_IN THE DARKNESS OF THE NIGHT._
Away past the snowy fields, away through the falling snow, past
villages and houses--away past all things of life and death, which
all alike wore Nature's wintry garb. There, across the long low
country burns a steady light; it lights a farmhouse, just seen
through the thick mist of falling snow; it is gone, and again the
gathering twilight throws its shadows over all--gone; and all the
world looks desolate as through the windows, almost obscured with
snow, the passengers glance wondering to see what is so strange a
sight in England--a steady fall of snow. And they gather their rugs
closer round their knees, and their thoughts go home, faster even
than the train can carry them, and each one pictures to himself the
place which for the present serves to him as home. Happy they who
look forward to a happy hearth, a loving welcome, cherished
forms,--who but need to end their journey to find awaiting them what
is indeed the ideal of a home. Alas for those who have no such
prospect to warm their hearts; alas, indeed! Their thoughts go back
instead of forward, to the time when it was different, to the time
when love and life were sitting in the door.
The afternoon was well advanced when they left the little roadside
station; ere long the day, never very robust, was fading fast; the
light sank low; evening put out her hand to shade the wintry world.
Tregowan, seated in the corner of a carriage, predisposed to be
influenced by such a time, was wrapped in gloomy thoughts. How like
the season to his state of mind! He looked out; all was gloom; his
own heart echoed what he saw outside. He sat, his head upon his
hand, watching with glance which never wavered, and yet saw nothing,
buried in that dreamy contemplation which is without form and void.
The carriage lamp, lit long ago, fell on him. His was a handsome
face, one full of character; yet, in this hour, full also of
bitterness and gloom.
So thought his sole companion, a youth or man, call him as you will,
of perhaps twenty-five or six; a gentleman, judging from his
appearance and his dress, with eyes which struck you at once as being
his peculiar feature--penetrating eyes, eyes which never wavered when
they looked at you, yet which, despite their seeming frankness, hid,
after all, their owner's mind. From the very first he appeared
struck by Marmaduke; he was reading when he entered, yet, from behind
his book, he watched him almost constantly; he noticed his
depression, as indeed it would have been strange if he had not.
"Surely," he said to himself, "that lad is gay enough in general, a
light-hearted youngster, I'll be bound. How down he is! He's going
back from school. I shouldn't have thought he was the sort of fellow
to mope at that."
And then he wondered, seeing how the lad grew sadder still, and
noting how even every now and then he sighed, if all this gloom was
because, although he went from school, he was not going to a home, or
at least not to one which he esteemed as such. And still they
journeyed through the snow, and still the darkness gathered fast, and
still on every side was the outlook charged with gloom; yet when, as
now they did, they rattled by a little village lying by the railway
side, where the lights gleamed in the windows, and bright blinds or
curtains kept the darkness out, the effect was picturesque enough.
It was cheerful too, like a patch of light where all the rest was
black.
But still Tregowan was in the dullest of dull moods; and the
passenger having read sufficient of the book, or being tired perhaps
of his own company, or not over fond of silence, closed the volume,
laid it on his lap, and fidgeted in his seat as a sign that, if the
other was conversationally disposed, he too was quite agreeable. But
Duke gave not the least response. Never particularly partial to
strangers, haughty rather than shy or awkward, as the generality of
boys are apt to be, he never was less inclined to voluntarily enter
into a discussion with one whom he had never seen in all his life
before. So the stranger gained nothing by his manœuvre; none the
less he watched Tregowan with his shrewd eyes, wondering within
himself what was the cause of his sad humour.
"Snowy weather," he observed at last, with a cheerful air, as though,
too, he stated a fact which never would have occurred to any one
unless he first had pointed it out.
But Duke was by no means sympathetic. He was quite aware that it was
snowy weather; he needed no one to tell him that; and as for the
feeler which the stranger had thrown out by way of affording him an
opportunity of improving their acquaintance, he was very indisposed
to grasp it. Blank silence followed. Tregowan paid not the
slightest heed to what the other said; but the stranger was not to be
so easily discouraged; as though he took it for granted that Duke had
not heard his first remark--
"Snowy weather," he repeated in a somewhat louder tone; "and, what is
more, it looks as if it intended remaining snowy. There is a look
about the sky which I have seen in northern regions, and which always
foreshadows a heavy and continuous fall of snow."
He stopped, and waited for Tregowan to reply; but Duke did nothing of
the kind; he merely slightly raised his head, surveyed the speaker
from, head to foot, and then quietly resumed his contemplative mood.
To most people this would have been sufficient discouragement, and
they would immediately have ceased to attempt to improve their
position with so very unsociable, not to say uncivil, a being. But
the stranger only laughed.
