CHAPTER III
A Retrospect
More than thirteen years before this story begins, Miss BarbaraSherbourne happened to be travelling on the Northern Express fromMiddleford to Glasebury. She had chosen a corner of the compartment withher back to the engine, had provided herself with books and papers, hadordered a cup of afternoon tea to be brought from the restaurant carprecisely at four o'clock, and had put a piece of knitting in herhandbag with which to occupy herself in case she grew tired of readingor watching the landscape. After these preparations she anticipated acomfortable journey, and she leaned back in her corner feeling at peacewith herself and all the world. Her fellow-passengers consisted of twoold ladies, evidently returning home after a holiday in the South; amorose-looking man with a bundle of Socialist tracts, and a middle-agedwoman, who, with a baby on her knee, occupied the opposite corner.Nobody spoke a word, except an occasional necessary one about theopening or closing of a window, and all settled down to read books andpapers, or to enjoy the luxury of a snooze while the train sped swiftlynorthwards. The baby was sleeping peacefully, its lips parted, its longlashes resting on its flushed cheeks, and one little hand flung out fromunder the white woolly shawl which was wrapped closely round it. It madea pretty picture as it lay thus, and Miss Sherbourne's eyes returnedagain and again to dwell on the soft lines of the chubby neck anddimpled chin. She was fond of studying her fellow-creatures, and shecould not quite reconcile the appearance of the child with that of thewoman who held it in her arms. The latter was plainly though tidilydressed, and did not look like an educated person. There was nothing ofrefinement in her face: the features were heavy, the mouth even a triflecoarse. Her gloveless hands were work-worn, and her wedding ring was ofa cheap gold. The general impression she gave was that of a superiorworking woman, or the wife of a small tradesman. The baby did notresemble her in the least: it was fair, and pretty, and daintily kept,its bonnet and coat and the shawl in which it was wrapped were of finestquality, and the tiny boot that lay on the carriage seat was a silk one.
Miss Barbara could not help speculating about the pair. She amusedherself first with vainly trying to trace a likeness, then withwondering whether the woman were really the mother of the child, and ifso, how she managed to dress it so well, and whether she realized thatits clothes looked out of keeping with her own attire. Finally she gaveup guessing, in sheer despair of arriving at any possible conclusion.
The train had been ten minutes late in starting, and was making up forlost time by an increase in speed as it dashed across a tract ofmoorland. The oscillation was most marked, and walls and telegraph postsseemed to fly past so quickly as to dazzle the sight. Miss Sherbourneclosed her eyes; the whirling landscape made her head ache, and theswaying of the carriage had become very unpleasant. She took hold of thestrap to steady herself, and was debating whether it would be better toclose the rattling window, when, without further warning, there came asudden and awful crash, the impact of which hurled the baby on to herknee, and telescoped the walls of the compartment. For a few seconds shewas stunned with the shock. When she recovered consciousness she foundherself lying on her side under a pile of wreckage, instinctivelyclutching the little child in her arms. She moved her limbs cautiously,and satisfied herself that she was unhurt; part of the roof had fallenslantwise, and by so doing had just saved her from injury, penning herin a corner of the overturned carriage. The smashed window wasunderneath, about eighteen inches above the ground, for the train intoppling over had struck a wall, and lay at an inclined angle.
From all around came piteous groans and cries for help, but MissSherbourne could see nobody, the broken woodwork cutting her offcompletely from the rest of the compartment. The baby in her arms wasscreaming with fright. Fortunately for herself, she preserved presenceof mind and a resourceful brain. She did not lose her head in thisemergency, and her first idea was to find some means of escape. Shestretched out her hand and broke away the pieces of shivered glass tillthe window beneath her was free; then, still clasping the child, shemanaged to crawl through the opening on to the line below. So narrow wasthe space between the ground and the wreckage above her that she wasforced to lie flat and writhe herself along. It was a slow and painfulprogress, and the light was so dim that she could scarcely see, while atany moment she expected to find her way blocked by fallen woodwork. Yetthat was her one chance of safety, and at any cost she must persevere.She never knew how far she crawled; to her it seemed miles, thoughprobably it was no greater distance than the length of the carriage: butat last she spied daylight, and, struggling through a hole above herhead, she climbed over the ruins of a luggage compartment, and so on tothe bank of grass edging the line.
