"He that refraineth his lips is wise." — PROV. X. 19.

***

THAT'S what my mother was fond of saying to me. "Least said, soonest mended, Kitty," says she, when people gossiped, or when folks got angry. And, dear me, there's a lot of hot words spoken, and a lot of gossip going on, and no mistake! Anyway, there was in those days when I was a girl. Talk! talk! the neighbours rattling like a set of parrots about anything and nothing. I'll not say either that the men were much better than the women, though there's no doubt they ought to be, seeing man was made superior.

"Least said, soonest mended, Kitty!" says my mother to me many a time, when she thought my tongue had been wagging too fast. Mother was a rare one for silence. Looking back now, I'm sure there's not many like her. She'd go for hours, and be quite content, never saying a word. I don't think she ever did speak just for the sake of speaking, and without a needs-be.

She wasn't dull either. Some silent people are dull; but not mother. For, you see, she didn't keep silent because she never had anything to say; and there was something about her very look that kept people alive.

I think I see her now—middle-aged, and going on for plumpness, with smooth brown hair, and a smooth forehead, and such a pair of quick eyes. Mother's eyes did a lot of speaking, when her lips were silent. Nothing ever escaped those eyes. She didn't always talk about what she saw, and she didn't forget it.

Mother was always neat, as if she had just come out of a band-box. She used to wear a brown stuff gown commonly, after her rough work of a morning was done, and a white apron. Every hour of the day, and every day of the week, had its own work. She never got into a muddle like the neighbours, who were for ever cleaning up, and for ever in a mess: and as for doing her washing "just any day," like them, she would have scorned the thought. I believe things would have been the same with her, if she had had a dozen children, instead of only one girl. But, after all, there's no knowing. It's a wonderful drag on a woman, to have a lot of children, and not enough money or room for the bringing of them up.

Well, I wasn't of mother's way of thinking about talk, for I did like to hear my own voice. Most girls do, I suppose; and it's only natural. But still I might have spared myself many a bother in life, if I had not been so ready with my tongue.

For, after all, the main part of the good and evil that we do in our lives is done with the tongue. Is not that what the Bible means, when it says that the man who can bridle his tongue is a perfect man? I suppose that is the hardest part of what we have to do. Mother must have come near to being a perfect woman, for the control she had over her tongue was something wonderful.

Father liked well enough to talk on occasion, but he was never a mischief-maker, and his tongue was not given to wagging ill-naturedly. Father was one of the kindest of men. I never saw him really out of temper in his life; and that's more than many children can say of their fathers. He was a thoughtful man, and he read a deal; and when he could get a sensible listener, he liked to talk about what he had read.

I am afraid I wasn't much of a listener, for I loved best to talk myself. Mother was always trying to check me; not harshly, but in the way of giving advice, "Waste of breath, Kitty, my dear," she'd say. "Keep your breath to cool your porridge." "Mind you, it's 'least said, soonest mended,' in the long run." "What's said can never be unsaid." And often she'd add— "We've got to give an account, by-and-by, of every idle word we speak. Every single idle word!"

But I don't think I paid heed to what she said. Young folks don't? Everybody has to learn out of his own experience, mostly; for experience can't be passed on from one to another like a sixpence. Perhaps mother pushed things a little too far. She saw the evil of careless talk, and she got to have almost a dread of any talk at all. After all, the power of talking is a gift, and it ought to be rightly used, not left to rust. We have influence over others by means of our talk, and we have to see that the influence isn't cast away, nor made to pull in the wrong direction.

I have spoken of neighbours, though there were no neighbours quite close to us. The nearest row of cottages was three minutes off, round the corner of the road that led from the station to the village. Beyond them came shops and a few other houses. Claxton was a small place, very scattered, and the railway-station was small too. My father was the station-master. A good many trains passed, but not many stopped.

Father had a cottage almost close to the line, and our garden was very gay. Flowers did so well with us—I don't know why, unless it was the soil, and his tending.

I was not an over-indulged child, like many only-children. My father and mother would not let me have my own way wrongly, and I was always made to obey. That's something to be thankful for. Half the misery of many grown-up people comes from their never having learnt to submit in childhood.

But though not indulged, I do think I was rather spoilt; that's to say, I was made too much of, and I got to think myself too important, nobody being to blame particularly.

I suppose there's no denying that I was a pretty girl. I had dark eyes, and short curly brown hair, and a colour that came and went at a word. Then mother had trained me to be as particular as a lady about my dress and hair and hands. That does make a difference, to be sure. Nobody can look nice, if she don't keep her hair in order; and the prettiest girl in the world isn't pretty with a smudge on her cheek.

