Transcriber's note: Unusual and inconsistent spelling is as printed.

 

 

 

 

 

 

"I had opened the shawl as I ran, and now I waved it wildly about."

 

 

 

LEAST SAID,

SOONEST MENDED.

 

By

 

AGNES GIBERNE,

 

Author of

"KATHLEEN," "MISS CON," "READY, AYE READY!" ETC.

 

 

 

"He that refraineth his lips is wise." — PROV. X. 19.

 

 

 

London

JAMES NISBET & CO., LIMITED,

21 BERNERS STREET.

1898.

 

 

 

CONTENTS.

 

CHAP.

 

I. THE AFTERNOON EXPRESS

 

II. A GOLD WATCH

 

III. TWO OF THEM

 

IV. TWICE GOOD-BYE!

 

V. RUPERT

 

VI. THE EARL'S GIFT

 

VII. THE SEARCH

 

VIII. FOUND OUT

 

IX. THEN—

 

X. SHARP AND SUDDEN

 

XI. IN CHURCH

 

XII. ON A PLATFORM

 

XIII. WITH MY MOTHER

 

XIV. RUPERT'S RETURN

 

 

 

"LEAST SAID, SOONEST MENDED."

 

CHAPTER I.

THE AFTERNOON EXPRESS.

 

THAT'S what my mother was fond of saying to me. "Least said, soonest mended, Kitty," says she, when people gossiped, or when folks got angry. And, dear me, there's a lot of hot words spoken, and a lot of gossip going on, and no mistake! Anyway, there was in those days when I was a girl. Talk! talk! the neighbours rattling like a set of parrots about anything and nothing. I'll not say either that the men were much better than the women, though there's no doubt they ought to be, seeing man was made superior.

"Least said, soonest mended, Kitty!" says my mother to me many a time, when she thought my tongue had been wagging too fast. Mother was a rare one for silence. Looking back now, I'm sure there's not many like her. She'd go for hours, and be quite content, never saying a word. I don't think she ever did speak just for the sake of speaking, and without a needs-be.

She wasn't dull either. Some silent people are dull; but not mother. For, you see, she didn't keep silent because she never had anything to say; and there was something about her very look that kept people alive.

I think I see her now—middle-aged, and going on for plumpness, with smooth brown hair, and a smooth forehead, and such a pair of quick eyes. Mother's eyes did a lot of speaking, when her lips were silent. Nothing ever escaped those eyes. She didn't always talk about what she saw, and she didn't forget it.

Mother was always neat, as if she had just come out of a band-box. She used to wear a brown stuff gown commonly, after her rough work of a morning was done, and a white apron. Every hour of the day, and every day of the week, had its own work. She never got into a muddle like the neighbours, who were for ever cleaning up, and for ever in a mess: and as for doing her washing "just any day," like them, she would have scorned the thought. I believe things would have been the same with her, if she had had a dozen children, instead of only one girl. But, after all, there's no knowing. It's a wonderful drag on a woman, to have a lot of children, and not enough money or room for the bringing of them up.

Well, I wasn't of mother's way of thinking about talk, for I did like to hear my own voice. Most girls do, I suppose; and it's only natural. But still I might have spared myself many a bother in life, if I had not been so ready with my tongue.

For, after all, the main part of the good and evil that we do in our lives is done with the tongue. Is not that what the Bible means, when it says that the man who can bridle his tongue is a perfect man? I suppose that is the hardest part of what we have to do. Mother must have come near to being a perfect woman, for the control she had over her tongue was something wonderful.

Father liked well enough to talk on occasion, but he was never a mischief-maker, and his tongue was not given to wagging ill-naturedly. Father was one of the kindest of men. I never saw him really out of temper in his life; and that's more than many children can say of their fathers. He was a thoughtful man, and he read a deal; and when he could get a sensible listener, he liked to talk about what he had read.

I am afraid I wasn't much of a listener, for I loved best to talk myself. Mother was always trying to check me; not harshly, but in the way of giving advice, "Waste of breath, Kitty, my dear," she'd say. "Keep your breath to cool your porridge." "Mind you, it's 'least said, soonest mended,' in the long run." "What's said can never be unsaid." And often she'd add— "We've got to give an account, by-and-by, of every idle word we speak. Every single idle word!"

But I don't think I paid heed to what she said. Young folks don't? Everybody has to learn out of his own experience, mostly; for experience can't be passed on from one to another like a sixpence. Perhaps mother pushed things a little too far. She saw the evil of careless talk, and she got to have almost a dread of any talk at all. After all, the power of talking is a gift, and it ought to be rightly used, not left to rust. We have influence over others by means of our talk, and we have to see that the influence isn't cast away, nor made to pull in the wrong direction.

I have spoken of neighbours, though there were no neighbours quite close to us. The nearest row of cottages was three minutes off, round the corner of the road that led from the station to the village. Beyond them came shops and a few other houses. Claxton was a small place, very scattered, and the railway-station was small too. My father was the station-master. A good many trains passed, but not many stopped.

Father had a cottage almost close to the line, and our garden was very gay. Flowers did so well with us—I don't know why, unless it was the soil, and his tending.

I was not an over-indulged child, like many only-children. My father and mother would not let me have my own way wrongly, and I was always made to obey. That's something to be thankful for. Half the misery of many grown-up people comes from their never having learnt to submit in childhood.

But though not indulged, I do think I was rather spoilt; that's to say, I was made too much of, and I got to think myself too important, nobody being to blame particularly.

I suppose there's no denying that I was a pretty girl. I had dark eyes, and short curly brown hair, and a colour that came and went at a word. Then mother had trained me to be as particular as a lady about my dress and hair and hands. That does make a difference, to be sure. Nobody can look nice, if she don't keep her hair in order; and the prettiest girl in the world isn't pretty with a smudge on her cheek.

Father used to call me "his little wild rose," because of my colour and my shy manner; and Rupert used to talk of the way in which I dropped my eyes under their lashes.

Rupert Bowman was our ticket-collector. When I was seventeen, which is the time I am chiefly thinking about, he was over nineteen, not tall, but broad and strong, and a perfect slave to me. He had an honest plain face of his own, and a blunt way of speaking, commonly, which I think came from bashfulness. There wasn't a thing I could not make Rupert do, if I chose. He lived near with his widowed mother, and a sister; and he was in and out among us all day. Father liked Rupert ever so!

But about the spoiling,—I suppose it was a difficult thing to keep clear of. I had been a sickly child, often at home from school; and for years father and mother were in a fright every winter lest they should lose me. At seventeen I was much stronger, and had pretty well outgrown the weakness; but still I did not look strong, and they could not get over the habit of always watching and thinking about me.

It was not my way to be cross-grained and discontented like most spoilt girls. I can remember being pretty nearly always happy. Good spirits are a gift worth having, and I had very good spirits. I liked seeing people, and I liked to know that they counted me pretty and clever. I liked still more to feel that I could make myself loved. People do like that, women more especially, perhaps; and I don't say that the feeling is in itself wrong. Only there is something wrong when a girl gets to be always thinking about herself, and doing everything for the sake of being admired or loved. She may be ever so pleasant, but none the less there's something wrong. One ought to have a better reason for doing.

