If had described myself when I first started in life, it would simply
have been as John Blount, commercial traveller. I was employed by a firm
of merchants of very high standing, who only did business with large
houses. My negotiations took me to all parts of the United Kingdom, and
I enjoyed the life, which was full of change and activity. At least I
enjoyed it in my early bachelor days, but while I was still quite
young--not more than five-and-twenty--I fell in love and married; and
then I found that my roving existence was certainly a drawback to
domestic happiness. My wife, Mary, was a bright little creature, always
ready to make the best of things, but even she would declare
pathetically that she might as well have married a sailor as a landsman
who was so seldom at home! Still, as I said, she was one to put a bright
face on things, and she and my sister made their home together.
It was in the second year after my marriage, when I had been away on my
travels for some weeks, that I heard from my sister that a fever had
broken out in the neighbourhood of our home, and that Mary was down with
it. Kitty wrote hopefully, saying it was a mild attack, and she trusted
by the time I was home her patient would be quite convalescent. I had
unbounded faith in Kitty, so that I accepted her cheerful view of
things. But, a few evenings later, after a long, tiring day, I returned
to the hotel where I was then staying, and found a telegram awaiting me.
My heart stood still as I saw the ominous yellow envelope, for I knew my
sister would not have sent for me without urgent need. The message was
to say that, although Kitty still hoped for the best, a serious change
had taken place, and I should return at once.
"Don't delay an hour; come off immediately," she said.
I was not likely to delay. I paid up my reckoning at the hotel, directed
that my baggage should be sent on next day, and in less than half an
hour from the time I had opened the telegram I rushed, heated and
breathless, into the primitive little railway station--the only one
which that part of the country boasted for miles round. I gained the
platform in time to see the red light on the end of the departing train
as it disappeared into the mouth of the tunnel a few hundred yards down
the line. For a moment I was unable to realize my ill fortune. I stood
gazing stupidly before me in a bewildered way. Then the station-master,
who knew me by sight, came up, saying sympathetically:--
"Just missed her, sir, by two seconds!"
"Yes," I answered briefly, beginning to understand it all now, and
chafing irritably at the enforced delay. "When is the next train?"
"Six five in the morning, sir. Nothing more to-night."
"Nothing more to-night!" I almost shouted. "There must be! At any rate,
there is the evening express from the junction; I have been by it scores
of times!"
"Very likely, sir; but that's a through train, it don't touch
here--never stops till it reaches the junction."
The man's quiet tone carried conviction with it. I was silent for a
moment, and then asked when the express left the junction.
"Nine fifteen," was the answer.
[Illustration: "THE STATION-MASTER CAME UP."]
"How far is the junction from this by road; could I do it in time?"
"Out of the question, sir. It would take one who knew the road the best
part of three hours to drive."
I looked away to my left, where the green hill-side rose up steep and
clear against the evening sky. It was one of the most mountainous
quarters of England, and the tunnel that pierced the hill was a triumph
of engineering skill, even in these days when science sticks at nothing.
Pointing to the brick archway I said, musingly:--
"And yet, once through the tunnel, how close at hand the junction
station seems."
"That's true enough, sir; the other side the tunnel it is not half a
mile down the line."
"What length is it?"
"The tunnel, sir? Close upon three miles, and straight as a dart."