Father used to call me "his little wild rose," because of my colour and my shy manner; and Rupert used to talk of the way in which I dropped my eyes under their lashes.

Rupert Bowman was our ticket-collector. When I was seventeen, which is the time I am chiefly thinking about, he was over nineteen, not tall, but broad and strong, and a perfect slave to me. He had an honest plain face of his own, and a blunt way of speaking, commonly, which I think came from bashfulness. There wasn't a thing I could not make Rupert do, if I chose. He lived near with his widowed mother, and a sister; and he was in and out among us all day. Father liked Rupert ever so!

But about the spoiling,—I suppose it was a difficult thing to keep clear of. I had been a sickly child, often at home from school; and for years father and mother were in a fright every winter lest they should lose me. At seventeen I was much stronger, and had pretty well outgrown the weakness; but still I did not look strong, and they could not get over the habit of always watching and thinking about me.

It was not my way to be cross-grained and discontented like most spoilt girls. I can remember being pretty nearly always happy. Good spirits are a gift worth having, and I had very good spirits. I liked seeing people, and I liked to know that they counted me pretty and clever. I liked still more to feel that I could make myself loved. People do like that, women more especially, perhaps; and I don't say that the feeling is in itself wrong. Only there is something wrong when a girl gets to be always thinking about herself, and doing everything for the sake of being admired or loved. She may be ever so pleasant, but none the less there's something wrong. One ought to have a better reason for doing.

So I think that on the whole I had more of love and admiration in those days than is wholesome for anybody. The harm did not show itself outwardly, perhaps, but it worked inwardly. Nobody except mother ever crossed me; and she never did it in a sharp or vexing way.

My father's name was James Phrynne. He was an old and trusted servant of the Company; and he had been station-master in Claxton for several years. Mother's name was Jane, and mine was Kate, or Kitty.

I can remember so well one Saturday afternoon in June, that year when I was seventeen years old.

I had been for a walk on the common, which was not fifteen minutes distant from the station. Mother often sent me there "for a blow," if she thought me looking pale. We did get lovely breezes up on the common, that seemed to come straight from the sea, though the sea was miles away. Sometimes I used to fancy I could taste salt on my lips, when the wind blew hard.

I had been all the way across to the other side and back, gathering a great bunch of the wild roses which grew on the hedge surrounding part of the common. Mother was so fond of wild roses.

When I got near home, Rupert came up. He had been to his home for tea, and was on his way back to the station, so he joined me. It was natural he should: he and I were so much together. I had always been fond of Rupert, and he was always good to me. You see, I had no brothers or sisters of my own, and Rupert had only one sickly sister called Mabel,—much too fine a name for such a poor fretful thing!

Not many people cared for Mabel Bowman; and though Rupert was in a way fond of her, he thought much more of me. I think I liked to know this. It was nice to feel that he would do anything in the world for my sake. And yet I should have liked Rupert to be different in many ways from what he was. I used to wish him handsome and clever, instead of plain and awkward and dull. Everybody said he was such a good fellow, and that was true; but I was silly, and cared more for looks.

Still I did not at all mind having him for my humble slave, and being able to order him about.

Well, he came up to me that day, and said something about my bunch of roses.

"They are like you, Kitty," he says.

"I don't see it," said I.

"No, of course you don't; you can't see yourself," Rupert answered humbly, though in a sort of tone as if he was sure. "Look!" and he touched a pink blossom with his big hand.

I snatched it away, for I thought he would crush the delicate thing; and I always did tease Rupert for his clumsiness whenever I had a chance. He didn't seem to mind, commonly.

"Kitty, you needn't be afraid," he said in a hurt voice. "You don't think I'd be rough with anything you care for?"

"I don't know. How can I tell?" I asked. "You needn't handle my roses, any way. Don't you know you always smash whatever you take hold of."

"Not if it's yours, Kitty," says he.

"Oh, that don't make any difference," says I. "It's having such great huge fingers."

"I'd make them small if I could, but I can't," said he dolefully.

"You can't help it, of course; but you can help spoiling my nosegay," I said.

Then I saw he really was put out at what I said, and I peeped up at him under my eyelashes in a way he called shy. It wasn't shy really. I knew I could come round Rupert in a moment with that peep.

"There, never mind," I said; "you needn't care. Nobody is ever cross with me, and you know I don't mean anything."

