Chapter 2: A Gold Watch

I DO not know how long I crouched down, huddled together on the ground. It could not have been more than two or three minutes: yet it seemed like an hour to me. Though I stopped both ears, I fancied I heard shrieks: and all at once I could bear the suspense no longer. I felt that I must know the worst.

So I stood up without more ado, and walked back as fast as ever I could to the little gate—which was not very fast, for my legs were swaying under me. Though I had run the distance in almost no time, it seemed long as I came back, and I could hardly drag one foot after the other. I was hugging the red shawl tight in my arms still, though I did not know it.

There was no mistake about the cries which I had fancied I heard with my ears stopped. At least, that might have been fancy, yet the cries were real; and not only cries, but a buzz and rush of voices within the station, as if a crowd of people were talking and asking questions together. I saw that the train was at a standstill, and the hind carriages stood all right upon the rails, not seeming to be injured. That gave me hope that at all events the collision had not been a bad one. I could not see the engine or the foremost carriages yet.

I went straight down through our garden, and into the station from the back. On my way to the platform I took a peep into a little waiting-room, and what I saw stands out always like a picture before me when I think of that day.

Mother was there, quiet as usual, and she held in her hand a white handkerchief with red stains. On the floor, lying flat, was a young woman, dressed in black—rather young, that is to say, though not quite a girl, with shut eyes and a white face, and something red spotting her white lips. A young man stood close to mother, tall and dark-haired, and with such a troubled face!—and the surgeon of Claxton neighbourhood, Mr. Baitson, knelt on the other side of the young woman, stooping over her. I could not see what he was doing, and I did not wait to find out. I had a dread of the sight of blood, and I fled away at once to the platform.

The bustle and confusion there were more than I know how to describe. Everybody seemed to have leaped out of the train the moment it stopped, and everybody was talking. Some were asking questions, and some were angry, and two or three ladies were half fainting, and one was in a fit of shrieking hysterics, with a lot of folks round her. Perhaps she had been so taken by surprise that she could not control herself; but yet I think she need not have screamed so loud.

Nobody noticed me at first, and I stepped into the corner beside the big station-clock, where I stood, quaking still, and glad to lean against the wall.

The engine and truck had met before the train came to a standstill, for the truck was turned half over, twisted round, and thrown partly off the rails. The shock must have been sharp enough to do some damage, and yet it could not be called much of a collision, compared with what it might have been. Strange to say, neither the engine nor any of the carriages had left the rails; and nobody seemed to be much hurt except the one passenger in the waiting-room.

One very stout person near me had put himself into a tremendous rage. He stamped his foot, and was as red as fire; and he stormed at everybody all round in a perfect fury. “It was scandalous!—disgraceful!—atrocious!” he shouted. “Atrocious! disgraceful! scandalous!” He said those words over and over, till I never could hear them since without remembering him.

I was innocent enough to think that he must be some very important man, he made such a fuss. But I might have known better. I learnt later that he was a rich butcher from the next town, who had made his fortune and retired from business. There was a quiet little grey-haired gentleman, going about in the crowd, asking one and another in a soft voice who was hurt; and I never should have guessed him to be an Earl, but he was. The butcher did scolding enough for him and every one.

Then I saw Sir Richard Arthur, and our clergyman, Mr. Armstrong, and a stranger, all three talking with my father in a little group, near to me. Poor father looked terribly pale, as well he might, and Sir Richard was pale too. The stranger was a brother of Sir Richard’s, I soon found, and was one of the Company’s directors, travelling by that train. I heard him say to Mr. Armstrong—

“But who waved the signal which has saved our lives?”

“Nobody seems to know,” was the answer.

Mr. Armstrong was an elderly man, with grey hair and a kind face. He had been Rector in Claxton for many years, and he was like a father to the whole village. As he spoke his eyes fell on me, shrinking into the shadow of the clock, and he said “Kitty!” in a surprised tone.

“Kitty!” my father echoed, and they all turned. I don’t know how it was they guessed the truth at once, but somehow they did. Perhaps it was the red shawl, which I held so fast; perhaps that I was panting still with my run and the fright.

Mr. Armstrong put a hand on my arm, and drew me forward. Rupert told others afterwards that I had my eyes wide open, so as to seem twice their usual size, with a fixed stare like one terror-struck; and no colour was in my cheeks; and my hat had fallen off; and the red shawl was rolled up tight in my arms. I did not see Rupert, but he had that minute found me out.

Father pointed to the shawl, and said again— “Kitty!” He seemed as if he could not say anything else.

“Kitty, my dear, was it you who gave warning?” Mr. Armstrong asked in his fatherly way.

“I saw the truck—” I tried to answer; but my voice sounded queer, and the words would not come rightly. I could not think what was the matter, and I cried “Father!” in a fright.

Somebody handed Mr. Armstrong a glass of water, and he put it to my lips. That took away the parched feeling, and then Rupert came near, and mustered courage to say in his blunt fashion, — “Kitty did it. I saw her on the top of the embankment, running like a hare. I didn’t know what for.”

“Was it you, Kitty?” father asked.

“I saw the truck,” I said; “and I had mother’s shawl; and I ran to meet the express. There wasn’t time for anything else.”

“Brave girl!” “Splendid presence of mind!” I heard them say. Other people came, and the crowd round us grew, and there was a buzz of voices, asking and exclaiming and praising. Sir Richard shook hands with me, and his brother, the director, followed his example, saying, “No doubt many of us owe our lives to this little girl’s promptitude.” I don’t suppose he took me for seventeen.

By that time I had colour enough, and I felt almost as if I could sink into the ground; yet I liked it all, and the words of praise set me into a glow of happiness; for it did seem grand to think that I, little Kitty Phrynne, should have been able to save lives.

Somebody spoke about “wretched mismanagement,” and “arrant carelessness.” And that of course was true enough, though it wasn’t to do with us at Claxton, for the luggage train hadn’t even stopped at our station. But father and the men had noticed the trucks put on behind the guard’s van; and there was a lot of talk about this. I heard the word “illegal” over and over again from the gentlemen, and Mr. Arthur frowned, and said somebody would have to be called to account for that!—which indeed did happen, and more than one man was dismissed, though nobody to do with us.