SHARP AND SUDDEN.
YES; they did their best to stop in time. But it was no use; for the
brakes of those days were slow-acting; and before the train could do
more than begin to slacken, all was over.
The buffer caught him first, and swept him along; and then he was
among the cruel wheels; and what they left of him was no longer—
father!
It couldn't have been more than a moment's shock of pain. Not to him,
I mean! But oh, the shock and pain to us who loved him!
He was so ready to go. He had loved and lived for his Master for many
a year. Not that he was ever much of a talker about religion; but he
lived it, which is worth a deal more. I know he was readier for death
than we were for the sorrow of losing him.
Sunday after Sunday we pray in Church against sudden death. "From
sudden death, good Lord, deliver us!" But doesn't sudden death mean
death unprepared for? I don't think death can ever be "sudden" in the
real sense of the word to those who are ready and waiting. I think
the stroke of the buffer, which startled and swept him away, was
nothing more nor less to father than just the voice of his Master
bidding him "Come Home!" One moment of start and fright, maybe;
and then—nothing but joy.
When the train came to a stop, a little way farther on, after the
cruel deed was done—not that anybody could be blamed!—several
gentlemen got out; and the driver of the engine sat down on the
ground, and hid his face, and cried like a child at the awfulness
of what had happened. But, poor fellow, nobody could find fault
with him!
Mother saw the whole from first to last. She never took her eyes
away; and when the mangled body was tossed out by the wheels upon the
six-foot way, she went swiftly down, never faltering, and knelt
beside it, and wouldn't be torn away till the doctor came and told
her all was over—as she might have seen. But they said she didn't
seem to see. Her eyes were fixed, and she never spoke a word,
nor shed a tear.
I saw nothing more after the moment that the buffer struck father.
It must have been a long faint. When I struggled back to sense,
with a strange dreadful feeling that some sort of thunderbolt
had fallen on us, Mr. Baitson and Lady Arthur and Mrs. Hammond
were all standing over me, and I was down on the floor in our
kitchen.
"Poor things! How terrible for them!" I heard Lady Arthur say.
"And they seeing it all! Why, it's enough to kill 'em—more than
enough," Mrs. Hammond said, in the brisk sort of way she had.
"Hush!" Mr. Baitson said, quite low.
And I opened my eyes, and looked at them all three. I didn't know
what had happened, and I didn't want to know. I didn't want to be
told. I only felt it was something frightful—something awful.
"Poor dear! I do believe it'll kill her!" says Mrs. Hammond, with a
click of her tongue meaning pity.
Mr. Baitson turned upon her, more fierce-like than I'd ever seen him,
for he was commonly so quiet.
"If you can't be silent, Mrs. Hammond, you will please to leave
the room," says he, under his breath, as it were; and Mrs. Hammond
looked all taken aback, the more as Lady Arthur added—
"Hammond, you forget yourself! How can you be so unwise?"
And then Lady Arthur did nigh as unwisely herself, for she stooped
down to kiss my forehead, and burst into tears.
"Hush! No agitation, pray!" Mr. Baitson says, in the same voice.
But somehow that kiss of Lady Arthur's, being uncommon and
unexpected, woke me up, and my memory too. In a moment I saw
the train rushing up, and father standing on the line, and I tried
to shriek "Father!" but the word wouldn't come. I think I struggled
up, sitting, and somebody got hold of my hand, and then I seemed
to hear the buffer strike poor father, and everything turned again
into a black mist.
I don't seem to have any clear remembrance of the next coming-to,
except that I was in bed, and a sort of horror was on me, and I
called for mother, and she didn't come. Then I got so tired, I didn't
know how to bear myself, nor how to lie; and Mr. Baitson gave me
something to drink; and after that I seemed to go off sound asleep.
I haven't a notion how long the sleep lasted. It might have been
hours, or days, or weeks, if I'm to tell from my own feelings.
When I woke up, it was night. I was in my bed still, and a candle
was burning. Somebody was leaning back in a chair, sound asleep.
I sat up slowly, and looked at her, and I made out gradually that it
was Mrs. Hammond.
I didn't want Mrs. Hammond, and I didn't want her to speak to me.
I had woke up better, and quite clear in mind. Only I had a feeling
that I mustn't let myself think yet about what was come to us.