The wind was blowing strongly over the moor, so strongly that she haddifficulty in keeping her feet as she staggered into the shelter of thewall. The scene before her was one of horror and desolation. She saw atonce the cause of the accident--the express had dashed into an advancingtrain, and the two engines lay smashed by the terrific force of thecollision. A few passengers who, like herself, had managed to make theirescape stood by the line--some half-dazed and staring helplessly, othersalready attempting to rescue those who were pinned under the wreckage.The guard, his face livid and streaming with blood, was running to thenearest signal box to notify the disaster, and some labourers werehurrying from a group of cottages near, bringing an axe and a piece ofrope. To the end of her life Miss Barbara will never recall without ashudder the pathetic sights she witnessed as the injured were draggedfrom the splintered carriages. But the worst was yet to come. Almostimmediately a cry of "Fire!" was raised, and the flames, starting fromone of the overturned engines and fanned by the furious wind, gained afierce hold on the broken woodwork, which flared up and burned liketinder.
"Come awa'!" screamed a countrywoman, seizing Miss Sherbourne almostroughly by the arm. "You with a bairn! Bring it to our hoose yonder outo' the wind. The men are doing a' they can, and we canna help 'em. It'sno fit sight for women. Come, I tell ye! Th' train's naught but ablazin' bonfire, and them as is under it's as good as gone. Don't look!Don't look! Come, in the Lord's name!"
"Then may He have mercy on their souls!" said Miss Barbara, as withbowed head she allowed herself to be led away.
The news of the accident was telegraphed down the line, and as speedilyas possible a special train, bearing doctors and nurses, arrived on thespot. The sufferers were carried to the little village of Greenfield,close by, and attended to at once, some who were well enough to travelgoing on by a relief train, while others who were more seriously injuredremained until they could communicate with their friends. The fire,meanwhile, had done its fatal work, and little was left of any of thecarriages but heaps of charred ashes. Those who had escapedcomparatively unhurt had, with the aid of the few farm labourers whowere near at the time, worked with frantic and almost superhumanendeavour to rescue any fellow-passengers within their reach; but theyhad at last been driven back by the fury of the flames and forced toabandon their heroic task. No one could even guess the extent of thedeath roll. From the extreme rapidity with which the fire had takenhold and spread, it was feared that many must have perished under thewreckage, but their names could not be ascertained until the news of thedisaster was spread over the country, and their friends reported them asmissing.
Twenty-four hours later Miss Barbara Sherbourne sat in the parlour ofthe Red Lion Hotel at Greenfield. She had remained there partly becauseshe was suffering greatly from shock, and partly because she feltresponsible for the welfare of the little child whom she had been ableto save. The account of its rescue was circulated in all the morningpapers, so she expected that before long some relation would arrive toclaim it. The woman who had accompanied it was not among the list of therescued, and Miss Barbara shuddered afresh at the remembrance of theburning carriages.
"It's a bonnie bairn, too, and takes wonderful notice," said Martha,Miss Sherbourne's faithful maid, for whom she had telegraphed. "Those towhom it belongs will be crazy with joy
to find it safe. Dear, dear! Tothink its poor mother has gone, and to such an awful death!"
The baby girl was indeed the heroine of the hour. The story of herwonderful escape appealed to everybody; newspaper reporters tooksnapshots of her, and many people begged to be allowed to see her out ofsheer curiosity or interest. So far, though she had been interviewedalmost continuously from early morning, not one among the numbers whovisited her recognized her in the least. Fortunately she was of afriendly disposition, and though she had had one or two good cries, sheseemed fairly content to be nursed by strangers, and took readily to thebottle that was procured for her. At about six o'clock Miss Barbara andMartha sat alone with her in the inn parlour. The afternoon train haddeparted, bearing with it most of yesterday's sufferers and theirfriends, so it was hardly to be expected that any more visitors wouldarrive that evening. The baby sat on Miss Barbara's knee, industriouslyexercising the only two wee teeth it possessed upon an ivory needlecasesupplied from Martha's pocket. Outside the light was fading, and rainwas beginning to fall, so the bright fire in the grate was the moreattractive.