So I think that on the whole I had more of love and admiration in those days than is wholesome for anybody. The harm did not show itself outwardly, perhaps, but it worked inwardly. Nobody except mother ever crossed me; and she never did it in a sharp or vexing way.

My father's name was James Phrynne. He was an old and trusted servant of the Company; and he had been station-master in Claxton for several years. Mother's name was Jane, and mine was Kate, or Kitty.

I can remember so well one Saturday afternoon in June, that year when I was seventeen years old.

I had been for a walk on the common, which was not fifteen minutes distant from the station. Mother often sent me there "for a blow," if she thought me looking pale. We did get lovely breezes up on the common, that seemed to come straight from the sea, though the sea was miles away. Sometimes I used to fancy I could taste salt on my lips, when the wind blew hard.

I had been all the way across to the other side and back, gathering a great bunch of the wild roses which grew on the hedge surrounding part of the common. Mother was so fond of wild roses.

When I got near home, Rupert came up. He had been to his home for tea, and was on his way back to the station, so he joined me. It was natural he should: he and I were so much together. I had always been fond of Rupert, and he was always good to me. You see, I had no brothers or sisters of my own, and Rupert had only one sickly sister called Mabel,—much too fine a name for such a poor fretful thing!

Not many people cared for Mabel Bowman; and though Rupert was in a way fond of her, he thought much more of me. I think I liked to know this. It was nice to feel that he would do anything in the world for my sake. And yet I should have liked Rupert to be different in many ways from what he was. I used to wish him handsome and clever, instead of plain and awkward and dull. Everybody said he was such a good fellow, and that was true; but I was silly, and cared more for looks.

Still I did not at all mind having him for my humble slave, and being able to order him about.

Well, he came up to me that day, and said something about my bunch of roses.

"They are like you, Kitty," he says.

"I don't see it," said I.

"No, of course you don't; you can't see yourself," Rupert answered humbly, though in a sort of tone as if he was sure. "Look!" and he touched a pink blossom with his big hand.

I snatched it away, for I thought he would crush the delicate thing; and I always did tease Rupert for his clumsiness whenever I had a chance. He didn't seem to mind, commonly.

"Kitty, you needn't be afraid," he said in a hurt voice. "You don't think I'd be rough with anything you care for?"

"I don't know. How can I tell?" I asked. "You needn't handle my roses, any way. Don't you know you always smash whatever you take hold of."

"Not if it's yours, Kitty," says he.

"Oh, that don't make any difference," says I. "It's having such great huge fingers."

"I'd make them small if I could, but I can't," said he dolefully.

"You can't help it, of course; but you can help spoiling my nosegay," I said.

Then I saw he really was put out at what I said, and I peeped up at him under my eyelashes in a way he called shy. It wasn't shy really. I knew I could come round Rupert in a moment with that peep.

"There, never mind," I said; "you needn't care. Nobody is ever cross with me, and you know I don't mean anything."

"There never was anybody like you, Kitty," says he, ready to forgive in a moment.

Then he walked by my side, quite silent for a minute, maybe more. I didn't know what had come over him.

"Kitty," says he at last.

"Yes," says I.

"Kitty," says he, and stuck fast again, for all the world as if he'd got into a slough of despond.

"Well," said I.

"Kitty," says he a third time, and looked as red and sheepish as anything.

"Yes," said I, for there was nothing else to be said.

"Kit—ty," says he a fourth time, very slow, as if he didn't know how to get it out.

And then all of a sudden I began to have a notion what was coming, and I didn't want it to come.

"Oh, look there!" I cried out.

"Where?" says he, and he stared all around.

"There; those clouds," I said. "Oh, look! Aren't they funny? There's one just exactly like a big whale, and a cow running after it, and a mountain beyond. Oh, and a blue pond, and a lot of little fishes in the pond."

"Kitty, do hear; it don't matter about the clouds," says he.

"But you're not looking. Do look," cried I, rattling as fast as I could speak. "Look, it's the very image of a whale. Can't you see?"

"No," says he, staring; "I don't see no whale, nor anything like a whale. There's only a lot of stupid clouds."

"But clouds are not stupid," said I. "Not stupid at all. The clouds are made of water or snow. Father says so. That's where our water comes from. We should be in a nice taking if we never had any clouds, shouldn't we?" and I laughed at him, and ran up a bank to pick a daisy.

"I don't know anything about the clouds, and I don't care," says Rupert. Which was true of him, and true of thousands, and a most amazing thing it is that men don't care to know more about the wonderful things they see every day of their lives. But they don't, and Rupert didn't. "I don't care," says he; "I want to talk about something else—something quite different."

"Then you're not like me, Rupert," I said, sharp enough. "I should like to learn lots of things about the clouds. I want to know what makes them take such pretty shapes, and why the rain stops up there instead of coming down in buckets-full. And—oh dear, there's one of my pretty roses falling to bits. Isn't it a pity?"

Rupert wasn't listening. He had on his sort of bull-dog look, and I knew it meant that he had made up his mind to say his say, and that say it he would, no matter all I could do to hinder.

"It's getting late, and I must make haste home," says I.

"No, Kitty," says he, and he spoke determined-like. "You must hear me;" and he clutched hold of my dress with one hand. "There's something I've got to tell you, and I've been trying the past month, and can't get it out."

"Then don't get it out now; don't, Rupert," I said, stopping because I had to stop, for he stood still. There was nobody but our two selves within sight. "Don't say it, Rupert," I begged.

"But I must, and will," said he; "I can't wait no longer. Kitty, there's only one thing in all the world that I care for, and that is to know—Kitty, hear me—one moment, Kitty—I want you to promise that you'll be my wife some day. Won't you?"

But I snatched my dress from his hand, and set off running.

"Oh, not yet! not yet!" I cried. I had a sort of feeling that some day perhaps it might come about, because I knew father and mother were so fond of Rupert, and Rupert's mother and sisters were so fond of me. I didn't know, though, whether I was willing myself, and anyway I meant to keep my girlhood a little longer. "Oh, not yet! Nothing of that sort yet!" I cried.

Poor Rupert was not the lover I had secretly pictured to myself. I suppose most girls have their little dreams, and I had mine, though I did not waste time reading trashy tales, like many girls, for mother never allowed it. Still I had my little dream, and there was a hero in the dream,—somebody tall and handsome and straight and nice-mannered,— not like Rupert, with his round shoulders, and his shuffling walk, and his slow speech, and his good plain face.

I did not want to distress him by saying "No," outright; and I could not make up my mind to say "Yes." So I only called out, "Oh, not yet!" and ran away. Rupert did not try to overtake me.