Something had happened—something dreadful—and down in my heart I knew
what it was. But I tried to think I didn't know. I wanted to see and
speak to mother. And if I began to think about the other, I shouldn't
be able.
I got out of bed, stepping softly, and put on my dressing-gown.
It wasn't easy, I was that weak and shaken; but still I did it. And I
took the candle in my hand, swaying as I walked, for I could scarce
keep myself upright. Passing the glass, I had a glimpse of such
a white changed face. It didn't look like Kitty Phrynne. But I went
straight to the door, and out upon the landing.
There wasn't a sound nor a stir outside, except that the floor
creaked beneath me. I waited a moment, and listened.
Father and mother's room was opposite, and the door stood ajar. I had
a sort of wonder—were they both sleeping there quietly?
Well, they wouldn't hear me, if I peeped in. I thought I would: just
to make sure all was right. Mother would tell me I was silly, but
that wouldn't matter.
I said all this to myself, in my thoughts, knowing it wasn't true,
yet somehow half believing it.
When I pushed open the door of the room, I found it dark within. So I
went softly on towards the bed, carrying my candle, and I found it
hadn't been slept in.
I stayed a moment, looking, and feeling, oh so strange! I didn't know
what to let myself think.
Then I saw I wasn't alone. Somebody was sitting in a chair near the
fireplace; sitting still, her hands folded together. I went a step
or two nearer, and stopped again. For it was mother; and I was
frightened to see mother like that, all alone in the dark,
not stirring nor speaking.
She hadn't undressed; and her face was pale, with a sort of stiffened
look. But she wasn't unconscious; for her eyes were following me
about, staring hard in a cold dull way. I had never seen her
so before.
"Mother!" I said, and I went nearer.
But she didn't answer.
I said again "Mother!"
There wasn't a movement, only her eyes were on me still.
Then I came almost close. I wanted to take her hand. I did so crave
a kiss, and a word of comfort.
But all of a sudden she drew her chair back.
"Keep off!" says she, in a rough voice, quite hoarse, not like
mother's.
I began to shake all over, and turned queer again.
"Mother, don't you know me?" says I. "It's your little Kitty.
Don't you know me?"
"Keep off!" says she, just in the same way.
I think if I hadn't been able to cry, I must have fainted again;
but I found myself the next moment sobbing most dreadfully, not able
to stop, and holding on to the foot of the bed, not able to stand
alone.
Mother didn't stir, nor show any pity. She only kept her eyes fixed
in that cold stare.
But my sobbing woke up Mrs. Hammond, and she bustled across
into mother's room in no time.
"Dear, dear, dear me!" says she, in a fluster, and half-vexed.
"Kitty, whatever are you after?" says she; "coming in here, and you
wasn't to leave your bed! Why, Mrs. Phrynne, you don't mean to say
you're up and dressed still, and it's two o'clock in the morning.
So particular as I begged you to make haste into bed!—now, didn't I?
I don't know whatever in the world Mr. Baitson 'll say to me, that I
don't," says she.
"Take that girl away," says mother, stern-like.
"Take Kitty away! Why, so I will," says Mrs. Hammond. "Poor little
Kitty! she isn't fit to be up, I'm sure—nor you neither, for the
matter of that. Come, you'll make haste into bed now, won't you?
And Kitty's going to get to sleep again. Give her a kiss now before
she goes, won't you, Mrs. Phrynne?"
But mother said "No!" as hard as could be, and turned her head away.
I didn't know how to bear it. I threw myself down on the floor at her
feet, and I cried in a sort of shriek, "O mother, mother, forgive me!
O mother, love me!" But she wouldn't say one word, and only pushed
her chair farther back out of my reach.
Mrs. Hammond pulled me up, and got me somehow across the passage,
pretty near carrying me, I think.
"It's no manner of use talking to your mother," says she. "Don't you
see she isn't her proper self? The shock's turned her brain, I do
believe; and she won't have nothing to do with you yet. I don't know
whatever Mr. Baitson 'll say to me if I don't get her into bed, and
she's as obstinate as a mule; but I've got to go and try again.