"There never was anybody like you, Kitty," says he, ready to forgive in a moment.

Then he walked by my side, quite silent for a minute, maybe more. I didn't know what had come over him.

"Kitty," says he at last.

"Yes," says I.

"Kitty," says he, and stuck fast again, for all the world as if he'd got into a slough of despond.

"Well," said I.

"Kitty," says he a third time, and looked as red and sheepish as anything.

"Yes," said I, for there was nothing else to be said.

"Kit—ty," says he a fourth time, very slow, as if he didn't know how to get it out.

And then all of a sudden I began to have a notion what was coming, and I didn't want it to come.

"Oh, look there!" I cried out.

"Where?" says he, and he stared all around.

"There; those clouds," I said. "Oh, look! Aren't they funny? There's one just exactly like a big whale, and a cow running after it, and a mountain beyond. Oh, and a blue pond, and a lot of little fishes in the pond."

"Kitty, do hear; it don't matter about the clouds," says he.

"But you're not looking. Do look," cried I, rattling as fast as I could speak. "Look, it's the very image of a whale. Can't you see?"

"No," says he, staring; "I don't see no whale, nor anything like a whale. There's only a lot of stupid clouds."

"But clouds are not stupid," said I. "Not stupid at all. The clouds are made of water or snow. Father says so. That's where our water comes from. We should be in a nice taking if we never had any clouds, shouldn't we?" and I laughed at him, and ran up a bank to pick a daisy.

"I don't know anything about the clouds, and I don't care," says Rupert. Which was true of him, and true of thousands, and a most amazing thing it is that men don't care to know more about the wonderful things they see every day of their lives. But they don't, and Rupert didn't. "I don't care," says he; "I want to talk about something else—something quite different."

"Then you're not like me, Rupert," I said, sharp enough. "I should like to learn lots of things about the clouds. I want to know what makes them take such pretty shapes, and why the rain stops up there instead of coming down in buckets-full. And—oh dear, there's one of my pretty roses falling to bits. Isn't it a pity?"

Rupert wasn't listening. He had on his sort of bull-dog look, and I knew it meant that he had made up his mind to say his say, and that say it he would, no matter all I could do to hinder.

"It's getting late, and I must make haste home," says I.

"No, Kitty," says he, and he spoke determined-like. "You must hear me;" and he clutched hold of my dress with one hand. "There's something I've got to tell you, and I've been trying the past month, and can't get it out."

"Then don't get it out now; don't, Rupert," I said, stopping because I had to stop, for he stood still. There was nobody but our two selves within sight. "Don't say it, Rupert," I begged.

"But I must, and will," said he; "I can't wait no longer. Kitty, there's only one thing in all the world that I care for, and that is to know—Kitty, hear me—one moment, Kitty—I want you to promise that you'll be my wife some day. Won't you?"

But I snatched my dress from his hand, and set off running.

"Oh, not yet! not yet!" I cried. I had a sort of feeling that some day perhaps it might come about, because I knew father and mother were so fond of Rupert, and Rupert's mother and sisters were so fond of me. I didn't know, though, whether I was willing myself, and anyway I meant to keep my girlhood a little longer. "Oh, not yet! Nothing of that sort yet!" I cried.

Poor Rupert was not the lover I had secretly pictured to myself. I suppose most girls have their little dreams, and I had mine, though I did not waste time reading trashy tales, like many girls, for mother never allowed it. Still I had my little dream, and there was a hero in the dream,—somebody tall and handsome and straight and nice-mannered,— not like Rupert, with his round shoulders, and his shuffling walk, and his slow speech, and his good plain face.

I did not want to distress him by saying "No," outright; and I could not make up my mind to say "Yes." So I only called out, "Oh, not yet!" and ran away. Rupert did not try to overtake me.

Mother was in-doors, mending a coat of father's, when I reached home; and standing in the doorway was one of our neighbours, Mrs. Hammond,—a widow with a lot of children. She was a hardworking woman, and deserving in many ways; but she was a great talker, and mother couldn't bear her. If she had not been very good-natured, she would not often have come to our cottage, for as sure as ever she came she had a snubbing or a cold shoulder.

But I liked Mrs. Hammond, because she was so fond of me. I think I was ready to like anybody in those days, who would give me love, or who would even say pretty things. That's maybe better than to be of a morose habit, caring for nobody; but it has its dangers. I had a loving little heart, and it was easy won, and I was easy led.