Mother was in-doors, mending a coat of father's, when I reached home; and standing in the doorway was one of our neighbours, Mrs. Hammond,—a widow with a lot of children. She was a hardworking woman, and deserving in many ways; but she was a great talker, and mother couldn't bear her. If she had not been very good-natured, she would not often have come to our cottage, for as sure as ever she came she had a snubbing or a cold shoulder.

But I liked Mrs. Hammond, because she was so fond of me. I think I was ready to like anybody in those days, who would give me love, or who would even say pretty things. That's maybe better than to be of a morose habit, caring for nobody; but it has its dangers. I had a loving little heart, and it was easy won, and I was easy led.

When I saw Mrs. Hammond's broad figure in our doorway, with her short skirt looped up, and the black strings of her bonnet falling loose, and one arm held akimbo, as she commonly liked to stand, I made haste to get in before she should leave, and as soon as she set eyes on me, she exclaimed,—

"Here comes our village beauty!"

"Kitty's not such a goose as to believe that," mother says, very short.

"It wasn't I who said it first, I can tell you that," Mrs. Hammond replied. "It was Lady Arthur."

"Stuff and nonsense!" says my mother.

"But it was; and I'm telling you the truth. You don't think I'd make up such a thing, do you?" asked Mrs. Hammond.

Sir Richard and Lady Arthur owned the estate, and spent part of the year at the big house in its big garden, nearly two miles from the station. Mrs. Hammond had once been Lady Arthur's maid. That was many years ago, before Lady Arthur was married, or Mrs. Hammond either; but Lady Arthur was kind to her still, in memory of those days, and sometimes Mrs. Hammond went to tea with the servants at the big house.

"It was Lady Arthur, and no mistake," Mrs. Hammond went on. "The cook told me so herself. She told me Lady Arthur said one day that your Kitty was the prettiest and sweetest girl in the village, and the beauty of the place. Cook says Lady Arthur called her, 'Our village beauty.' That's something to blush for, isn't it, Kitty?"

I suppose I did blush. Mother looked hard at Mrs. Hammond, and then hard at me.

"Kitty has got a pleasant face," she said slowly. "That's not Kitty's doing. It's a gift. I hope she will be thankful for it, as for all other gifts from above. But it won't be a 'sweet' face long, if she takes to being vain and conceited. There's nothing spoils prettiness like thinking a lot about oneself. And you're doing the best you can to make her."

"Kitty's not going to be vain or conceited," said Mrs. Hammond, who, I think, was as surprised as I was at mother's long speech. "Kitty is going to be her dear little humble self. Why, dear me! it don't make a girl conceited to be told she's pretty when she is pretty. Kitty can't help knowing that, every time she looks in the glass. No good comes of denying that white's white, Mrs. Phrynne."

"Nobody need deny it," mother answered; "and no need to talk about it, neither."

"Maybe not; but all the world can't sit mum, for ever and a day," said Mrs. Hammond, with a laugh. "You don't care about looks, do you, Kitty? You're too sensible a girl."

"I don't know," I said. "I shouldn't like to be ugly."

"That's true enough; true of anybody," said Mrs. Hammond, and she laughed again. "Well, you may thank your stars you're not ugly."

Mother lifted her head up again to look at Mrs. Hammond. "No," she said; "it's to be hoped Kitty 'll not do anything so foolish. I hope she will thank God for His gifts. The stars haven't much to do with it, anyway."

Mrs. Hammond had had enough, I suppose, for she said good-bye, and went off, beckoning to me to follow. Mother did not try to keep me back.

"Your mother and I don't get along, somehow," Mrs. Hammond said, as we stood together on the gravel path. The flowers were out in bloom all around us—roses, and pinks, and sweet-williams, not in patches of colour, but all mixed up together. Father took such a pride in his garden; the flowers were his friends and his pets. But we were not thinking about flowers just then. "I don't know why, I'm sure," she went on, "only I don't mean any harm. Lots of people say that, and I'm sure I don't know what the sense of it is; so I suppose the words are silly. But, dear me, one can't be always stopping to weigh every word."

I remember that the text about "every idle word" having to be accounted for, rushed straight into my mind.

"But, of course, your mother likes to know you are admired, Kitty," she went on.

"I don't know. I don't think she does," I said.

"Oh, nonsense! She must. Any mother does. She's only afraid of your being hurt, and it's odd she should, such a humble little thing as you are. If you were like some girls, now! But there, you're a pretty little dear, and the beauty of the village, no matter what anybody says. And now, I've got to be off, and not waste any more time."

I did not go in directly. It was almost time for the afternoon express to go by, and I was not in a hurry for what mother might say. Of course, I knew that Mrs. Hammond was not wise to speak to me as she did; but, all the same, I was pleased, and I did not want to be told that Mrs. Hammond was a silly woman, not worth listening to. So I stayed out a little, lingering about in the sunshine. Mother was busy, and I ought to have been helping her; but I never was fond of work, and I knew she would not mind my having a little more fresh air.

The afternoon express was a favourite of mine. I could not have told why, but it always was, and always had been. It did not stop at our station; none of the fast trains did. I always liked to watch it rushing past, and making a whirl of dust and sticks, and a grand commotion. Ever since I was a little child I always had liked to watch that express, and somehow I never grew tired of it. They used to laugh at my fancy. Father and the men got so used to the trains going by that they didn't even hear them, except when there was need of attending to signals. And when I was busy, I did not hear the other trains either. I never had time to attend to the morning express. The afternoon express came at a time when I was pretty free, and as I say, I had a funny liking for it, almost as if it was a friend of mine.

So I went along the gravel path of our garden that ran parallel with the line, climbing up the gentle slope to the level top of the embankment. The line curved away from our station both ways. The express was to come from the east, on the nearer rails; and there was a pretty sharp ascent going up all the way from our station to the next station in the westerly direction—a sharper ascent than one often sees on a railway. I used often to notice how the trains seemed to labour and drag going that way, and how merrily they would spin down the other way. It made a lot of difference in the amount of coal used.

Well, I reached the end of our little gravel path, walking slowly, with my back to the station, where a gate opened out on a rough path that went along the top of the embankment. I noticed carelessly, as one notices things without much caring, that mother's old red shawl, which father gave her long ago, was lying in a heap on the little bench. Mother must have been out for something with it over her shoulders, for she often felt chilly; and she must have let it drop, and forgotten it.

I went three steps, and picked up the shawl. Then I turned, and looked up and down the rail. In a moment I saw something which filled me with horror. Just where I stood, I could see farther along the line, towards the west and south-west, than any one within the station could see. And my eyes fell upon a big empty truck, slowly running down the nearer rails towards the station—the very rails upon which the express train must almost directly pass.

A little while before, an engine had passed, drawing a large number of empty trucks. These would, I knew, be put upon a siding at the next station, until the express should have gone by. The hindermost empty truck had plainly broken loose from its couplings, and, after coming to a standstill, had begun to run gently down the slope.