She wouldn't let me stay before, and I'm sure I'd no notion I was
going to drop to sleep. Dear, dear me, it's a terrible state
of things. Now you just lie still, Kitty, and don't you worry about
your mother. She'll be better soon, I make no doubt."
I lay still, as I was told, for I was past doing anything else;
but as for not worrying—well, I suppose Mrs. Hammond didn't really
mean it. She had to say something, and that did as well as anything
else.
Worry is hardly the word either. It was so much deeper than "worry."
I had no more sleep that night. Was it likely I should?
The blow that had fallen seemed too dreadful to be borne. My father,
my kind gentle good father, gone from us in one moment, without
warning, without good-bye! And to think that the last days of his
life had been darkened and embittered by my ill-conduct and deceit!
If it hadn't been for those last words, and that last kiss
of forgiveness, I think I must have died of remorse. The pain would
have been more than I could bear.
The thought that his death itself might have been in part owing
to what I had done—I mean to his mind being over-full—didn't come
to torture me till later. I had enough to bear without that—more than
enough. As I lay through the slow hours of the early morning, racked
with looking back and looking forward, I did feel as if my heart
must break—as if I couldn't live through the time that was coming.
When Mr. Baitson called, he said I must keep still, and not think
of getting up; and, indeed, I had lost all wish to move. I only
wanted to lie still, and to think of father's last kiss. That was
my one comfort, though tears came in floods with the recollection.
But if I hadn't spoken to him then, oh, how could I ever have borne
it?
"Kitty, you must not leave your room again without my leave,"
says Mr. Baitson.
"No, I won't," I said; "but I want mother! I want mother!"
"I hope she will be able to come to you soon," he says gently.
"Not for a day or two, at all events."
"Is mother ill?" I asked.
"Yes," he said. "There are different sorts of illness, Kitty. Such a
shock must tell upon her, you know. I would rather have seen her
bodily more ill, than this."
I didn't know what he meant, and I was too weak to ask.
"Somebody is coming to take care of you, whom you will be glad
to see," he went on.
I didn't ask who. It only seemed so odd he should speak of me
being "glad" about anything. I couldn't think I ever should feel
"glad" again.
And yet he was in the right. I knew it, two hours later, when my
bedroom door opened, and Mary Russell walked in.
She looked so pale, and her eyes were red with crying. But when she
sat down on the bed, and took me into her arms, I did feel a sort
of rest that was almost like gladness.
"My poor Kitty!" she whispered.
"I don't think I believe it," I said, looking up in her face.
"I don't think it's true."
Then I broke down, and cried pitifully. But soon I said again,
"It isn't true. It can't be true. I think we shall wake up."
"Yes, by-and-by," she said. "When we wake up in heaven, all sorrow
over. That will be a wonderful awakening, Kitty," says she. "And,
dear, you'll come there to meet him," says she.
"O Mary, you won't go! you won't leave us!" I begged; for I felt
as if there was nobody else to rest on.
"No," she answered. "I am come to stay, so long as you both want me."
"Mother wants you," I said. "She doesn't love me any more."
"Kitty, it is not that," Mary answered. "You mustn't think it for a
moment. Your poor mother isn't fully herself with the trouble. If she
could cry she would be better, but she can't shed a tear, and till
she does—"
"She wouldn't kiss me," I said. "Oh, I know I deserve it. I know it's
the punishment."
Mary let me say so much, and then she told me not to talk any more.
She whispered softly something about the love of God, and how He
would take care of us all.
The difference of having her there! But nothing could lighten
the great heavy load of pain.
We did not speak of Walter. His name never once came up. I thought
of him, yet hardly cared to ask or hear. I could only feel that my
father was gone. Everything to do with Walter seemed so small and
far away—except the sorrow he and I had caused to father those last
few days.
I was in bed about a fortnight, not able to get up: not regularly
ill, but too weak and knocked down for anything else. And all that
fortnight mother never came into my room.
She was up and about, I knew that. I could hear her step on the
stairs, slow and dragging, but still mother's step. She was busy
about the house, doing her usual work; and Mr. Baitson said it was
better for her than sitting still to brood, though she often did that
too.
Yes, I heard her step, but not her voice. Scarce a word passed her
lips from morning till night. She was affectionate to Mary in a sort
of dull dreary way, but she didn't talk to her nor any one. And she
never so much as asked how I was. If Mary spoke of me, mother turned
away.
