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.