There had been worse than carelessness for such a thing to come about. A guard's van has to be always at the end of a train; and for it not to be there is against the law. But in those days folks weren't so careful nor particular as in these; and accidents from carelessness do sometimes happen even now.

If the guard's van had been in its right place, such an accident could never have happened unknown to the guard. The fact was, they had put on two or three empty trucks at the last station before ours, behind the guard's van, in a hurry, thinking it would not matter for just two stations, after which they had to shunt. And here was the consequence!

Nobody had found out yet what had happened. In another half-minute or less it would come within sight of the men, but that would be too late. I knew that the express was close upon due, and it was always punctual. If I ran down to the station to give warning, it would be of no use. All this flashed upon me in a moment. I felt half wild with the awful horror of what was coming. For the express at full speed to dash into the truck must mean death to many.

For one instant I had a frightened childish impulse to drop down and hide my face, and not see nor hear anything. But I did not give in to the wish.

Something had to be done! The question was—what? I looked at the signal-post—yes, the arm was down! The express was coming!

Almost like a voice from heaven, the thought came spinning through my brain of mother's old red shawl.

That was enough! A danger-flag was ready to hand, and I waited for no more. Mother's voice called out to me from the cottage; she said after that she saw me standing and staring, and so white, that she thought me struck for illness, and she was frightened.

But I could not answer or look at her. I rushed headlong through the little gate, and along the path at the top of the embankment, my feet hardly touching the ground. I had been a fast runner at school, and now it seemed as if I were flying. I got farther in those few seconds than I would have thought possible; and I was sobbing for breath, yet still I ran. In those days trains could not be brought to a standstill so quick as they are with the brakes now in use; and all the while the truck was drawing nearer.

There was the train! It seemed to burst upon me all at once, thundering along at an awful pace. And lying a little way ahead was the thing in its path, which meant danger to so many.

Would the driver see me? I felt so small, so puny; and the red shawl was such a little thing to keep off destruction from those scores of people, seated quietly inside, reading, talking, sleeping, little dreaming what threatened them!

I had opened the shawl as I ran, and now I waved it wildly about, jumping up like a mad creature, and doing all I could to draw attention.

In one flash, as it seemed, the train went by. Had they seen me? Had they understood? There were heads enough thrust out of the windows; but how about the two men upon the engine?

That was the most I could do. I felt all at once that I had reached the end of my strength. Everything was spinning, and the rush of the train sounded in the air. I dropped down on my knees, hiding my face in the shawl, sobbing aloud, and stopping my ears; for I could not bear to listen to what might come next.

 

 

 

CHAPTER II.

A GOLD WATCH.

 

I DO not know how long I crouched down, huddled together on the ground. It could not have been more than two or three minutes: yet it seemed like an hour to me. Though I stopped both ears, I fancied I heard shrieks: and all at once I could bear the suspense no longer. I felt that I must know the worst.

So I stood up without more ado, and walked back as fast as ever I could to the little gate—which was not very fast, for my legs were swaying under me. Though I had run the distance in almost no time, it seemed long as I came back, and I could hardly drag one foot after the other. I was hugging the red shawl tight in my arms still, though I did not know it.

There was no mistake about the cries which I had fancied I heard with my ears stopped. At least, that might have been fancy, yet the cries were real; and not only cries, but a buzz and rush of voices within the station, as if a crowd of people were talking and asking questions together. I saw that the train was at a standstill, and the hind carriages stood all right upon the rails, not seeming to be injured. That gave me hope that at all events the collision had not been a bad one. I could not see the engine or the foremost carriages yet.

I went straight down through our garden, and into the station from the back. On my way to the platform I took a peep into a little waiting-room, and what I saw stands out always like a picture before me when I think of that day.

Mother was there, quiet as usual, and she held in her hand a white handkerchief with red stains. On the floor, lying flat, was a young woman, dressed in black—rather young, that is to say, though not quite a girl, with shut eyes and a white face, and something red spotting her white lips. A young man stood close to mother, tall and dark-haired, and with such a troubled face!—and the surgeon of Claxton neighbourhood, Mr. Baitson, knelt on the other side of the young woman, stooping over her. I could not see what he was doing, and I did not wait to find out. I had a dread of the sight of blood, and I fled away at once to the platform.

The bustle and confusion there were more than I know how to describe. Everybody seemed to have leaped out of the train the moment it stopped, and everybody was talking. Some were asking questions, and some were angry, and two or three ladies were half fainting, and one was in a fit of shrieking hysterics, with a lot of folks round her. Perhaps she had been so taken by surprise that she could not control herself; but yet I think she need not have screamed so loud.

Nobody noticed me at first, and I stepped into the corner beside the big station-clock, where I stood, quaking still, and glad to lean against the wall.

The engine and truck had met before the train came to a standstill, for the truck was turned half over, twisted round, and thrown partly off the rails. The shock must have been sharp enough to do some damage, and yet it could not be called much of a collision, compared with what it might have been. Strange to say, neither the engine nor any of the carriages had left the rails; and nobody seemed to be much hurt except the one passenger in the waiting-room.

One very stout person near me had put himself into a tremendous rage. He stamped his foot, and was as red as fire; and he stormed at everybody all round in a perfect fury. "It was scandalous!—disgraceful!—atrocious!" he shouted. "Atrocious! disgraceful! scandalous!" He said those words over and over, till I never could hear them since without remembering him.

I was innocent enough to think that he must be some very important man, he made such a fuss. But I might have known better. I learnt later that he was a rich butcher from the next town, who had made his fortune and retired from business. There was a quiet little grey-haired gentleman, going about in the crowd, asking one and another in a soft voice who was hurt; and I never should have guessed him to be an Earl, but he was. The butcher did scolding enough for him and every one.

Then I saw Sir Richard Arthur, and our clergyman, Mr. Armstrong, and a stranger, all three talking with my father in a little group, near to me. Poor father looked terribly pale, as well he might, and Sir Richard was pale too. The stranger was a brother of Sir Richard's, I soon found, and was one of the Company's directors, travelling by that train. I heard him say to Mr. Armstrong—

"But who waved the signal which has saved our lives?"

"Nobody seems to know," was the answer.

Mr. Armstrong was an elderly man, with grey hair and a kind face. He had been Rector in Claxton for many years, and he was like a father to the whole village. As he spoke his eyes fell on me, shrinking into the shadow of the clock, and he said "Kitty!" in a surprised tone.

"Kitty!" my father echoed, and they all turned. I don't know how it was they guessed the truth at once, but somehow they did. Perhaps it was the red shawl, which I held so fast; perhaps that I was panting still with my run and the fright.

Mr. Armstrong put a hand on my arm, and drew me forward. Rupert told others afterwards that I had my eyes wide open, so as to seem twice their usual size, with a fixed stare like one terror-struck; and no colour was in my cheeks; and my hat had fallen off; and the red shawl was rolled up tight in my arms. I did not see Rupert, but he had that minute found me out.

Father pointed to the shawl, and said again— "Kitty!" He seemed as if he could not say anything else.