"Ah! you don't see the things down here which I have seen in the
parts where I have lately been. You folks at home now, I daresay,
think this is quite a terrible affair," meaning the fall of snow
outside--and by the way there was quite enough of it; "but in those
parts it's nothing--nothing at all. Now, what would you think of
snow falling for a fortnight straight away, never stopping night or
day?"
"I have never thought of it in any way, not being interested in the
matter in the least," was Duke's most genial response.
But the stranger did not appear in the least abashed, but still
looked at him with the same shrewd, kindly glance.
"Now, I've been away from home five years, and I'm going home
to-night. They're waiting for me now, looking at the clock, and
telling each other that I am fairly on the road; and about the very
first fellow-creature to whom I have spoken since I put my foot in
the old country tries to bite at me. Ha! ha! ha!" and he laughed at
the thought of it. "I was about your age when first I went from
home."
"I don't care what was your age, and when you went, or why," struck
in Marmaduke, interrupting him remorselessly. "I care nothing for
your history, and have only to ask you one thing, and that is to let
me be."
This was fair, even for Marmaduke, and was tolerable evidence of the
agreeable frame of mind which he was in. Still the stranger was not
abashed. With the same cheerful air he said--
"Let you be? Why, certainly. I know there are times when one don't
want to talk, and one couldn't if one wanted; but perhaps one day you
will remember that Jack Williamson, on the very night that he was
going home, after five long years of absence, tried to cheer you from
the doldrums when you were sailing round that way."
By this time the night had fairly come. It was thirteen minutes past
seven o'clock, for Duke just then looked at his watch, and had good
cause to carry the exact hour and minute in his memory afterwards.
The stranger, concluding that, for the present, any hope of carrying
on a conversation was in vain, had retired into his own corner, and
had begun again to read his book. Duke had sunk again into his
contemplative mood, and it was just beginning to occur to him that he
was getting hungry, which was not strange considering he had eaten
scarcely anything throughout the day. The train seemed to be
quickening its pace, as though to make up for time which had been
lost. They had just sped through a station without stopping; the
lights were being left behind, and they were flying swiftly towards
the darkness which seemed to lie beyond.
Never were any more unconscious of what was to happen in a minute--in
less than that--of what was on them. That seems at times to be a
strange, yet is undoubtedly a merciful, provision of God, which hides
the future from our eyes. In the carriage all was still, they two,
having come to the conclusion that, under present circumstances, the
prospects of improving their acquaintance were not exactly rosy, were
occupied with matters of their own, when all at once the train gave a
great thrill, a sudden jerk, and a shrill whistle rang through the
air.
"What is that?" the stranger cried. There was no answer. They were
almost thrown off their seats. The stranger's book fell to the
floor. The whistling continued, and the jerking too. It was evident
that a great effort was being made to stop the train. Marmaduke
never forgot those moments, though they were but two or three. The
shrill sound of the whistle, the letting off of steam, the vehement
shaking, the stranger's frantic efforts to let the window down, the
sudden bewilderment and confusion of it all.
"There's something wrong," the stranger said; and Marmaduke ever
afterwards remembered the strangeness of his tones and the curious
expression of his face. He could not get the window down; it would
not come. There he stood by the door, staggering as the carriage
still continued to shake. Duke, half lying, half sitting on the
seat, was endeavouring to get up when--chaos came.
Chaos, and with it sudden death and fearful agony. Crash! and every
window in the train was smashed; and above the din was heard the
noise of people shrieking. Crash! and this time all was over. None
could tell exactly what had happened; few had enough sense left to
think at all. All was chaos.
And the snow fell fast, and the wind whistled across the fields and
along the telegraphic wires overhead; and mingling without were the
cries of those not dead, shrieking in agony of body or of mind. The
train lay wrecked, half on half off the road. There was an
embankment, and down that part of it was hurled. Two or three of the
waggons were telescoped, and heaped upon each other. There was not
one uninjured. The engine, damaged, but not destroyed completely,
stood on one end, snorting and hissing like a thing of life. The
furnace was forced open, and the flame of it lit up the sky; while
the cause of all was shivered into fragments--into matchwood, as they
say.
The cause was nothing but a guard's van, which, through some defect
or other, had parted from the luggage train to which it was attached,
had come rushing down the hill, every moment doubling its speed, and
charged into the train which was so close behind; and the result was
ruin. Well might the engine-driver of the train make a frantic
effort to escape his fate.
For some moments no one gave any signs of life. There lay the ruined
train, in which either all were securely imprisoned or else so
injured by the catastrophe as to be unable to effect their own
escape. Well might the time be gloomy! Well might the wind sing
songs of woe! The first to appear upon the scene was the signalman,
who came from his box, some fifty yards ahead. He had heard a noise,
though he had seen nothing, and in sudden horror had rushed down to
see the cause of it. He had on neither coat nor hat, and was exposed
to the full fury of the storm, but he did not heed it then.
