IN THE FOG.
Mark was roused from his reverie in the railway carriage by the fact
that the train, after slackening speed rather suddenly, had come to a
dead standstill. 'Surely we can't be in already,' he said to himself,
wondering at the way in which his thoughts had outstripped the time.
But on looking out he found that he was mistaken--they were certainly
not near the metropolis as yet, nor did they appear to have stopped at
any station, though from the blank white fog which reigned all around,
and drifted in curling wreaths through the window he had let down, it
was difficult to make very sure of this.
Along the whole length of the train conversation, no longer drowned by
the motion, rose and fell in a kind of drone, out of which occasional
scraps of talk from the nearer carriages were more distinctly audible,
until there came a general lull as each party gave way to the
temptation of listening to the other--for the dullest talk has an
extraordinary piquancy under these circumstances, either because the
speakers, being unseen, appeal to our imagination, or because they do
not suppose that they are being so generally overheard.
But by-and-by it seemed to be universally felt that the stoppage was
an unusual one, and windows went down with a clatter along the
carriages while heads were put out inquiringly. Every kind of voice
demanded to be told where they were, and why they were stopping, and
what the deuce the Company meant by it--inquiries met by a guard, who
walked slowly along the line, with the diplomatic evasiveness which
marks the official dislike to admit any possible hitch in the
arrangements.
'Yes,' he said, stolidly; 'there might be a bit of a stoppage like;
they'd be going on presently; he couldn't say how long that would be;
something had gone wrong with the engine; it was nothing serious; he
didn't exactly know what.'
But he was met just under Mark's window by the guard from the break at
the end of the train, when a hurried conference took place, in which
there was no stolidity on either side. 'Run back as quick as you can
and set the detonators--there ain't a minute to lose, she may be down
on us any time, and she'll never see the other signals this weather.
I'd get 'em all out of the train if I was you, mate--they ain't safe
where they are as it is, that they ain't!'
The one guard ran back to his break, and then on to set the
fog-signals, while the other went to warn the passengers. 'All get out
'ere, please; all get out!' he shouted.
There was the usual obstructive person in the train who required to be
logically convinced first of the necessity for disturbing himself; he
put his head angrily out of a window near Mark's: 'Here, guard!' he
shouted importantly; 'what's all this? _Why_ am I to get out?'
'Because you'd better,' said the guard, shortly. 'But why--where's the
platform? I insist on being taken to a platform--I'm not going to
break my leg getting out here.' Several people, who had half opened
their doors, paused on the steps at this, as if recalled to a sense of
their personal dignity. 'Do as you please, sir,' said the official;
'the engine's broke down, and we may be run into any minute in this
fog; but if you'd be more comfortable up there----' There was no want
of alacrity after that, the obstructive man being the first down; all
the rosy-faced gentlemen hopped out, some of the younger ones still
grasping half-played hands of 'Nap' or 'Loo,' and made the best of
their way down the embankment, and several old ladies were got out in
various stages of flutter, narrowly escaping sprained ankles in the
descent.
Mark, who had seen his opportunity from the first, had rushed to the
door of the next compartment, caught Dolly in his arms as she jumped
down, and, hardly believing in his own good fortune, held Mabel's hand
in his for one happy moment as she stepped from the high and awkward
footboard.
'Down the slope, quick,' he cried to them; 'get as far from the line
as you can in case of a smash.'
Mabel turned a little pale, for she had not understood till then that
there was any real danger. 'Keep close to me, Dolly,' she said, as
they went down the slope; 'we're safe here.'
The fog had gathered thick down in the meadows, and nothing could be
seen of the abandoned train when they had gone a few paces from the
foot of the embankment; the passengers were moving about in excited
groups, not knowing what horrors they might not be obliged to witness
in the next few minutes. The excitement increased as one of them
declared he could hear the noise of an approaching train. 'Only just
in time--God help them if they don't pull up!' cried some, and a woman
hoped that 'the poor driver and stoker were not on the engine.'
Dolly heard this and broke from Mabel with a loud cry--'Mabel, we've
left Frisk!' she sobbed; 'he'll be killed--oh, my dog will be
killed--he mustn't be left behind!'