"Kitty, my dear, was it you who gave warning?" Mr. Armstrong asked in his fatherly way.

"I saw the truck—" I tried to answer; but my voice sounded queer, and the words would not come rightly. I could not think what was the matter, and I cried "Father!" in a fright.

Somebody handed Mr. Armstrong a glass of water, and he put it to my lips. That took away the parched feeling, and then Rupert came near, and mustered courage to say in his blunt fashion,— "Kitty did it. I saw her on the top of the embankment, running like a hare. I didn't know what for."

"Was it you, Kitty?" father asked.

"I saw the truck," I said; "and I had mother's shawl; and I ran to meet the express. There wasn't time for anything else."

"Brave girl!" "Splendid presence of mind!" I heard them say. Other people came, and the crowd round us grew, and there was a buzz of voices, asking and exclaiming and praising. Sir Richard shook hands with me, and his brother, the director, followed his example, saying, "No doubt many of us owe our lives to this little girl's promptitude." I don't suppose he took me for seventeen.

By that time I had colour enough, and I felt almost as if I could sink into the ground; yet I liked it all, and the words of praise set me into a glow of happiness; for it did seem grand to think that I, little Kitty Phrynne, should have been able to save lives.

Somebody spoke about "wretched mismanagement," and "arrant carelessness." And that of course was true enough, though it wasn't to do with us at Claxton, for the luggage train hadn't even stopped at our station. But father and the men had noticed the trucks put on behind the guard's van; and there was a lot of talk about this. I heard the word "illegal" over and over again from the gentlemen, and Mr. Arthur frowned, and said somebody would have to be called to account for that!—which indeed did happen, and more than one man was dismissed, though nobody to do with us.

Then there was some wondering why the truck hadn't been seen sooner, and I thought poor father was being blamed. I said, "O no!" and explained to them how we could see farther along the curve from the top of our garden than from anywhere else near. It was just that one chance glimpse, if one may use the word "chance" in such a manner, which gave me power to act. The truck was seen from the station almost directly after; and a telegram came from the next station, warning us that it had been missed. But all would have been too late if I had not had that glimpse.

After this more was said about me. Such a fuss was made, that it wouldn't be much wonder if my head was a little turned. Mr. Armstrong said to me in a low voice, "Kitty, this is something to thank God for!" But I am afraid I thought more about being praised by men than about thanking God. And yet there was nothing in what I did that deserved praise. If it hadn't been for that Heaven-sent thought about the red shawl—which I am quite sure was Heaven-sent, and not my own—the crash must have taken place.

Then mother came out of the waiting-room where she had been all this while. She did not seem flurried, but faced the crowd of gentlemen as quietly as she would have faced her own husband alone. Mother was not one to be easily upset.

It took her by surprise to find Sir Richard shaking hands with her and congratulating, and Mr. Arthur following his example again, and me looking red and bashful and happy, and a lot of people asking, "Is this her mother?" and pressing round with kind speeches about what they owed to me.

Mother stood still, looking from one to another with her sharp quiet eyes: not flurried, you know, but waiting to take in the meaning of things. When she began to understand, she said, "That's what the child was after, is it?" She made her courtesy to Sir Richard, for mother was never above courtesying, like some silly folks. She'd always pay honour where honour was due, and she was respectful to everybody: the consequence of which was that she always had proper honour and respect paid her again. So she courtesied, and said, "Thank you, sir," says she; "I'm very much obliged to you, and I'm glad Kitty had the sense to do her duty."

There was a sort of little fluster at this among the gentlemen. One or two smiled, but most of them only looked pleased, and the quiet little gentle-mannered man, whom I didn't know to be an Earl, came forward and said in a sort of approving kind of way, as if he was used to have his opinion thought of,—

"Quite right! quite right! she did her duty!"

"Yes, sir," mother answered. Then mother looked straight at the Earl, and seemed to know in a moment that he was something out of the common, for she dropped a deeper courtesy to him than to Sir Richard. Mother was always so wonderful knowing about people.

The Earl smiled at mother, as if he understood her a deal better than people generally did, and he held out a soft hand to grasp mother's, which was as clean as his, but not soft, because of the hard work it had to do. "A girl who will do her duty at such a moment speaks well for the mother who has trained her," says he. "What is the little girl's name?" I suppose he called me "little girl" because Mr. Arthur had done so. "Kitty—Kitty what? Kitty Phrynne! I should like to give Kitty Phrynne a remembrance of the day when she—did her duty!" The Earl stopped and smiled before the last three words. "If everybody did his duty always, the world would be a different world from what it is now," says he.

Then he took out of his pocket a gold watch, with a short gold chain hanging to it, and put both into my hand. "I hope you will always be brave and true, and will always do your duty," he said. "I want you to keep this as a little token of gratitude from Lord Leigh, and in remembrance of the day when your prompt action saved many lives."

It was quite a bit of a speech, and one gentleman called "Hear! hear!" and others clapped their hands. I don't know what I said or did, for I was all in a whirl. It isn't every girl of seventeen who has a gold watch and chain given her by a real Earl. Rupert says I made a courtesy like mother, and dropped my eyes in the prettiest way,—I mean he said so after. But Rupert was no judge, poor fellow, in those days, because he admired everything that I did.

I heard the buzz all round, which sounded as if everybody was pleased, and I know mother courtesied again and said, "I'm very much obliged to your Lordship," or something like that. Then she turned to me, and said in just exactly her usual tone:—

"There's hot water wanted presently, Kitty, and a bed in the parlour for somebody that's hurt. We're going to take her in and do for her. The spare bed, you know. Run home and get things ready."

"Quite a character!" I heard Mr. Arthur say very low, as if he was speaking to himself; and the Earl smiled again, and said, as if he didn't mind being heard— "That is the training which has saved our lives to-day."

When mother said a thing was to be done, I knew she meant it, sharp! So off I went, not waiting a moment, though I shouldn't have minded staying for a few more words of praise. I did just hear, as I passed, somebody say, "That's a charming little maid!" and Sir Richard replied, "My wife calls her 'our village beauty.'" So Mrs. Hammond had spoken truth; and if my head wasn't turned already it had a chance of being so then.

Before so many listeners I was too shy to ask mother what she meant about our taking somebody in; and indeed I felt pretty sure it must be the young woman in the waiting-room.

Our cottage wasn't very big. On the ground floor there was the parlour, which we did not commonly use, and the kitchen and scullery; and overhead there were father and mother's room, and my room, and a tiny slip of a room besides, with hardly any window and no fireplace, and only space for a bed and chair and washstand. We had a friend to sleep there once in a way, but it wouldn't have done for a sick person; and our crooked stairs were bad for carrying anybody up. Two years before, we had taken in father's mother for a time till she died; and, because she was infirm, the bed and things from this slip-room were put into the parlour for her use. I knew that was what mother meant me to do now; and I did not quite see how I was to get the bed down by myself.