When I saw Mrs. Hammond's broad figure in our doorway, with her short skirt looped up, and the black strings of her bonnet falling loose, and one arm held akimbo, as she commonly liked to stand, I made haste to get in before she should leave, and as soon as she set eyes on me, she exclaimed,—

"Here comes our village beauty!"

"Kitty's not such a goose as to believe that," mother says, very short.

"It wasn't I who said it first, I can tell you that," Mrs. Hammond replied. "It was Lady Arthur."

"Stuff and nonsense!" says my mother.

"But it was; and I'm telling you the truth. You don't think I'd make up such a thing, do you?" asked Mrs. Hammond.

Sir Richard and Lady Arthur owned the estate, and spent part of the year at the big house in its big garden, nearly two miles from the station. Mrs. Hammond had once been Lady Arthur's maid. That was many years ago, before Lady Arthur was married, or Mrs. Hammond either; but Lady Arthur was kind to her still, in memory of those days, and sometimes Mrs. Hammond went to tea with the servants at the big house.

"It was Lady Arthur, and no mistake," Mrs. Hammond went on. "The cook told me so herself. She told me Lady Arthur said one day that your Kitty was the prettiest and sweetest girl in the village, and the beauty of the place. Cook says Lady Arthur called her, 'Our village beauty.' That's something to blush for, isn't it, Kitty?"

I suppose I did blush. Mother looked hard at Mrs. Hammond, and then hard at me.

"Kitty has got a pleasant face," she said slowly. "That's not Kitty's doing. It's a gift. I hope she will be thankful for it, as for all other gifts from above. But it won't be a 'sweet' face long, if she takes to being vain and conceited. There's nothing spoils prettiness like thinking a lot about oneself. And you're doing the best you can to make her."

"Kitty's not going to be vain or conceited," said Mrs. Hammond, who, I think, was as surprised as I was at mother's long speech. "Kitty is going to be her dear little humble self. Why, dear me! it don't make a girl conceited to be told she's pretty when she is pretty. Kitty can't help knowing that, every time she looks in the glass. No good comes of denying that white's white, Mrs. Phrynne."

"Nobody need deny it," mother answered; "and no need to talk about it, neither."

"Maybe not; but all the world can't sit mum, for ever and a day," said Mrs. Hammond, with a laugh. "You don't care about looks, do you, Kitty? You're too sensible a girl."

"I don't know," I said. "I shouldn't like to be ugly."

"That's true enough; true of anybody," said Mrs. Hammond, and she laughed again. "Well, you may thank your stars you're not ugly."

Mother lifted her head up again to look at Mrs. Hammond. "No," she said; "it's to be hoped Kitty 'll not do anything so foolish. I hope she will thank God for His gifts. The stars haven't much to do with it, anyway."

Mrs. Hammond had had enough, I suppose, for she said good-bye, and went off, beckoning to me to follow. Mother did not try to keep me back.

"Your mother and I don't get along, somehow," Mrs. Hammond said, as we stood together on the gravel path. The flowers were out in bloom all around us—roses, and pinks, and sweet-williams, not in patches of colour, but all mixed up together. Father took such a pride in his garden; the flowers were his friends and his pets. But we were not thinking about flowers just then. "I don't know why, I'm sure," she went on, "only I don't mean any harm. Lots of people say that, and I'm sure I don't know what the sense of it is; so I suppose the words are silly. But, dear me, one can't be always stopping to weigh every word."

I remember that the text about "every idle word" having to be accounted for, rushed straight into my mind.

"But, of course, your mother likes to know you are admired, Kitty," she went on.

"I don't know. I don't think she does," I said.

"Oh, nonsense! She must. Any mother does. She's only afraid of your being hurt, and it's odd she should, such a humble little thing as you are. If you were like some girls, now! But there, you're a pretty little dear, and the beauty of the village, no matter what anybody says. And now, I've got to be off, and not waste any more time."

I did not go in directly. It was almost time for the afternoon express to go by, and I was not in a hurry for what mother might say. Of course, I knew that Mrs. Hammond was not wise to speak to me as she did; but, all the same, I was pleased, and I did not want to be told that Mrs. Hammond was a silly woman, not worth listening to. So I stayed out a little, lingering about in the sunshine. Mother was busy, and I ought to have been helping her; but I never was fond of work, and I knew she would not mind my having a little more fresh air.