"I'm glad we didn't attempt to go home to-night, Martha," said MissSherbourne. "I expect I shall feel better to-morrow, and I shall leavemuch more comfortably when this little one has been claimed. No doubtsomebody will turn up for her in the morning. It's too late for anyoneelse to come to-day."
"There's a carriage arriving now," replied Martha, rising and going tothe window. "Somebody's getting out of it. Yes, and she's coming inhere, too, I verily believe."
Martha was not mistaken. A moment afterwards the door was opened, andthe landlord obsequiously ushered in a stranger. The lady was young, andhandsomely dressed in deep mourning. Her face was fair and pretty,though it showed signs of the strongest agitation. She was deadly pale,her eyes had a strained expression, and her lips twitched nervously.Without a word of introduction or explanation she walked straight to thechild, and stood gazing at it with an intensity which it was painful tobehold, catching her breath as if speech failed her.
"Do you recognize her?" asked Miss Barbara anxiously, turning hernursling so that the light from the lamp fell full on its chubby face.
"No! No!" gasped the stranger. "I don't know it. I can't tell whose itis in the least."
She averted her face as she spoke; her mouth was quivering, and herhands trembled.
"You've lost a baby of this age in the accident, maybe?" enquiredMartha.
"No; I have lost nobody. I only thought--I expected----" She spokewildly, almost hysterically, casting swift, uneasy glances at the child,and as quickly turning away her eyes.
"You expected?" said Miss Sherbourne interrogatively, for the strangerhad broken off in the middle of the sentence.
"Nothing--nothing at all! I'm sorry to have troubled you. I must go atonce, for my carriage is waiting."
"Then you don't know the child?"
"I don't," the stranger repeated emphatically; "not in the slightest. Itell you I have never seen it in my life before!"
She left the room as abruptly as she had entered, without even thecivility of a good-bye; addressed a few hurried words in a low tone tothe landlord in the hall, then, entering her conveyance, drove off intothe rapidly gathering darkness.
"There's something queer about her," said Martha, watching the departureover the top of the short window blind. "She was ready to take her oaththat she'd never set eyes on the child before, but the sight of it senther crazy. Deny what she may, if you ask me, it's my firm opinion shewas telling a lie."
"Surely no one would refuse to acknowledge it!" exclaimed Miss Barbara."She seemed so terribly agitated and upset, she must have expected tofind some other baby, and have been disappointed."
"Disappointed!" sniffed Martha scornfully. "Aye, she was disappointed atfinding what she expected. Agitated and upset, no doubt, but the troublewas, she knew the poor bairn only too well."
In spite of the publicity given by the newspapers, no friends turned upto claim the little girl. Nobody seemed to recognize her, or was able tosupply the least clue to her parentage. It was impossible even toascertain at what station the woman, presumably her mother, had joinedthe train. She was already settled in the corner when Miss Sherbourneentered the compartment, and though a description of her was circulated,none of the porters remembered noticing her particularly. All thecarriages had been full, and there had been several other women withyoung children in the accident. Any luggage containing papers orarticles which might have led to her identification had been destroyedin the fire. The baby's clothing was unmarked. Day after day passed, andthough many visits were paid and enquiries made, the result wasinvariably the same, and in a short time popular interest, alwaysfleeting and fickle, died completely away.
After staying nearly a fortnight at the Red Lion Hotel, in the hope thatthe missing relatives might come at last to the scene of the disaster,Miss Sherbourne returned to her own home, taking with her the childwhich so strange a chance had given into her charge. For some monthsshe still made an endeavour to establish its identity; she putadvertisements in the newspapers and enlisted the services of thepolice, but all with no avail: and when a year had passed she realizedthat her efforts seemed useless. Her friends urged her strongly to sendthe little foundling to an orphanage, but by that time both she andMartha had grown so fond of it that they could not bear the thought of aparting.
"I'll adopt her as my niece, if you're willing to take your share of thetrouble, Martha," said Miss Barbara.
"Don't call it trouble," returned Martha. "The bairn's the very sunshineof the house, and it would break my heart if she went."