All this wasn't told me at the time. It came later to my hearing.
They couldn't keep mother from the funeral; not Mr. Baitson,
nor anybody. Go she would; and when they tried to hinder, a fierce
look came into her eyes. Mr. Baitson said the excitement of being
stopped might be worse for her than being let to go; and he gave in.
She didn't shed a tear, all through the Service, nor by the grave.
Some hoped she might; but she didn't.
By the time a fortnight was over, I was getting better, and
Mr. Baitson used to let me sit up for an hour or two, by way
of change. Then Mary got me downstairs; but it was when mother
had gone out.
"How soon am I to see mother again?" I said at last to Mary.
"Are you fit for it yet?" said she.
"I don't see why not," I said. I had a sort of hopeless feeling,
as if I never should care much about anything again, one way
or another. But of course things had to be got through.
"I'm afraid it will give you pain. She isn't like herself yet."
"Will she be—ever?" I asked. "Will she always be vexed with me?"
"It is not exactly being vexed," Mary answered.
"No, it's worse," I said, sighing. "She can't get over the trouble
I was to—to him." And then I had one of my crying fits; and Mary
comforted me. But when it was over I came back to what we had been
talking about, and I said, "I do think I ought to see poor mother."
"Yes," Mary answered, slow-like, as if she wasn't sure. "Yes, that
is what I feel; and Mr. Baitson has given leave. If you wish it,
and if I think best—but he doesn't want you to be pressed. And he
can't promise it will do her good. He does not believe it will do
her harm."
"Is mother ill?" I asked.
"Not exactly ill," Mary said. "She isn't ill in body. The blow seems
all to have fallen on her poor mind. I don't mean that she's out
of her mind, you know. There's nothing to be frightened about;
only she's in a kind of stupefied state, and one can't rouse her.
She can't see things straight, and there's no getting certain notions
out of her head. She is in what the doctors call a 'morbid' state.
We hope she will be better by-and-by."
"I don't know what 'morbid' is," I said.
"I think it means that her mind is sick instead of her body,"
Mary said. "And we have to be very patient with her."
"May I see her?" I asked.
"Yes," Mary says again. "In a day or two, before you go away."
"Am I going?" I asked, still with the dull feeling that I
didn't care.
"Yes, you are to have a change. I don't think you'll guess where,"
says Mary, trying to smile.
"Where?" I asked. "With you, Mary?"
"No, dear; I must see after your mother," Mary said. "No, it's
Mrs. Withers you're going to. Mrs. Withers has asked you to her house
for a visit. You remember Mrs. Withers, Mr. Armstrong's
sister-in-law." Ah, didn't I remember the only time I'd seen her!
But Mary went on: "Mr. Armstrong's wife was her sister, and
Mrs. Withers' husband has a living a few miles out of Littleburgh.
You are to go there for two or three weeks, to be fed up and
taken care of; and you will help a little with the children."
"I don't want to go. I want to be with you," I said, mournful enough.
"You will come back to me by-and-by," Mary says.
"Here! Will you be here still?" I wanted to know.
Mary didn't speak directly.
"No, not here," she said. "There will have to be changes."
"What changes?" I asked, getting frightened.
"Dear Kitty, haven't you ever thought," says she, "that you and
your mother can't stay on here? The house will be wanted
for—somebody else."
For another stationmaster in my father's place. I had not thought
of that, and it broke me down afresh. To leave our home, the dear
little home where he had always been; it seemed more than I
could bear.
"Kitty, there's only one way to take it," Mary whispered. "God sends
the trouble, and it is His will. If you will have it from His Hand,
He will give comfort with the pain."
But in those days I only loved my own will, not the will of my
Heavenly Father.
We didn't say any more then, for I had had enough. Still, I was
not satisfied, and I kept thinking over all that had to be, and later
in the day I asked Mary—
"Where will mother and I have to live?"
"Nothing is settled yet," Mary answered. "We shall see better in
a few weeks. When you are gone to Mrs. Withers, I shall take
Mrs. Phrynne to my old home."
Take mother to Littleburgh! I didn't notice the word "old," or
I should not have been so surprised. To think of mother under the
same roof with Walter Russell did astonish me.