And, to Mark's horror, she turned back, evidently with the idea of
making for the point of danger; he ran after her and caught the little
silvery-grey form fast in his arms. 'Let me go!' cried Dolly,
struggling; 'I must get him back--oh, I must!'
'He'll have jumped out by this time--he's quite safe,' said Mark in
her ear.
'He was sound asleep in his basket, he'll never wake if I don't call
to him--why do you hold me? I tell you I _will_ go!' persisted Dolly.
'No, Dolly, no,' said Mabel, bending over her; 'it's too late--it's
hard to leave him, but we must hope for the best.' She was crying,
too, for the poor doomed dog as she spoke.
Mark was hardly a man from whom anything heroic could be very
confidently expected; he was no more unselfish than the generality of
young men; as a rule he disliked personally inconveniencing himself
for other people, and in cooler moments, or without the stimulus of
Mabel's presence, he would certainly have seen no necessity to run the
risk of a painful death for the sake of a dog.
But Mabel was there, and the desire of distinguishing himself in her
eyes made a temporary hero out of materials which at first sight were
not promising. He was physically fearless enough, and given to acting
on impulses without counting the consequences; the impulse seized him
now to attempt to rescue this dog, and he obeyed it blindly.
'Wait here,' he said to Mabel; 'I'll go back for him.'
'Oh, no--no,' she cried; 'it may cost you your life!'
'Don't stop him, Mabel,' entreated Dolly; 'he is going to save my
dog.'
Mark had gone already, and was half-way up the slope, slippery as it
was, with the grass clumped and matted together by the frost, and
scored in long brown tracks by the feet that had just descended it.
Mabel was left to console and encourage the weeping Dolly as best she
might, with a terrible suspense weighing on her own heart the while,
not altogether on Frisk's account. At the point where the train had
broken down, the line took a bold curve, and now they could hear,
apparently close upon them, the roar of a fast train sweeping round
through the fog; there were some faint explosions, hoarse shouting, a
long screeching whistle,--and after that the dull shock of a
collision; but nothing could be seen from where they stood, and for
some moments Mabel remained motionless, almost paralysed by the fear
of what might be hidden behind the fog curtain.
Mark clambered painfully up the glistening embankment, hoping to reach
the motionless carriages and escape with his object effected before
the train he could hear in the distance ground into them with a
hideous crash.
He knew his danger, but, to do him justice, he scarcely gave it a
thought--any possible suffering seemed as remote and inconsiderable
just then as the chance of a broken leg or collar-bone had been to him
when running for a touchdown in his football days; the one idea that
filled his brain was to return to Mabel triumphant with the rescued
dog in his arms, and he had room for no others.
He went as directly as he could to the part of the train in which was
the carriage he had occupied, and found it without much difficulty
when he was near enough to make out forms through the fog; the door of
Mabel's compartment was open, and, as he sprang up the footboard, he
heard the train behind rattling down on him with its whistle
screeching infernally, and for the first time felt an uneasy
recollection of the horribly fantastic injuries described in accounts
of so many railway collisions.
But there was no time to think of this; at the other end of the
carriage was the little round wicker-basket he had seen in Dolly's
hands at the Chigbourne waiting-room, and in it was the terrier,
sleeping soundly as she had anticipated. He caught up the little
drowsy beast, which growled ungratefully, and turned to leap down with
it to the ballast, when there was a sharp concussion, which sent a
jangling forward shock, increasing in violence as it went, along the
standing train, and threw him violently against the partition of the
compartment.
Meanwhile the passengers of the first train, now that the worst was
apparently over, and the faint shouts and screams from the embankment
had calmed down, began to make their way in the direction of the
sounds, and Mabel, holding Dolly fast by the hand, forced herself to
follow them, though she was sick and faint with the dread of what she
might see.
The first thing they saw was a crowd of eager, excited faces, all
questioning and accusing the badgered officials of both trains at the
same time. 'Why was an empty train left on the rails unprotected in
this way? they might have been all killed.--It was culpable negligence
all round, and there should be an inquiry--they would insist on an
inquiry--they would report this to the traffic manager,' and so on.