When he saw the ruin, he fell there and then to crying, for his first
thought was that he would have the blame of it, and he knew not in
what he had done wrong. And he cried out, as he stood bareheaded
there, weeping with might and main, "O Lord, my God! Oh, my Lord
God!" For in all moments of death-agony, which is worse than the
agony of death, every one cries, with or without his will, unto his
Maker, knowing in that hour that He is Lord of all. Then, being a
practical man, and no weak fool, he ran to the end of the train,
where was the guard's carriage, and found, as he had expected, the
guard, still scarcely conscious, trying to get out.
"What is the matter?" asked the guard, half dazed, at sight of him.
"You're smashed--smashed!" said the signalman, still crying like a
child; and he opened the carriage-door and helped the guard to get
outside. "For God's sake see what you can do. The express is almost
due, and I'll wire them to stop it and send some help along."
And away he tore, with all his wits about him, though his frame was
convulsed with his frantic sobbing, back to his box, to save them
from a worse disaster, and to let the people know how sore a need
there was for help. The guard, collecting his scattered senses,
careless if he himself were injured, went to the compartment next to
his and wrenched it open. It was all in darkness; the lamp was out;
he knew not where his own was gone; but a strong voice exclaimed,
"Lend me a hand! we're jammed in here; there's a woman right on top
of me." The guard leaned forward; he clutched at something; it was a
child--a boy. He dragged him out. He had no time to see if he were
dead; it was the living to give him help in helping others that he
needed. Then he touched a woman's frock. "Steady," said the same
voice which had spoken before. "I guess she isn't dead, she's only
swooned."
Dead or not, she lay in the guard's strong arms a sheer dead-weight,
but somehow or other he got her out. It was a third-class carriage.
She was a young woman, poor but decent--perhaps going to spend
Christmas somewhere with her boy. He laid her down amid the snow.
Then the original speaker got himself out without assistance. He was
a big man with a big red beard, in a long overcoat which reached down
to his feet. This he took off instantly, and placing it upon the
ground, placed on it the woman and the boy; then he took off his
undercoat and laid that over them, and so remained in his
shirt-sleeves. For himself he seemed perfectly at ease.
The guard meanwhile had gone to the next compartment to see if he
could help them there, but it was so dark a light was indispensable.
This the passenger supplied by producing a match-box from his pocket,
and lighting a match, shaded it between his hands. By the light of
its flickering flame they looked in, but it was of no avail; the wind
and the snow got in and put it out immediately.
"Haven't you got no tow?" the passenger inquired; but by this time
the guard had found his lantern. Fortunately it did not appear much
damaged, and they lit it then and there. Aided by its light things
went more smoothly. They at least could see what they were doing.
The compartment which they had opened was unoccupied. In the next
were four men, three of middle age and one whose head was white with
many years. They were more shaken and confused than hurt, except the
old man, whose mind seemed to have received a sudden shock, for he
rambled in his talk and looked at them in childish wonder. These
they got out. They stood upon the embankment nearly to their knees
in snow, which, still falling, whitened them like millers, while the
wind blew it in their faces.
"It's very cold," said the old man, looking from one to the other
with questioning eyes, rubbing his hands together. He had on a cloth
travelling-cap, made to cover both his ears and to tie beneath his
chin. The guard's lantern lit up the scene. "It's very cold; do you
think that we are far from home? It's later than I like to be."
But the guard replied, not meaning to be unkind, but knowing that
everything must yet be done--
"Come! lend a hand. We can't stand chattering here. We must make a
fire. Anything will do--the waggons or anything; from the engine
furnace we can get a light."
And the work went on; and they left the old man standing there, while
on the ground close at his side were the woman and her child; but
before he went the big red-bearded passenger said, hoping to comfort
him--
"Cheer up, father! pull yourself together! Why, the Lord hasn't
forsaken us--He's close at hand. We'll soon have a fire to make you
warm." And then he passed on to help the others in what they had to
do.
And soon there was a fire; the broken carriages were used as fuel,
some of the hot coals were brought from the engine furnace, and in a
short space of time there was a roaring blaze--a blaze which defied
the snow and the darkness of the night, and made the scene appear
still stranger. To it the woman and her child and the old man were
taken.
Meantime the work of rescuing went on. The guard's van which had
been the cause of all the mischief was examined, but it was shattered
and void of shape and form. They knew the guard was in it, or what
was left of him, but that he was dead was certain; no human being
could have escaped such a wreck alive. The work of extricating his
remains would be a work of time; all their energies were needed by
the living--he was dead; and so they left him in the shattered van.
