery to unfold. All that I wished you to know on that head was that I am without family altogether. All are dead. I have no relation on earth--not one."

She said this with such deep pathos, while tears filled her eyes, that I could not have uttered a word of comfort to save my life.

"And," she continued, "I am absolutely penniless. These two points at first made me repel you--at least, until I had explained them to you. Now that you look upon them as such trifles I need say no more. But the loss to which I have referred is, I fear, irreparable. You won't think me selfish or tiresome if I go back to an early period of my history?"

"Selfish! tiresome!" I repeated, "oh, Edith!"

"Well, then, many years ago my father and mother lived by the seashore not far from Yarmouth. They were poor. My father gave lessons in French, my mother taught music. But they earned sufficient to support themselves and my grandmother and me in comfort. We were a _very_ happy family, for we all loved God and tried to follow in the footsteps of Jesus. I gave them, indeed, a great deal of trouble at first, but He overcame my stubborn heart at last, and then there was nothing to mar the happiness of our lives. But sickness came. My father died. My mother tried to struggle on for a time, but could not earn enough; I tried to help her by teaching, but had myself need of being taught. At last we changed our residence, in hopes of getting more remunerative employment, but in this we failed. Then my mother fell sick and died."

She stopped at this point.

"Oh, Edith! this makes you doubly dear," said I, drawing her nearer to me.

In a few minutes she continued--

"Being left alone now with my grandmother, I resolved to go to London and try to find employment in the great city. We had not been long here, and I had not yet obtained employment when an extraordinary event occurred which has ever since embittered my life. I went out for a walk one day, and was robbed."

"How strange!" I exclaimed, half rising from the sofa. "What a curious coincidence!"

"What! How? What do you mean?" she asked, looking at me in surprise.

"Never mind just now. When I come to tell you _my_ story you will understand. There is a robbery of a young girl in it too.--Go on.--"

"Well, then, as I said, I was robbed by a man and a boy. I had dear little Pompey with me at the time, and that is the way I came to lose him. But the terrible thing was that an accident befell me just after I was robbed, and I never saw my darling grandmother again--"

"Coincidence!" I exclaimed, starting up, as a sudden thought was forced upon my mind, and my heart began to beat violently, "this is _more_ than a coincidence; and yet--it cannot be--pooh! impossible! ridiculous! My mind is wandering."

I sank back somewhat exhausted, for I had been considerably weakened by my accident. Edith was greatly alarmed at my words and looks, and blamed herself for having talked too much to me in my comparatively weak condition.

"No, you have not talked too much to me. You cannot do that, dear _Edie_," I said.

It was now her turn to look bewildered.

"_Edie_!" she echoed. "Why--why do you call me Edie?"

I covered my eyes with my hand, that she might not see their expression.

"There can be no doubt _now_," I thought; "but why that name of Blythe?" Then aloud:

"It is a pretty contraction for Edith, is it not? Don't you like it?"

"Like it? Yes. Oh, how much! But--but--"

"Well, Edie," I said, laying powerful restraint on myself, and looking her calmly in the face, "you must bear with me to-night. You know that weakness sometimes causes men to act unaccountably.