However, I knew mother wished me to set to work at once, asking no questions. So I put the kettle on the kitchen fire to boil, and then ran upstairs. I stopped for one moment on the landing, to look at the beautiful watch that I still held, with its gold face and handsome chased back, and the solid gold chain hanging to it. I could hardly believe they were really mine, my very own. It seemed such a strange thing to have happened.

But there was no time to stand and think; so I put away the watch in a drawer, under my clothes, and ran to the little slip-room. The first thing was to carry down some of the bedding, and the wash-handstand set. I could manage those, and the wash-handstand itself, which was light. Then I took the pillows and blankets, and rolled down the thin top mattress, the other having to wait for help; and next I began taking the iron bed to pieces. I was used to all these things, only I never had been strong at lifting.

Presently I could hear Rupert's voice calling from below.

"Kitty!" says he, "your mother says you'll want help."

"I've got to get this bed down, and I can't do it all alone," I said.

"No, I should think not—a little thing like you!" he says, clumping up the stairs. "Yes, the bed has to go down. There's a Miss Russell badly hurt—been ill before, I believe—and the shock made her ill again. I don't know more; only they daren't move her more than need be; so your mother's offered to take her in here. Dear me, you've done a lot already!" And he stood still to look. "How ever came you to think of that shawl, Kitty?"

"Why, I had it in my arms," I said. "Come, you'd better be sharp, Rupert. How soon is Miss Russell to be here?"

"As soon as the room's ready. They're in a hurry, I can tell you. I couldn't get away sooner, for everybody was wanted to clear the line."

"Is it done now?" I asked, as he got up a great bundle of the iron pieces of the bed, and let them fall with a tremendous clatter. "Oh, Rupert!" I said, putting my hands to my ears.

"Couldn't help it," said he. "Yes, it's all done. Express off directly."

"And everybody going on?"

"Except those that meant to stay, and Miss Russell and her brother. Wish he was going too!" I heard Rupert mutter; and I asked—

"Is that the brother who was with her in the waiting-room—tall and nice-looking?" I'm afraid I said this to tease Rupert.

"That's the young puppy," he said gruffly; and he marched out of the room.

"Where is he going to sleep?" I asked, following Rupert with more pieces of the bed.

"Don't know and don't care! Not here!" said Rupert, still more gruffly.

When we got downstairs, he went up again, but he wouldn't let me go too. He said I was tired, and I had better stay where I was. In a few minutes he was putting the bedstead together in the corner I chose. Then he brought the mattress, and to save time, I let him help me make the bed, though he was clumsy enough at it. He looked glum too, and as if his mind wasn't on what he had to do.

"Nobody else hurt except Miss Russell?" I asked presently.

"Nothing to speak of, except the stoker, and he's able to go on. It's a wonder there wasn't a lot killed. Your father looks bad still. I say, you spoke up bold for him, Kitty!"

"Why shouldn't I?" I asked.

"I don't know. I didn't suppose it was in, you," says he. "And they liked you all the better for it too. I could see that."

Then he told me that the Earl was a relation to Lady Arthur—uncle, I think—and that Mr. Arthur was come to stop for a night or two at the big house. And then I told him he had better take word the room was ready.

In a few minutes I saw them coming; the poor thing laid on a shutter, which father and Rupert and one of the porters and her brother were carrying. They moved slowly, and mother came on first.

"Room all straight, Kitty?" says she.

"Yes, mother," I said. "What is the matter with her?"

"It's what they call 'haemorrhage,'" mother said. "Bleeding from inside, you know; and very bad. She had it once before, and the shock brought it on again."

"And nobody else hurt?" I said.

"She and her brother was in the front carriage, close to the engine," mother said. "And she was going backwards: so I suppose she came in for more of a jar."

"Is the bleeding over now, mother?"

"If it don't come on again! That's the fear! The doctor's afraid of the least movement. That's why I offered to have her in here."

Then I saw Mr. Baitson following with Mr. Armstrong; but I did not look at them much, for my eyes were soon chained to Miss Russell's face.

I had never seen any one like her before. It wasn't that she was pretty. I shouldn't wonder if she never had been exactly pretty; and she was past girlhood then, with a few grey hairs showing. But there was a wonderful quiet in the face, like the quiet of the sea on a still day; and when she opened her eyes they were full of gentle goodness.

"Hush, not a word!" Mr. Baitson said, when she wanted to speak.

She smiled and gave in directly; but her eyes wandered round till they fell on her brother.

He looked sorely troubled, and I think his sister noticed this, for she kept watching him as long as he was within sight. When they had laid her on the bed, only Mr. Baitson stayed, beside mother and me. He said she was to have her clothes slipped off her with the least possible movement, and he would call again by-and-by. Then I saw Miss Russell sign to him to go close, and she whispered, "Walter!"

"You want to see your brother? Well, just for a moment. But I can't have talking, you know," said Mr. Baitson.

The brother didn't so much as give a glance towards mother or me when he was called in. He went straight to the bed and bent down, and I heard a sort of choke, as if he was almost crying, and then a sound like a word which I couldn't make out.

"Forgive you, yes!" she said tenderly, and her hand went over his hair. "My own boy!"

"Hush! this won't do!" Mr. Baitson said almost sternly.

She gave him a look as much as to say, "I forgot!" and Mr. Baitson hurried the young man off.

Mother managed the undressing beautifully. I had to stay, and do as I was told; and all the time I was in a foolish fright lest the bleeding should begin again. Foolish and selfish too: for I was frightened chiefly, or at least partly, on my own account. But I didn't say anything, for mother would never tamely give in, either with herself or anybody else, to any sort of feelings or fancies which might hinder one from doing one's duty. She knew I was a bit of a coward naturally, and she often said she wouldn't have me grow up a silly useless woman, running away from people when they most needed me. I would have run away that day, if I had had my will; for I had a sick horror of the sight of blood. But I am sure I have been thankful enough in years since that mother made me fight the weakness, and not become a slave to it.

Well, the poor thing was settled at last, lying in one of mother's nice frilled night-dresses, her hands folded on the white counterpane, and her eyes shut. The brown hair with its grey streaks was in one loose plait,—she had a lot of hair, and after all there wasn't much grey in it,—and she looked younger than when I saw her first. I made up my mind that she couldn't at the most be much over thirty, and I wasn't wrong. But thirty sounded middle-aged to me at seventeen.

Mother was a first-rate nurse, though she never had a hospital-training. It seemed to come natural-like to her, as it does to some people; and she had had practice. So she made up her mind to do the nursing herself, at least for the first few days, till we saw what would be wanted.

That meant that I should have to do most of the cooking and the cleaning. I was not best pleased with the thought; for though mother had trained me to all sorts of work, yet I was used to having a good deal of time to myself. But here again I knew I should have to buckle-to, and not to think of my own fancies. Mother would not let me overdo myself, I might be sure, yet she wouldn't allow any laziness.

Presently she sent me to get the tea ready. It had been put off late through all that had happened; and she was sure father and I must want it.

