"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. Forgive me for
interrupting you. I won't do it again, as the naughty boys say.--Go on,
dear, with your story."
I once more covered my eyes with my hand, as if to shade them from the
light, and listened, though I could scarcely conceal my agitation.
"The name of Edie," she continued, "is that by which my darling granny
always called me, and it sounded so familiar--yet so strange--coming
from your lips. But, after all, it is a natural abbreviation. Well, as
I said, an accident befell me. I had burst away from the thieves in a
state of wild horror, and was attempting to rush across a crowded
thoroughfare, when a cab knocked me down. I felt a sharp pang of pain,
heard a loud shout and then all was dark.
"On recovering I found myself lying in one of the beds of a hospital.
My collar-bone had been broken, and I was very feverish--scarcely
understood where I was, and felt a dull sense of oppression on my brain.
They spoke to me, and asked my name. I don't remember distinctly how I
pronounced it, but I recollect being somewhat amused at their
misunderstanding what I said, and calling me Miss Eva Bright! I felt
too ill to correct them at the time, and afterwards became so accustomed
to Eva--for I was a very long time there--that I did not think it worth
while to correct the mistake. This was very foolish and unfortunate,
for long afterwards, when I began to get well enough to think
coherently, and sent them to let granny know where I was, they of course
went with the name of Eva Bright. It was very stupid, no doubt, but I
was so weak and listless after my long and severe illness that this
never once occurred to me. As it turned out, however, there would have
been no difference in the result, for my darling had left her lodging
and gone no one knew where. This terrible news brought on a relapse,
and for many weeks, I believe, my life hung on a thread. But that
thread was in the hand of God, and I had no fear."
"What is the name, Edie, of the grandmother you have lost?" I asked, in
a low, tremulous voice.
"Willis--but--why do you start so? Now I am quite _sure_ you have been
more severely hurt than you imagine, and that my talking so much is not
good for you."
"No--Edie--no. Go on," I said firmly.
"I have little more to tell," she continued. "Dear Dr McTougall had
attended me in the hospital, and took a fancy to me. When I was well
enough to leave, he took me home to be governess to his children. But
my situation has been an absolute sinecure as yet, for he says I am not
strong enough to work, and won't let me do anything. It was not till
after I had left the hospital that I told my kind friend the mistake
that had been made about my name, and about my lost grandmother. He has
been very kind about that, and assisted me greatly at first in my search
for her. But there are so many--so many people of the name of Willis in
London--old ladies too! We called together on so many that he got tired
of it at last. Of course I wrote to various people at York, and to the
place where we had lived before going there, but nothing came of it, and
now--my hopes have long ago died out--that is to say, almost--but I
still continue to make inquiries."
She paused here for some time, and I did not move or speak, being so
stunned by my discovery that I knew not what to say, and feared to
reveal the truth to Edith too suddenly. Then I knew by the gentle way
in which she moved that she thought I had fallen asleep. I was glad of
this, and remained quietly thinking.
There was no doubt now in my mind that Edie Blythe was this lost
granddaughter of old Mrs Willis, but the name still remained an
insoluble mystery.
"Edie," said I abruptly, "_is_ your name Blythe?"
"Of course it is," she said, in startled surprise, "why should you doubt
it?"
"I _don't_ doubt it," said I, "but I'm sorely puzzled. Why is it not
Willis?"
"Why?" exclaimed Edie, with a little laugh, "because I am the daughter
of Granny Willis's daughter--not of her son. My father's name was
Blythe!"
The simplicity of this explanation, and my gross stupidity in quietly
assuming from the beginning, as a matter of course, that the lost Edie's
name was the same as her grandmother's, burst upon me in its full force.
The delusion had been naturally perpetuated by Mrs Willis never
speaking of her lost darling except by her Christian name. For a few
seconds I was silent, then I exploded in almost an hysterical fit of
laughter, in the midst of which I was interrupted by the sudden entrance
of my doggie, who had returned from a walk with Robin, and began to
gambol round his mistress as if he had not seen her for years.
"Oh, sir! I say! I've diskivered all about--"
Little Slidder had rushed excitedly into the room, but stopped abruptly
on observing Miss Blythe, who was looking from him to me with intense
surprise.