The afternoon express was a favourite of mine. I could not have told why, but it always was, and always had been. It did not stop at our station; none of the fast trains did. I always liked to watch it rushing past, and making a whirl of dust and sticks, and a grand commotion. Ever since I was a little child I always had liked to watch that express, and somehow I never grew tired of it. They used to laugh at my fancy. Father and the men got so used to the trains going by that they didn't even hear them, except when there was need of attending to signals. And when I was busy, I did not hear the other trains either. I never had time to attend to the morning express. The afternoon express came at a time when I was pretty free, and as I say, I had a funny liking for it, almost as if it was a friend of mine.

So I went along the gravel path of our garden that ran parallel with the line, climbing up the gentle slope to the level top of the embankment. The line curved away from our station both ways. The express was to come from the east, on the nearer rails; and there was a pretty sharp ascent going up all the way from our station to the next station in the westerly direction—a sharper ascent than one often sees on a railway. I used often to notice how the trains seemed to labour and drag going that way, and how merrily they would spin down the other way. It made a lot of difference in the amount of coal used.

Well, I reached the end of our little gravel path, walking slowly, with my back to the station, where a gate opened out on a rough path that went along the top of the embankment. I noticed carelessly, as one notices things without much caring, that mother's old red shawl, which father gave her long ago, was lying in a heap on the little bench. Mother must have been out for something with it over her shoulders, for she often felt chilly; and she must have let it drop, and forgotten it.

I went three steps, and picked up the shawl. Then I turned, and looked up and down the rail. In a moment I saw something which filled me with horror. Just where I stood, I could see farther along the line, towards the west and south-west, than any one within the station could see. And my eyes fell upon a big empty truck, slowly running down the nearer rails towards the station—the very rails upon which the express train must almost directly pass.

A little while before, an engine had passed, drawing a large number of empty trucks. These would, I knew, be put upon a siding at the next station, until the express should have gone by. The hindermost empty truck had plainly broken loose from its couplings, and, after coming to a standstill, had begun to run gently down the slope.

There had been worse than carelessness for such a thing to come about. A guard's van has to be always at the end of a train; and for it not to be there is against the law. But in those days folks weren't so careful nor particular as in these; and accidents from carelessness do sometimes happen even now.

If the guard's van had been in its right place, such an accident could never have happened unknown to the guard. The fact was, they had put on two or three empty trucks at the last station before ours, behind the guard's van, in a hurry, thinking it would not matter for just two stations, after which they had to shunt. And here was the consequence!

Nobody had found out yet what had happened. In another half-minute or less it would come within sight of the men, but that would be too late. I knew that the express was close upon due, and it was always punctual. If I ran down to the station to give warning, it would be of no use. All this flashed upon me in a moment. I felt half wild with the awful horror of what was coming. For the express at full speed to dash into the truck must mean death to many.

For one instant I had a frightened childish impulse to drop down and hide my face, and not see nor hear anything. But I did not give in to the wish.

Something had to be done! The question was—what? I looked at the signal-post—yes, the arm was down! The express was coming!

Almost like a voice from heaven, the thought came spinning through my brain of mother's old red shawl.

That was enough! A danger-flag was ready to hand, and I waited for no more. Mother's voice called out to me from the cottage; she said after that she saw me standing and staring, and so white, that she thought me struck for illness, and she was frightened.

But I could not answer or look at her. I rushed headlong through the little gate, and along the path at the top of the embankment, my feet hardly touching the ground. I had been a fast runner at school, and now it seemed as if I were flying. I got farther in those few seconds than I would have thought possible; and I was sobbing for breath, yet still I ran. In those days trains could not be brought to a standstill so quick as they are with the brakes now in use; and all the while the truck was drawing nearer.

There was the train! It seemed to burst upon me all at once, thundering along at an awful pace. And lying a little way ahead was the thing in its path, which meant danger to so many.

Would the driver see me? I felt so small, so puny; and the red shawl was such a little thing to keep off destruction from those scores of people, seated quietly inside, reading, talking, sleeping, little dreaming what threatened them!

I had opened the shawl as I ran, and now I waved it wildly about, jumping up like a mad creature, and doing all I could to draw attention.

In one flash, as it seemed, the train went by. Had they seen me? Had they understood? There were heads enough thrust out of the windows; but how about the two men upon the engine?

That was the most I could do. I felt all at once that I had reached the end of my strength. Everything was spinning, and the rush of the train sounded in the air. I dropped down on my knees, hiding my face in the shawl, sobbing aloud, and stopping my ears; for I could not bear to listen to what might come next.