"Very well; in future, she's mine. I shall name her Dorothy Greenfield,because Dorothy means 'a gift of God', and it was at Greenfield that theaccident occurred. I feel that Fate flung her into my arms that day, andsurely meant me to keep her. She was a direct 'gift', so I accept theresponsibility as a solemn charge."
Miss Sherbourne's decision met with considerable opposition from herrelations.
"You're quixotic and foolish, Barbara, to think of attempting such athing," urged her aunt. "It's absurd, at your age, to saddle yourselfwith a child to bring up. Why, you may wish to get married!"
"No, no," said Miss Barbara hastily, her thoughts on an old heartachethat obstinately refused to accept decent burial; "that will neverbe--now. You must not take that contingency into consideration at all."
"You may think differently in a year or two, and it would be cruelty tothe child to bring her up as a lady and then hand her over to aninstitution."
"I should not do her that injustice. I take her now, and promise to keepher always."
"But with your small means you really cannot afford it."
"I am sure I shall be able to manage, and the child herself issufficient compensation for anything I must sacrifice; she's a companionalready."
"Well, I don't approve of it," said Aunt Lydia, with disfavour. "If youwant companionship, you can always have one of your nieces to stay aweek or two with you."
"It's not the same; they have their own homes and their own parents, andare never anything but visitors at my house. However fond they may be ofme, I feel I am only a very secondary consideration in their lives. Ican't be content with such crumbs of affection. Little Dorothy seemsentirely mine, because she has nobody else in the world to love her."
"Then you actually intend to assume the full responsibility of hermaintenance, and to educate her in your own station--a child sprung fromwho knows where?"
"Certainly. I shall regard her absolutely as my niece, and I shallnever part with her unless someone should come and show a higher rightthan mine to claim her."
Having exhausted all their arguments, Miss Sherbourne's relatives gaveher up in despair. She was old enough to assert her own will and manageher own affairs, and if she liked to spend a large proportion of herscanty income on bringing up a foundling,--well, she need not expect anyhelp from them in the matter. They ignored the child, and never asked itto their h
ouses, refusing to recognize that it had any claim to betreated on an equality with their own children, and disapproving fromfirst to last of the whole proceeding.
It was part of Miss Barbara's plan to let little Dorothy grow up incomplete ignorance of her strange history. She did not wish her torealize that she was different from other children, or to allow anyslight to be cast upon her, or any unkind references made to herdependent position. For this reason she removed into Yorkshire, andsettled down at the village of Hurford, where the circumstances of thecase were not known, and Dorothy could be received as her niece withoutquestion. She left the little girl at home with Martha when she went tostay with her relations, whom she succeeded in influencing so far thatshe persuaded them to refrain from all allusions to Dorothy's parentagewhen they paid return visits to Holly Cottage. Dorothy had oftenwondered why Aunt Lydia and Aunt Constance treated her so stiffly, but,like most children, she divided the world into nice and nasty people,and simply included them in the latter category, without an inkling ofthe real reason for their coldness. That she was never asked to theirhomes did not trouble her in the least; she would have regarded such avisit as a penance. Martha kept the secret rigidly. In her blunt,uncompromising fashion she adored the child, and was glad to have her inthe house. Though she did not spare scoldings, and enforced a rigorousdiscipline concerning the kitchen regions, she looked after Dorothy'swelfare most faithfully, especially during Miss Sherbourne's absence,and always took the credit for having a half-share in her upbringing.
And now more than thirteen years had passed away, and the chubby babyhad grown into a tall girl who must be verging upon fourteen. Time,which had brought a line or two to Miss Barbara's face, and a chancegrey thread among her brown locks, had also brought her a modest measureof success. She had always possessed a taste for literary work, and inthe quiet village of Hurford she had been able to write undisturbed. Herarticles, reviews, and short stories appeared in various magazines andpapers, and by this method of adding to her income she had been able tosend Dorothy to Avondale College. It was quite an easy journey by trainfrom Hurford to Coleminster, and the school was considered one of thebest in the north of England. The girl had been there for four years,and had made satisfactory progress, though she had not shown a decidedbent for any special subject. What her future career might be, Fate hadyet to determine.