Pages from a Journal with Other PapersWhite, William Hale
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Pages from a Journal with Other Papers
White, William Hale
English essays
One night I was coming home late and heard the cry of “Fire!” I ran down
the street and found a house in flames. The fire-escape was at the
window, and had rescued a man, his wife and child. Every living creature
was safe, I was told, save a dog in the front room on the ground-floor.
I pushed the people aside, rushed in, half-blinded with smoke, and found
him. I could not escape by the passage, and dropped out of the window
into the area with him in my arms. I fell heavily on _that_ foot, and
when I was helped up the steps I could not put it to the ground. “You
may have him for your pains,” said his owner to me; “he is a useless cur.
I wouldn’t have ventured the singeing of a hair for him.” “May I?” I
replied, with an eagerness which must have seemed very strange. He was
indeed not worth half a crown, but I drew him closely to me and took him
into the cab. I was in great agony, and when the surgeon came it was
discovered that my ankle was badly fractured. An attempt was made to set
it, but in the end it was decided that the foot must be amputated. I
rejoiced when I heard the news, and on the day on which the operation was
performed I was calm and even cheerful. Our own doctor who came with the
surgeon told him I had “a highly nervous temperament,” and both of them
were amazed at my fortitude. The dog is a mongrel, as you see, but he
loves me, and if you were to offer me ten thousand golden guineas I would
not part with him.
LETTERS FROM MY AUNT ELEANOR {180} TO HER DAUGHTER SOPHIA, AND A FRAGMENT
FROM MY AUNT’S DIARY.
January 31, 1837.
MY DEAREST CHILD,—It is now a month since your father died. It was a
sore trial to me that you should have broken down, and that you could not
be here when he was laid in his grave, but I would not for worlds have
allowed you to make the journey. I am glad I forced you away. The
doctor said he would not answer for the consequences unless you were
removed. But I must not talk, not even to you. I will write again soon.
Your most affectionate mother,
ELEANOR CHARTERIS.
* * * * *
February 5, 1837.
Public-domain text, read in full here on John Shaqi.
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