They found the engine-driver dead upon the bank; he had apparently
leapt out when he saw escape was hopeless, and had fallen with such
force as to have been killed upon the spot. The stoker was nowhere
to be found. With the carriages immediately behind the engine, which
were dashed into each other and mingled in one awful heap, they could
as yet do nothing; they passed on to where their help might be more
advantageously employed, From the waggons which were comparatively
uninjured they got out the passengers; it was as yet impossible to
ascertain their injuries. There were men and women, girls and boys;
some were dead, some living, some scarcely hurt, some in agony; of
those able to help themselves and others there was a goodly number.
Among these were Noel Penharden and Lionel Pollyon; neither of them
appeared any the worse for the catastrophe which had brought to a
sudden end so many of their fellows. Frightened undoubtedly they
were, and shaken too. So frightened was Penharden that when they got
him out he lay full length down in the snow, shouting out that he was
dead or dying. Pollyon, however, hearing the well-known voice, came
up to where he was, and, after surveying him in silence, charged him
with shamming.
"Shamming!" exclaimed Noel, raising himself at once to a sitting
posture--"shamming! what do you call shamming? Oh! oh! I haven't
got a bone left whole, and it's all broken up inside of me!"
"Whereabouts inside of you?" inquired Pollyon, who having himself an
ugly cut upon his forehead, did not present a comfortable spectacle.
"How should I know?" groaned Penharden; "all over, everywhere! It's
going up and down like mad. Oh, I'm done for--I know I am! Tell
'em--tell 'em at home you saw me die; tell 'em the snow was falling;
tell 'em I bore it well. I send my love to them. Oh, this is awful
hard upon a fellow!"
"Yes," said Pollyon, "it is." And wheeling round, he turned his
attention to the scene. "This is very nice! very nice! A fellow
can't go home to spend his Christmas without coming to grief like
this. I expected something of the kind. This comes of waiting for
Tregowan. It didn't frighten me--oh, not at all! My heart went up
into my mouth when they began that jerking game, and we went jolt,
jolt, jolt. I thought I should have died. Talk about sea-sickness;
it turned your inside out before you'd time to speak. No, thank you!
When next they have an accident, I hope they'll let me have a line
before, and I'll keep out of it."
"Oh, my poor bones!" chorused Penharden. Then he braced himself up
to a description of the scene. "I was sitting in a corner of the
carriage, and right in front of me was the prettiest girl _I_ ever
saw, and she looked at me and I looked back at her, and we were just
beginning to get awful spoons, when all of a sudden she came full
tilt into my arms and knocked me flat--I never was so flummuxed in
all my days--and then I was broken all to bits!" and he groaned again
as he remembered it.
As for Marmaduke Tregowan, when the rescuers came to him, they found,
as in most other cases, the carriage dark. It was broken, but not to
fragments, as were some; yet the roof had fallen and the doors were
smashed. When they had forced an entrance and had brought a light--
"Any one in there?" asked one.
"Yes," replied a voice, "we two." It was Marmaduke Tregowan.
Then they set to work to get them out, and finally succeeded. First
the stranger, who, after five years of absence, that night was going
home; he was in Duke's arms, frightfully mutilated, and quite dead.
"He died in my arms," said Duke, in the same calm voice. "He said
that he was going home."
The bystanders looked at the speaker. Though very feeble, he was
perfectly at ease, and stood among the falling snow, among the dead
and dying, the anxious and the curious, his boyish figure drawn,
upright, with all the grace of his old haughty bearing.
"And yourself, are you hurt, my lad?" asked one.
"Thank you!" answered Duke, fixing his eyes upon his questioner, "not
that I am aware of."
Perceiving that he spoke the truth, and that he was not socially
inclined, they turned their attention to the dead man, and carried
him away. Duke went after him; he saw them lay him beside others who
were in a similar plight, and cover him from sight. He stood by the
corpse. "Perhaps one day you will remember that Jack Williamson, on
the very night that he was going home, after five long years of
absence, tried to cheer you from the doldrums when you were sailing
round that way." The dead man's words rung in his ears. It was as
though they had been spoken by a prophet; and Duke bowed down before
the Lord--bowed down as all must do in hours of extremity--and he
knelt down in the snow and cried unto the Lord; and the Lord heard
him, His being never an inattentive ear, and a calmer spirit fell
upon the lad.
As he rose there was a loud and long shrill whistle from behind them.
It was some time now since the accident had happened. Fortunately
they were not very far from the station which they had hurried
through, and already help had come to them. The news flashed along
the wires had brought its answer; and as an engine with several empty
waggons attached to it came slowly creeping up--picking, as it might
be, its way--and the doors were opened and a gang of willing workmen
sprang out into the snow; from the passengers, standing by the
wrecked train, or standing by the blazing fire, came a glad shout of
welcome.