by Ellen Wood
There was no impediment offered to her entering the station. Several persons were standing about, but they did not appear to notice her, and she passed through the room where the tickets were given, on to the platform. There she found herself in the midst of a crowd. Not a moving crowd but a waiting crowd, whose faces ‘were mostly turned one way — that by which the expected train ought to come. Sara saw a talkative porter, and got near him, a man she knew.
“Has there been an accident?” she asked.
“Well, miss, there’s nothing known for certain. It’s odd where the train can be; and if anything has happened, it’s odder still that the telegraph haven’t brought word of it. I remember once she was half an hour late before.”
“Who was?” asked Sara, bewildered.
“This here seven o’clock train. ‘Twarn’t nothing wrong with her then; some of them bothering excursion-trains had blocked up the line. I’d lay, miss, it’s the same thing to-night. The doctor ain’t gone down the line, is he?”
“No, no. I am expecting my cousin and Mr. Cray.”
“It’ll be all right, miss. She won’t be long. We shall hear her steam directly.”
Somewhat reassured, Sara turned, and was pushing her way through the throng, wishing to get clear of it, when she found herself a sort of prisoner. A gentleman had placed his arm before her, and looking up in the moonlight she discerned the features of Oswald Cray. Her heart gave a great bound of satisfaction, of love, and she almost caught at his protecting hand.
It was a curious and exciting scene. The station raising its imposing height to the night sky, so blue and beautiful; the crowd gathered there, unnaturally still in the intensity of awed expectation; the lights and bustle of the town not far away; the noiseless tread of the porters, as they moved restlessly in their suspense; — all made a painfully interesting picture in the bright moonlight.
Oswald Cray was waiting for the in-coming train. It was the one he intended to depart by. He drew Sara away from the throng, and gave her his arm. Her heart was beating at the consciousness of his presence; her whole frame had thrilled at the touch of his hand.
“Is there danger, do you fear?” she whispered.
“No, I trust not I think not. Were anything wrong, the telegraph would have brought the news. It must be some obstruction on the line.”
Sara’s fear faded away. She had confidence in him. If he, so experienced, the line’s own engineer, saw no cause for dread, why should she? Perhaps she could not quite banish one little corner of doubt in her heart; perhaps Mr. Oswald Cray might have some slight corner of fear himself, which he did not deem it expedient to impart to her.
“Did you get frightened, Sara?” he asked, as they walked slowly to and fro in the moonlight.
“I was at the Abbey waiting for them, and Dorcas, one of their new servants, came to me with the news that people in the street were saying there had been an accident. I was very much frightened and came away; ran away, I may say,” she added, smiling, “without saying anything to Aunt Bettina.”
“Is she at the Abbey?”
“She has just come. She expected they had returned.”
“I fear Lady Oswald is waiting for this train at Hildon,” he remarked. “She will not like the delay.”
“Indeed! Lady Oswald at Hildon!”
He explained to her how it was: that Lady Oswald had gone to Mr. Low’s, and was not yet back. “Did you know that I called at your house this afternoon?” he asked.
“No,” she said, lifting her head. “Did you call?”
“It was about five o’clock. I have been very busy all day, but I managed to get a minute. You were out, Neal said, and the doctor was out; only Miss Davenal at home, so I did not go in.”
“I had come down to the Abbey,” said Sara. “I thought they might arrive by an earlier train than this. Are you obliged to go back to London to-night?”
“Quite obliged, if the train shall arrive to take me. What’s that?” —
Some stir was discernible in the throng. Oswald Cray held his breath, listening for any sound that might indicate the approach of the train; but in the distance he could hear nothing, and the stir, caused perhaps only by the restlessness of waiting, died away. They paced on again.
“Since I saw you, Sara, I have had an offer made me of going abroad.”
“To stay long?” she quickly asked. “Where to?”
“To stay a long while, had I accepted it; perhaps for life. In a pecuniary point of view the change would have been an advantageous one: it would have given me a position at once. But the climate is shocking; so I declined.”
“Oh, I am glad?” she involuntarily said. “You should not run any of those risks.”
“I did not hesitate on my own score. At least, I am not sure that I should have hesitated, but I really did not think of myself at all in the matter. I did not get so far. I should not like to have gone out alone, Sara: and I felt that I had no right to expose another to these chances; one whom I should then be bound to protect and cherish, so far as man’s protection goes, from all ill.”
He spoke in what may be called general words, in a general tone, but it was impossible for Sara to misunderstand him. Every pulse within her beat in answer, quietly as she continued to walk, calmly as her eyes rested straight before her. She knew it was his intention not to speak openly, until he could speak to some purpose: and she thought he was right.
“So I resolved to continue where I am, and plod on diligently,” he continued. “Advancement, though more slow, will be sure. Do you think I did right?”
“Quite right, quite right,” she murmured. And, had they been speaking without reserve to each other, she might have added, “Papa would not like me to go abroad.”
A silence ensued. ‘ They paced together in that quiet spot away from the busy crowd, the silvery moonlight above, the pure passion of love’s first dream filling their hearts within. No need of words: the conscious presence of each was all in all.
