My Doggie and I, R. M. Ballantyne [top romance novels txt] 📗

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.

In a few minutes she continued—

“Being left alone now with my grandmother, I resolved to go to London and try to find employment in the great city. We had not been long here, and I had not yet obtained employment when an extraordinary event occurred which has ever since embittered my life. I went out for a walk one day, and was robbed.”

“How strange!” I exclaimed, half rising from the sofa. “What a curious coincidence!”

“What! How? What do you mean?” she asked, looking at me in surprise.

“Never mind just now. When I come to tell you my story you will understand. There is a robbery of a young girl in it too.—Go on.—”

“Well, then, as I said, I was robbed by a man and a boy. I had dear little Pompey with me at the time, and that is the way I came to lose him. But the terrible thing was that an accident befell me just after I was robbed, and I never saw my darling grandmother again—”

“Coincidence!” I exclaimed, starting up, as a sudden thought was forced upon my mind, and my heart began to beat violently, “this is more than a coincidence; and yet—it cannot be—pooh! impossible! ridiculous! My mind is wandering.”

I sank back somewhat exhausted, for I had been considerably weakened by my accident. Edith was greatly alarmed at my words and looks, and blamed herself for having talked too much to me in my comparatively weak condition.

“No, you have not talked too much to me. You cannot do that, dear Edie,” I said.

It was now her turn to look bewildered.

“Edie!” she echoed. “Why—why do you call me Edie?”

I covered my eyes with my hand, that she might not see their expression.

“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.

Before another word could be said, a servant entered:—

“Please, Miss Blythe, Doctor McTougall wishes to see you in his study.”

She left us at once.

“Now, Robin,” said I, with emphasis, “sit down on that chair, opposite me, and let’s hear all about it.”

The excited boy obeyed, and Dumps, leaping on another chair beside him, sat down to listen, with ears erect, as if he knew what was coming.

“Oh, sir! you never—such a go!” began Robin, rubbing his hands together slowly as