WAITING FOR NEWS.
Mark Cray and his wife had not indicated the precise hour of their
return: "early in the evening, but not to dinner; have tea ready," had
been Mrs. Cray's words to her servants in the letter received by them
on Friday morning. Sara Davenal went to the Abbey about five o'clock
to wait for them.
Mark and Caroline were beginning as prudently as their best friends
could desire; two maid-servants only, engaged under the careful eye of
Miss Bettina, comprised their household. The large heavy door of the
Abbey opened to a large stone hall; on the left of this was a large
sitting-room, with cross-beams in its ceiling and deep-mullioned
windows, looking on to the branching lines of rails and the station in
the distance; not so pleasant a view as had been the gay Abbey
gardens. Indeed, with the doing away of those gardens, the pleasantest
part of the Abbey as a residence, had gone. It was a rambling sort of
place inside, with very little comfort. This room and the drawing-room
above were the only good-sized rooms in the house; four modern rooms
might have been put into that drawing-room, and what its carpeting
had cost was something to be talked of. The bedchambers were
pigeon-holes, the domestic offices dark closets paved with stone; in
short the Abbey was a grander place in sound than it was pleasant for
use. The Crays, who had lived in it so long, were party-giving people,
thinking more of show than comfort; the pigeon-holes were good enough
for them; the dark stone kitchens might be made the best of by the
servants; the great drawing-room, larger than anybody else's in
Hallingham, gladdened their hearts. It was certainly an imposing room
when filled with company and lights.
Sara Davenal waited and waited in the downstairs room. She had taken
off her things, and made herself at home. Her dress was of dark-blue
silk, the bands of her brown hair were smooth and silken, and
excitement had brought a colour to her cheeks. She had never before
been parted from Caroline since the latter arrived, years ago, from
the West Indies. The tea was on the table in readiness, with a cold
fowl and tongue, thoughtfully ordered to be provided by Miss Davenal.
Five o'clock; half-past five; six o'clock; half-past six; seven
o'clock; and still they had not come. Sara grew impatient--it is of no
use to deny it--and blamed them for want of punctuality. They had not
bargained for her feverish longing.
She stood at the window, looking still, as she had done since five
o'clock. It had grown into night since she stood there; would have
grown to dark, but for the brilliant moon that lighted the heavens. A
servant came in.
"Shall I bring lights, miss?"
"Not yet. I want to watch for the train."
The maid retired. Sara waited on--waited and waited, until she
felt sure that it must be half-past seven; but then she was counting
time by her own impatience, not by the clock. Her eyes began to grow
weary with the intense and incessant gaze at the station, and she
could see a good many people standing at its entrance in the
moonlight--stragglers, no doubt, waiting for the train, wondering,
like herself, that it was not in, and what had become of it.
As she thus stood, there was a loud ring at the dour-bell. Sara flew
into the hall in glee, thinking how stupid she must have been not to
observe them crossing the bridge round by the lines; flew into the
hall, and was met by her aunt.
Miss Davenal! when she had expected the bridegroom and bride! but Sara
had to make the best of it, and she did so in her pleasing, graceful
manner, drawing her aunt in by the hand to the dark room.
"They have not come yet, Aunt Bettina."
"Whatever's the meaning of this?" was the surprised question of Miss
Davenal. "All in the dark? and where are they?"
"They have not come yet," repeated Sara. "Bring the lights," she added
in a low voice to the servant.
"Not come! Where are they stopping?"
"The train is not in, Aunt Bettina."
"The what's not in?"
"The train."
"Why, what has come to it?"
Miss Bettina, all amazed, and scarcely believing the information, went
hastily to the window, and looked towards the station. At that moment
the other servant, Dorcas, came into the room. She was not a stranger
to the family, having once lived with Miss Davenal, before that lady
took up her abode with her brother. Dorcas was getting on to be
middle-aged,--a sensible-looking woman, with a turned-up nose and
reddish hair.
"Miss Sara," she whispered, "they are saying there's been an accident
to the train."
Sara Davenal's heart seemed to stand still and then bound on again as
if it would break its bounds.
"Who says it?" she gasped.
"I saw the folks standing about, and talking one to the other; so I
opened my kitchen winder, and asked what was amiss, and they said the
seven o'clock train was not in, that it had met with an accident. Miss
Sara"----
But Miss Sara had turned from her. Silently snatching her shawl and
bonnet from the sofa where she had laid them, she quitted the room,
the unconscious Miss Davenal standing yet at the window. Dorcas
followed her, and, by the lights that were now being carried in, she
saw how white she looked.
"Miss Sara, I was about to say that it may not be true," continued
Dorcas, as Sara hastily flung on her things. "_I_ don't think it is:
there'd be more uproar at the station if any news of that sort had
been brought in."
"I am going over to see; I cannot remain in this suspense. Not go by
myself?" she repeated, in reply to the woman's remonstrance;
"nonsense, Dorcas! Everybody knows me: I am Dr. Davenal's daughter.
You stay with my aunt Bettina, and be sure don't alarm her if you can
help it."
Pulling the door open with her own hand, she passed under the red
light of Mr. Cray's professional lamp, and hastened by the side-path
and the bridge round to the station. Her face was pale, her pulses
were beating. Sara Davenal had a quick imagination, and all the
horrors of accidents by rail that she had ever heard seemed to rise up
before her.
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 tonight. 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 incoming 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 tonight?"
"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 dashed 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
tonight, 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 today 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 heard 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 anyway. 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 first 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.
Caroline burst into tears as they laid hold of her, and Sara's heart
began to sink. But the tears were only the effect of the fright and
excitement she had gone through. She could give no clear account of
the accident or what it had brought forth. All she knew was that there
was great banging and bumping of the carriage she was in, but it was
not overturned. Two other carriages were; and the engine was lying on
its side with all its steam coming out of it. She scrambled up the
bank in her terror, as did most of the passengers, and came on with
them.
"And Mark?" asked Sara, scarcely daring to put the question.
"Mark! He stayed to look after the wounded," was her reply. "He said
he thought there was nobody seriously hurt. At any rate, there are no
lives lost."
Sara's heart breathed a word of thankfulness. "Did you see Lady
Oswald?" she asked. "She went to Hildon this afternoon, and Mr. Oswald
Cray thought she must be in this train, returning."
"I did not see her," replied Mrs. Cray. "Lady Oswald in the train! I
thought she never travelled by rail."
"She did this afternoon. One of her carriage-horses is ill. How
thankful!--how thankful we must all be that it is no worse!" concluded
Sara Davenal.
"Well, this is a fine ending to your wedding-jaunt!" exclaimed Miss
Bettina. "What about your luggage, Caroline? Is it safe?"
"As if we gave a thought to our luggage, Aunt Bettina! When people's
lives are at stake they can't think of their luggage."
"Nor care either, perhaps," sharply answered Miss Bettina, who,
for a wonder, had caught the words. "It may be lying soused in the
engine-water, for all you know!"
"I daresay it is," equably returned Caroline. "It was in the van next
the engine." But the full report had to come up yet; and the excited
crowd stopped on.