“Where can this train be?” exclaimed Oswald at length, breaking the charm of the silence.
Almost as the words left his lips one of the porters came hurriedly up, touching his hat as he spoke.
“There has been a mistake in the telegraph-room, sir. Leastways, some bungle. The train was telegraphed from Hildon.”
A moment’s startled pause on the part of Oswald Cray.
“It was told to me positively that the train had not left, Parker?”
“I know, sir; we all understood it so. But James Eales is come back now, and he says we misunderstood him; that the train was telegraphed at the proper time. There’s an accident, sir, for certain; and it’s between this and Hildon.”
“I think there must be a mistake,” murmured Oswald Cray to Sara. “Stay here quietly, away from the crowd.”
Giving no further satisfaction to her fears — indeed he could not give it — he walked hastily to the small room used as the telegraph office. The news which the porter had brought to him was spreading elsewhere, and the entrance to it was blocked up with an eager throng. He began to work his way through.
“By your leave, by your leave, good people.” And they drew aside so as to give room for him to pass when they saw who it was. Mr. Oswald Cray’s right of authority, as being superior to that of any at the station, was known and recognised.
The telegraph clerk was a young man named James Eales. It was his duty to receive the messages, and in due course he ought to have received the one from Hildon, signifying that the expected train (called in familiar terms at Hallingham the seven o’clock train, although it came in five minutes sooner) had duly quitted Hildon. This message was due somewhere about twenty-three minutes to seven, and it came this evening as usual quite punctually. No sooner had it been received than James Eales, who wanted to absent himself for a short while on an errand to the town, asked one of the men to take his place. Other messages might be expected relating to the trains, not to speak of private messages, always liable to come;
and the man took the place accordingly. As Eales was going out, the man, whose name was Williams, called after him to know whether the train was signalled. Eales thought he meant the down-train, whose signal was nearly due, and replied, “No, not yet.” But in point of fact Williams had alluded to the up-train from Hildon, which had been signalled. That man was an accurate time-keeper; it wanted two or three minutes yet to the signalling of the down-train, and he would not have been likely, from this very accuracy, to inquire whether that message had come, it not being due. Eales, who did not possess the like innate accuracy, and was besides in a hurry to depart, confused the question, and took it to allude to the down-train. It is through these mistakes, which are caused half by carelessness, half by what may be almost called unavoidable misapprehension, that accidents occur. It did not lead to the accident in this case, but it has led to many a one. Williams ought to have said, “Is the up-train signalled?” Saying what he did say, “Is the train signalled?” Eales should have answered, “The up-train is signalled; not the down.” Williams sat down to the desk or bureau, the telegraph indicator being in front of him, above his head. Precisely to time the down telegraph came, a confirmation it may almost be said of the mistake. Williams noted it, and wondered what the up-train was about that its signal did not likewise come. After seven o’clock came and passed, and the up-train did not arrive, the station-master, who had been enjoying a little recreative gossip on his own score, and not attending to his duties quite as closely as he might have been, made his appearance in the telegraph office.
“Where’s James Eales?” he demanded.
Williams explained. He had stepped out on an errand, and he, Williams, was taking his place. The station-master made no demur to this: Williams was as capable as Eales, and often worked the telegraph.
“Has the up-train been signalled from Hildon?”
“No, sir.”
“Not been signalled!” echoed the station-master, in an accent of disbelief. —
“It has not been signalled for certain,” was the reply of Williams! “Eales told me the signal had not come when he left, and I am sure it has not come since.”
“Where can it be?” exclaimed the station-master. “I suppose some of those monster excursion-trains are blocking up the line somewhere.”
A consolatory conclusion, quite doing away with uneasiness or fear. The station-master promulgated the news that the train had not been signalled from Hildon, together with his own suggestive idea of the offending excursion-trains. He told Mr. Oswald Cray it had not been signalled, and he told others: therefore the officials were perfectly at their ease upon the point, whatever the assembled crowed might be.
It was just five-and-twenty minutes past seven when Eales returned. He had stayed longer than he intended, and he clashed into his office head foremost, catching a glimpse of the crowd on the platform, now quickly increasing.
“What do they want, that lot?” he cried to Williams. “Is anything wrong?”
“They are waiting for the up-train. It’s preciously behind time to-night, and I suppose some of them are alarmed — have got friends in it, maybe.”
“What up-train?” asked Eales.
“The seven o’clock up-train to London.”
Eales stood confounded. “Why, is that not come up? An accident must have happened.”
“Not obliged to,” coolly returned Williams. “It’s kept back by the excursion-trains, most likely.”
“There are no excursion-trains to-day between this and Hildon,” quickly observed Eales.
“It has not got so far yet It has not passed Hildon.”
“It has passed Hildon,” replied Eales. “It passed at its proper time, and was signalled up.”
Williams turned and stared at Eales with all his might “Who says it has been signalled up?”
“Who says it! Why, I say it. I got the signal as usual.”
“Then how came you to tell me you hadn’t had it?” asked Williams.
“I never told you so.”
“You did. You’ll say black’s white next. It was the only question I asked you — whether the up-train had been signalled, and you replied it had not been.”
“You said the down-train: you never said the up.”