"Not Littleburgh, but Bristol," Mary said gravely. "Littleburgh would
not do. Mr. Baitson wants her to be in some quite new place,
away from all that reminds her of her trouble. We think Bristol
will be best; and friends are so kind in giving help."
"And can you be away all this time from—" I said, and stopped,
the colour coming over my face. I hadn't spoken or heard of
her brother since my father's death.
"Yes," Mary said; and she didn't speak a word more. I could not
understand her look. It meant something particular, I didn't know
what.
Three days later, when I was just dressed, having got up for the
first time before dinner, Mary said—
"Now I am going to take you downstairs.'
"To see mother," I said in a whisper.
"Yes," said she; "unless you would rather not."
"I don't know. I think I ought," I said; but I felt shaky.
"I think so, too," says she. "It may do your mother good. And,
Kitty," says she, "you've got to put yourself out of sight, and try
to be brave. Don't mind if she turns from you at first. Just walk
into the kitchen quite naturally, and speak to her exactly as usual."
I promised to try; but as we went downstairs I clung tight to her,
frightened to think what was coming. I'm not sure that Mary didn't
feel a sort of fear too, she looked so pale.
"Now, Kitty," she whispers, outside the kitchen, "don't you mind
anything, but go straight up to her, and be like your own self."
Easier said than done; but I did my best. I opened the door, and went
to the table, where mother was ironing, though I felt as if my legs
wouldn't carry me there.
"Mother!" I said.
She looked up at me, and down again. Her face had the sort of fixed
look I'd seen the first night; and her black dress and widow's cap
made her so strange.
"Speak!" I heard Mary whisper.
"Mother!" I said, "I haven't seen you for ever so long. Mayn't I have
a kiss?"
But she went on ironing, hard and fast.
Mary came close, and put an arm round my waist.
"Mrs. Phrynne," says she cheerfully, and I did wonder at her
for being so cheerful— "Mrs. Phrynne, Kitty has been ill, and she
is going away to-morrow. Mayn't she have a kiss before she goes?"
Mother didn't answer one word.
"Come, Kitty, give your mother a kiss," says Mary, leading me.
I did as I was bid, and mother bore the kiss, but that was all,
scarce stopping a moment in her work, and showing not a sign
of pleasure. I couldn't bear it, hardly, and I was ready to drop.
Mary gave me a chair, and I set off sobbing, and presently I saw
mother had left her ironing and was standing to watch me in a queer
sort of way, as if she couldn't make me out.
"Poor Kitty," Mary says.
Mother came near, looking hard still.
"Kitty! Yes, it's Kitty," says she.
"Your own Kitty," Mary says.
"Yes, it's Kitty," mother says, but not as if she cared.
"O mother, do love me," I broke out, feeling so miserable.
"I've got no heart to love anybody," mother says, and she turned off
back to her ironing. "He's gone," said she.
"And he loved and forgave Kitty," Mary says, slow and quiet.
"Maybe," mother answered; and she took up her iron, but didn't
use it.
"He forgave Kitty," Mary says again.
"Maybe," mother answered short; "but she broke his heart first."
And not one word more would mother say to Mary nor me after that.
Mary gave up trying to make her, for the doctor had said she mustn't
press matters too far. I went to my room, and felt as if everything
was gone, and nothing was left to live for.
In the morning I mustered up courage to ask Mr. Baitson about mother,
and whether she would ever be her proper self again. He said he hoped
she would; but it must take time. The dreadful shock of seeing father
killed had had a strange effect upon her mind, so she seemed to see
everything crooked, and couldn't be argued with. Only time and change
could cure her. He told me I must do my best to get well and strong
quickly, so as to be able to take care of poor mother.
I was not allowed to see mother again; Mr. Baitson said it was better
not to excite her. Mr. Armstrong looked in for a few kind words
with me as he had done often; but I never could bear yet to see him,
without crying too much for speech. It made me think so of that last
talk before poor father was killed.
Early after dinner Mary started with me, as I was hardly fit
to travel all the way alone. Mary had things to do in Littleburgh,
she said, and wouldn't be back till late; so Mrs. Bowman was left
in charge of mother.
We got out at Littleburgh Station together, and there Mary put me
into a fly to drive to Deane Rectory. I remember how she kissed me,
and told me to be brave.