When I got into the kitchen, I found father there talking to Miss Russell's brother, who looked miserable still; though for all that I couldn't help noticing how handsome he was, with his black hair and black eyes, and a sort of manner that was just the opposite of Rupert's rough ways, and almost like the manner of a gentleman. At least, I thought so then.

He and father were speaking softly, so as not to disturb the poor sick sister, and neither of them paid any attention to me coming in. Father had laid the table, and put the kettle on again to boil; so I made the tea without a word.

Then of a sudden father turned towards me, and says— "Mr. Russell will take tea with us, Kitty." And he said to Mr. Russell— "That's my brave little girl who gave the warning."

"I don't think I was brave, father," I said. "It only came into my head."

"It wouldn't have come into everybody's head, though," Mr. Russell said.

He had been as dismal as could be, up to that moment, in a sort of limp way, the corners of his mouth dropping, with a look as if nothing in the world could comfort him. But the dismalness began to go off with his first cup of tea. He sat upright, and I felt him looking at me, in the way strangers often did look: for those were my pretty days, and it's no use denying that I was an uncommonly pretty girl. Everybody said so, and I suppose everybody must have known. I was used to being admired, but still it made me blush.

Father was pale still, and I was glad to see him taking something. Then I went to ask mother if I should stay in her place a few minutes, though I was quaking inwardly at the idea, for I knew that the dreadful bleeding might come on again any moment. It was a braver thing of me, really, to offer to do this, than it had been to wave the red shawl, though of course nobody guessed it. But mother said she had promised the doctor not to leave Miss Russell until he came again: so I carried in some tea to her.

Mr. Russell would persist in helping me. I had to let him bring the tray across the passage to the door of the room, where his sister was.

I thought that uncommon pretty, and nice of him too. It seemed fine to be waited on by Mr. Russell, in the sort of way that I knew gentlemen waited on ladies in grand houses. I had seen it for myself at the big house, when I went there to help for a week, one of the housemaids being taken suddenly ill. The servants all made a pet of me, and the ladies too, and I was sent in and out of the drawing-room with messages.

I had seen the gentlemen picking up what the ladies dropped, and fetching what they wanted, and carrying what they had to take anywhere, and so on. Mother said it was always like that with real gentlemen.

But I didn't see, and I never do see, why things shouldn't be something like that too, in the homes of working-men. Because a man is a working-man, and wears rough clothes, that's no reason why he must be gruff and short. The Bible command, "Be courteous," is meant for everybody alike—not for gentlefolk only.

To be sure I've known many a working-man who wasn't exactly gruff or short, and who was always kind; and yet it would never come into their heads to do that sort of little polite thing, just because they were not trained to it, you know. I suppose they would have laughed at the idea outright; though I don't know why they should, except that Englishmen always laugh at what they are not used to.

I'm quite sure of one thing, and that is that the more gentle-mannered and attentive a man is to his women-folk, the more they'll slave their lives out for him. Scolding and gruff words don't bring but only a sullen sort of service; and there's too many a husband and father who seldom troubles himself to speak in his home at all, except in a grumble.

But then of course there's another side to the matter. If the husbands have got to be polite and gentle to their wives, the wives have got to be polite and gentle to their husbands. I have known wives who'd speak to their husbands in a tone like the screech of an engine-whistle. And that, to say the least of the matter, isn't pretty!

Well,—to come back to our tea that afternoon!

Unhappy as Mr. Russell was, he managed to eat plenty. He said he had never in his life tasted such bread as ours, and he praised our milk and our butter and the jam, as if he hadn't had food worth eating before. I thought it kind of him; though to be sure I never do hold with a lot of talking about the food we eat. It's right to be thankful for nice things, but there's plenty that's better worth talking about than eatables.

He told us next a few things about himself and his sister.

They had been orphans since his boyhood; and they had no near relations in the world. She was like a mother to him always. Till lately they had lived in Bristol; but at that time Mr. Russell was schoolmaster in a National School at Littleburgh, which was a small manufacturing town at no great distance from Claxton—an hour or so by rail. His sister took in dressmaking, for she was a capital worker, clever with her fingers. But she hadn't so much work yet at Littleburgh, where they were almost strangers, as in Bristol, where they had had many friends.

I thought it so good of her to leave all her friends, that she might make a home for him in a new place. When I said so, he said, "Ah, yes, just like Mary, poor dear!"

One or two things that he let drop made me fancy they or their parents must have known better times. At all events, I felt sure he was very superior and very clever. If not, how could he have been a schoolmaster? That gave me a sort of respect for him.

He said his sister had taken care he should have a good education, and he spoke so nicely and feelingly about repaying what he owed to her. A time would come, he said,—perhaps soon,—when she would not need to work, but would only depend upon him. I couldn't help thinking what a good brother he must be!

 

 

 

CHAPTER III.

TWO OF THEM.

 

TALKING to father and me, Mr. Russell grew lively; and once mother came to the kitchen door, with her finger up, and a "Hush!" for Mr. Russell had raised his voice too much. I wondered a little that he could forget so soon, when he was so fond of his sister. And yet I liked him. I could not help liking him.

Now and then he seemed quite young; and then, again, he spoke as if he was older. I was puzzled; but after a time he told us he was twenty-four, and his sister was thirty-two; so that settled the matter.

"She's a good sister to me—always has been. I shouldn't think a chap ever had a better sister," he said, and a sort of cloud came over his face, as if all at once he remembered something that he had managed to forget.

"Then I hope you're a good brother to her," father said.

Mr. Russell sighed at this, and looked melancholy, but he didn't explain why, nor answer what father said.

Then father had to go back into the station, for a train was nearly due; and I could see he wanted to take Mr. Russell with him, while Mr. Russell wasn't at all in haste to go.

Perhaps that was natural enough, his sister being ill in our cottage, and he having no other home in the place.

He was to sleep, I had found, at Mrs. Bowman's. For Mrs. Bowman had a spare room, and was glad any time of a lodger. That would be cheaper than going to the inn; and it was plain they had to think about expenses.

I wondered how Rupert would like him being there.

Father offered to point out the way to Mrs. Bowman's, and Mr. Russell said, "Yes—presently; but might he have just one more cup of tea first?" So father had to go off, leaving him and me together. I didn't think he half liked it, though mother was close by, just across the passage. Father was always so careful of his "little wild rose," as he called me; and of course he didn't know anything much of Mr. Russell yet.

I poured out the tea for Mr. Russell, and then waited for him to finish, getting out the grey sock which I was knitting at odd times for my father. Mother never liked to see me nor anybody sitting idle. She always said tongues went faster when fingers went slower; and, to be sure, I didn't get as much work done as I might, when I was set off talking.

Mr. Russell seemed in no haste to be done. He sipped his tea, and set it down to cool. Then he leaned back, looking melancholy again, and said, "Poor Mary! The best of sisters!"

"I am sure, from her face, she is good," I said.