“I meant the up. It’s not likely I should ask whether the down-train was signalled, when it wasn’t near due! You have done a pretty thing!”
How long they might have continued to dispute, one seeking to lay the blame upon the other, it is impossible to say. But at that moment the station-master came in again, and the mistake was made known to him and to others. The train had left Hildon at its proper time, and therefore the delay, whatever might be its cause, lay very near to them — in the six miles of rail intervening between Hallingham and Hildon; the train must be on some spot of it That an accident of some nature had taken place, the most sanguine could now only believe, and a whole shower of verbal missives was hurled upon the two men, Eales and Williams, who did nothing but retort on each other. Each firmly regarded the other as being alone in fault; an impartial judge would have said they were equally culpable. Extricating himself from the confusion, Mr. Oswald Cray returned to Sara. She looked at him with questioning eyes, her heart shrinking; that hubbub in the station had reawakened her fears. He quietly placed her hand within his arm, and began to pace as before.
“I find things do not look quite so well as we fancied” —
“There has been an accident!” she interrupted. “Do not hide it from me, Oswald.” —
He lightly laid his other hand on hers, an assurance of his truth. “I will hide nothing from you, my dearest,” and the never-yet-used term of endearment seemed to slip from him involuntarily, in the moment’s need that he should soothe her. “We have not beard that there is any accident, for no tidings of any sort have come up; but the train, it seems, did leave Hildon at its usual time, and something must therefore have occurred to delay it.”
A deep, sobbing sigh nearly broke from her, but she coughed it down.
“Do not meet trouble half-way,” he said in a lighter tone. “It does not follow that an accident, in the popular sense of the term, must have occurred, because the train is not up. The engine may have broken down and be unable to come on, but the passengers may be as safe and well as we are. There’s no doubt the engine is disabled, or it would have come on for assistance.”
“Assistance for the wounded?” she quickly rejoined.
“Assistance that may be wanted in any way. The telegraph is at work to stop all trains, and some of us are going down” —
It was the last collected word they were enabled to speak. The news had spread in the town, and the affrighted people were coming up in shoals. News, at the best, loses nothing in carrying, and the delay was magnified into a dreadful accident, with half the train killed. In the midst of it the guard of the missing train arrived, flying up the line as if for his life, and carrying a lantern.
The engine had run off the line on to the bank, and turned over. A few of the passengers were injured, but he thought not many; some of them were coming on, the field way. It had occurred about midway between the two stations, a little nearer to Hallingham than to the other. An engine was wanted to bring on the train, and it might be as well if a doctor or two went down.
This was the climax for the affrighted crowd, and those who had relatives in the train seemed to well-nigh lose their senses. A scene of inextricable confusion ensued. Some were restrained by force from jumping on the line and setting off to the scene of accident; some strove to get upon the carriage and engine about to start for it. Order was restored with great difficulty, and the carriage and engine rescued from the invaders, who then quitted the station, and set off to run to the scene, through the same fields that, as the guard said, passengers were advancing.
Two medical men, who had been hastily obtained, Mr. Oswald Cray, and sundry officials of the line, took their seats in the carriage to be conveyed to the spot. The engine had given its fir
st puff, and was snorting off, when a loud shout arrested it “Stop! stop! One single moment! Here’s Dr. Davenal!” His name, for those poor wounded ones, was a tower of strength — worth all the rest of the surgical skill in Hallingham — and he was pulled into the carriage, having caught a glimpse of the white face, of his daughter outside the throng. Sara, terrified and bewildered, wondering what she should do next, was suddenly pounced upon by Miss Davenal.
“You naughty girl! What is it that you are doing here?”
“O Aunt Bettina, there has been an accident to the train! Caroline and Mr. Cray are sure to be in it.”
“Caroline and Mr. Cray are what?” cried out Miss Bettina.
“I fear they are in the train. There has been an accident between here and Hildon. An engine has just gone down with assistance.”
“I don’t want to know about engines,” returned Miss Davenal, who had not understood one word in ten. “I ask what you do here alone? Caroline and Mr. Cray can come home, I suppose, without your waiting for them in this public manner. What would your papa say if he saw you?”
“Papa has seen me,” replied Sara. “Papa has just come up to the station and is gone down with the engine.”
“Gone down with what engine? What do you mean?”
Sara put her lips close to Miss Davenal’s ear. “Papa’s gone down the line with some more gentlemen, to see about the wounded.”
“Wounded!” shrieked Miss Bettina. “Has there been an accident? Who’s wounded? Caroline and Mr. Cray?”
“We don’t know yet, aunt” And in the best way that she could, Sara strove to make the case comprehensible to her aunt Miss Davenal understood at last, and was somewhat mollified.
“Sara, I am not very angry with you now. I might have stopped myself. An accident to the train, and the doctors gone down! O those dreadful railways!”
A little longer of suspense, and then the passengers began to arrive. After the shock and fright, it had seemed safer to many of them to walk the three miles of distance than to trust to the rail again and another engine. The path fields were dry, and it was a pleasant walk by moonlight Miss Bettina, whose eyes were as quick as her hearing was dull, was the first to recognise Mrs. Cray amidst them.