Then I drove off alone, feeling dreary; and the fly wasn't two
minutes away from the station before I passed somebody I knew.
It was Walter Russell!
One wouldn't have believed, after all that had passed, that I should
have cared for him still. But I did. Seeing him walk along the
pavement, with his sort of jaunty air, sent a shock all through me,
and I could have cried out his name. I did lean forward, and he
looked up, and his eyes met mine.
But there was no sign of knowing me, not the very least. He didn't
smile nor nod.
The next moment, and while I was driving by, he stopped short
to speak to a young girl, seeming as pleased as could be. The way
he fixed his eyes on her, admiring, was the very same way exactly
that he was used to do it to me.
I don't know whether I was most hurt or most angry. I couldn't get
over the great wrong he had done, making me deceive my father and
mother; yet I liked him still. I couldn't feel real respect, and I
knew well I ought not to think about him any more; yet the very name
of Walter Russell had a strange power over me.
If he had given me his old look and smile, I'm not sure but he might
have bent me again to his will, and in time led me further into evil.
He didn't, happily! And oh, it's good for us that things don't always
happen as we'd choose.
But if any more was needed to make me feel quite hopeless and
wretched, it was that sight of Walter, just after leaving Mary,
when mother seemed to have no love left for her Kitty, and everything
was changed.
Doesn't God sometimes strip us for a while of all joy and pleasure,
just to make us turn to Him? I do think He does, when it's needful,
out of His great Fatherly love. And I think it was needful for me.
Nothing less would have brought me to His Feet. So long as I had any
earthly prop to cling to, I would have clung there.
In that lonesome five miles' drive, it seemed as if every prop
was gone.
I don't think I cried. I had shed such lots of tears lately, I must
have pretty near cried them all away. I only sat still, gazing at the
hedges, and wondering if I should ever have any brightness in life
again.
Well, some amount of brightness didn't lie far ahead, but then one
can't see ahead. There's never any knowing what'll come next.
It was raining when I reached the Rectory, and I got out and stood
in the passage as forlorn as could be.
The maid saw my box brought in, and then— "I'll tell my mistress
you've come," says she, and she went off somewhere.
[Illustration: "'I am not making fun of you,' she said, as if afraid
I should be offended at her."]
I wondered how long I should have to wait, and while I was waiting,
a little girl came out through a door.
She was nine years old then, and I never can forget that first sight
of her. She had been dressing up for a game with her brothers, and a
green silk scarf was twisted round her fair hair. It was such a merry
rosy little face, all full of fun and laughter.
When she saw me she didn't turn grave. She came and stood in front
of me, laughing still.
"I'm not making fun of you," she said, as if she was afraid I should
be hurt. "Only we have had such a game, and they took me for
a baboon. Wasn't that comical? As if a baboon could wear a scarf!"
Then a puzzled look came into her eyes.
"Oh, I thought you were somebody else," she said. "I thought it was
nurse's niece. Do you want to see my father or mother?"
"I'm only Kitty Phrynne," I said, for I didn't know what else
to reply.
"Kitty Phrynne!" says she. And such a look of pity and tenderness
came as was wonderful in a child's face. She stopped laughing, and
her eyes were grave in a moment. "Kitty Phrynne! Oh,—I know!"
The sort of sigh between those words! I don't know how it was, but I
felt as if she understood.
"Does mother know you've come?" she asked.
"I think she's been told," I said.
"Yes," —and she stopped. "Mother is busy," —and she stopped again.
"Mother will like me to take care of you. Poor Kitty Phrynne!"
says she, such a soft look in her eyes. "Poor Kitty Phrynne!
I'm Kathleen Withers."
She took hold of my hand, and made me come towards the staircase.
"Miss Kathleen!" says the maid, turning up again. "I was trying
to find you. Mistress is busy for a few minutes, and she says will
you please look after the young person till she can come."
"Yes; of course. It's all right," says the child. "I'm going to take
Kitty Phrynne to her bedroom. And I want her to have some tea,
please, as quick as possible." Then I heard another sigh. "Poor Kitty
Phrynne!" whispered the child.
Wasn't it strange how that comforted me, and took away the lonesome
feeling?