"She is too good," said Mr. Russell, with a sort of smile which I didn't understand.

"I don't see how anybody can be too good," I said, and I spoke timidly, for I thought Mr. Russell wonderfully clever.

"There are different kinds of goodness," says Mr. Russell; and that was a new notion to me. I couldn't think what he meant; for, to be sure, the Bible don't tell of two kinds.

"I should think your sister's was the right kind," I said.

"Well—yes," says he. "I didn't mean a 'wrong' kind, you see, when I spoke of different kinds. I only meant that people might be good in too exalted a way for everyday life. That is Mary's tendency, perhaps. Poor dear Mary!" He sighed again, and then he reached out his cup, saying, "Might he have a little more sugar?"

I couldn't help a sort of amused feeling at his being able to think about sugar; and yet I was half vexed with myself for being amused. After all, it takes a lot of trouble to bring a man to such a pass that he don't care what he eats or drinks. Women mostly come to that point sooner; and yet not women of the weak and faddy sort; for the worse trouble they are in, the more faddy and complaining they get.

Mr. Russell helped himself to the sugar, and then he stirred his tea round and round with the spoon, till it got to look like a whirlpool with a hole in the middle. Presently he sipped it again, and told me it was "perfect," and after that he went on with what he was saying.

"Yes, Mary is a most excellent creature—too good for common life. One can't help admiring, of course—but still—" and he shook his head, as much as to say that it wouldn't do, wouldn't do at all!

"Perhaps it would be better if everybody was the same," I said, thinking how father would speak and how mother would look in my place. I felt that there was something out of joint in what he was saying; and yet I did not want to feel anything that was not in his favour.

"The world would be at a standstill," says he. "People must have common sense if they are to get on in life."

I didn't know what he meant then; I know better now. He meant that we had to serve Mammon as well as God; and that, in matters of business, Mammon must come first, God second. He would not have put it so plain as that, of course, but it came to nothing less. Yes, and it always does end in that, when we try to do what our Lord said couldn't be done—when we try to serve Mammon and God too. Mr. Russell's "Mammon" was "getting on in life," and making money. He wouldn't put the service of God before that, and his sister would. That was why he called her "too good" for common life. But perhaps I ought not to say all this now. Perhaps I ought to leave it to be found out later.

Mr. Russell all at once turned the talk to something different.

"By-the-bye," said he, "I'm told the Earl gave you his own watch and chain."

"Yes," I said, and I got rather red.

"I don't wonder your father is proud."

"Was he proud about it?" I said. "Then he didn't show what he felt."

"Might I," Mr. Russell went on— "might I see the watch?"

I didn't see how to refuse or why I need: so I ran upstairs and brought down the gold watch and chain, laying them on the table in front of Mr. Russell. He took them up and examined both closely, letting his tea get cold, he was so interested.

"You'll have to mind you keep them in a safe place," he said after a while. "The Earl knows how to do things in a princely style. You're in luck, I can tell you. It's a thirty-guinea watch if it's worth a penny, and the chain half as much again!"

I was rather startled to hear this.

"First-rate article," says Mr. Russell. "Look, here's where you wind up." I came nearer to be shown, and at the sound of a step outside the window he just lifted his eyes for a moment, and asked in a careless way, "Who is that gawky young fellow? I saw him at the station."

 

"He put down the watch and tilted his chair, leaning back on it."

 

"Oh, that is Rupert Bowman, our ticket-collector," I said, foolishly ashamed that anybody so plain and awkward should be a friend of ours.

Rupert walked straight in at the open door, as he always did. When he saw Mr. Russell sitting at our table, holding the gold watch, and me standing near, his face grew as black as midnight. He scowled at Mr. Russell, and shuffled more than ever.

What a contrast the two were, to be sure!

"I say, Kitty—" he burst out.

Then he stopped. I knew why. I didn't like him to speak so to me before Mr. Russell. It sounded rude; and, besides, I did not like him to seem so much at home—calling me by my name, and putting on that angry manner, as if I was a child to be scolded! Well, I was but a silly lass, and my head had been pretty well turned that day.

I suppose I showed pretty plainly what I thought. Rupert always said I could toss my head, and could be scornful, for all I was so humble and bashful. Not that I was humble really, only folks said it of me.

Mr. Russell showed plainly what he felt too. He put down the watch and tilted his chair, leaning back on it, and he fixed his eyes hard upon Rupert, lifting his eyebrows with a sort of disdain, as if he was looking down upon a lower animal altogether.

I don't now think that kind of manner from one man to another anything grand, and I know well enough it is not gentlemanly. A true gentleman is kind and courteous all round, just as much to those beneath him as to those above him.

But I had seen then very little of life, and Mr. Russell's manner seemed to me uncommon fine and dignified. I grew more and more ashamed to think how awkward and clumsy Rupert was, and how that very day he had dared to ask me to marry him.

I began to feel, too, that I never could nor would marry Rupert,—no, not if he asked me fifty times!

Rupert turned away from me and glared at Mr. Russell. I don't think "glared" is too hard a word. Rupert had a temper naturally, and sometimes it got the better of him, though he did fight to keep it down. Mr. Russell's manner was enough to try it; and Rupert always had cared for me as he cared for nobody else. I suppose it was hard for him to see me with this stranger, so different from himself, and me seeming already taken with him.

"Mr. Phrynne told me I was to show you the way to our cottage," he says in a short angry tone.

"Thank you," Mr. Russell made answer. "When I'm in want of a conductor, I'll apply to you."

It didn't strike me at the moment, that this was not the way he ought to have taken my father's message.

"Mr. Phrynne said so," Rupert said again gruffly.

"You can be so good as to tell Mr. Phrynne that I already know the way," Mr. Russell answered. "When I have had a stroll, I shall make my appearance at your mother's." Then he turned to me, speaking in a different tone, like to an equal, while his manner to Rupert was like an inferior. "I have kept you too long, I'm afraid," says he; "but I suppose I may look in again by-and-by, just to ask after my poor sister?"

Rupert stood and glared at him still. Mr. Russell didn't seem disturbed. He lifted his cup to drink off the rest of his tea, and I remember how he stuck out his little finger as he held the cup, in a way I thought elegant then, though now I can see it was affected. Isn't it odd, the little stupid things that come back to one's mind, years after, when much more important things are forgotten? Everything that happened on that day is clear to me still, just as if I had pictures of it all laid up in my mind.

Mr. Russell got up to go, and as he gave back the watch to me, he said in an undertone—

"What could your father have meant?—sending such a chap as that!"

Rupert must have heard; he could not help hearing. He stood like a stock till Mr. Russell was gone, and then he turned sharp round upon me, and said—

"You ought to know better, Kitty!"

"Oh, ought I?" said I, getting very red. And of course, it wasn't the way for Rupert to speak to me. He had no business to call me to account in any such tone. But it didn't improve matters for me to be angry. I've often thought since that it was one of the times for mother's favourite saying. Less hot words would have been sooner mended. But we were both young and impatient.