The faces looked pale and ghastly enough in the fog, but all the
speakers were evidently sound in wind and limb, and, as far as could
be seen, neither train had left the rails--but where was the young man
who had volunteered to recover the dog? 'Oh, Mabel,' cried Dolly,
again and again. 'Frisk is killed, I'm sure of it, or he'd come to
me--something has happened--ask, do ask.'
But Mabel dared not, for fear of hearing that a life had been nobly
and uselessly sacrificed; she could only press through the crowd with
the object of making her way to the carriage where the suspense would
be ended.
'There's someone in one of the carriages!' she heard a voice saying as
she got nearer, and her heart beat faster; and then the crowd parted
somehow, and she saw Mark Ashburn come out of it towards her, with a
dazed, scared smile on his pale face, and the little trembling dog
safe under one arm.
Fortunately for Mark, the fog-signals had been set in time to do their
work, and the second train was fitted with powerful brakes which, but
for the state of the rails, would have brought it to without any
collision at all; as it was, the shock had not been severe enough to
damage the rolling-stock to any greater extent than twisting or
straining a buffer or coupling-chain here and there, though it had
thrown him against the corner of the net-rail with sufficient violence
to slightly graze his forehead, and leave him stunned and a little
faint for a few moments.
After sitting down for a short time to recover himself, he picked up
the terrier from the cushions on which it was crouching and shivering,
having dropped from his hand at the concussion, and feeling himself
still rather giddy and sick, got down amongst the astonished crowd,
and came towards Mabel and Dolly as we have seen.
It was the best moment, as he thought afterwards, in his life. Every
one, probably, with any imagination at all likes to conceive himself
at times as the performer of some heroic action extorting the
admiration he longs for from some particular pair of eyes, but
opportunities for thus distinguishing oneself are sadly rare nowadays,
and often when they come are missed, or, if grasped with success, the
fair eyes are looking another way and never see it.
But Mark had a satisfied sense of appearing to the utmost advantage as
he met the little girl and placed the dog in her arms. 'There's your
dog; he's quite safe, only a little frightened,' he said, with a
pleasant sympathy in his voice.
Dolly was too overcome for words; she caught Frisk up with her eyes
swimming, and ran away with him to pour her self-reproach and relief
into his pricked ears, without making any attempt to express her
thanks to his rescuer. Her sister, however, made him ample amends.
'How can we thank you?' she said, with a quiver in her voice and an
involuntary admiration in her eyes; 'it was so very, very brave of
you--you might have been killed!'
'I thought at first it was going to be rather a bad smash,' said
Mark--he could not resist the impulse now to make all the capital he
could out of what he had done--'I was knocked down--and--and
unconscious for a little while after it; but I'm not much hurt, as you
see. I don't _think_ I'm any the worse for it, and at all events your
little sister's dog isn't--and that's the main point, isn't it?' he
added, with a feeling that his words were equal to the occasion.
'Indeed it isn't,' said Mabel warmly; 'if you had been seriously hurt
I should never have forgiven myself for letting you go--but are you
sure you feel no pain anywhere?'
'Well,' he admitted, 'I fancy I was cut a little about the head' (he
was afraid she might not have noticed this), 'but that's a trifle.'
'There is a cut on your forehead,' said Mabel; 'it has been bleeding,
but I think it has stopped now. Let me bind it up for you in case it
should break out again.'
It was in truth a very small cut, and had hardly bled at all, but Mark
made light of it elaborately, as the surest means of keeping her
interest alive. 'I am afraid it must be giving you pain,' she said,
with a pretty, anxious concern in her eyes as she spoke; and Mark
protested that the pain was nothing--which was the exact truth,
although he had no intention of being taken literally.
They had gone down the embankment again and were slowly crossing the
dim field in which they had first taken refuge. No one was in sight,
the other passengers being still engaged in comparing notes or
browbeating the unhappy guards above; and as Mark glanced at his
companion he saw that her thoughts had ceased to busy themselves about
him, while her eyes were trying to pierce the gloom which surrounded
her.
'I was looking for my little sister,' she exclaimed, answering the
question in his eyes. 'She ran off with the dog you brought back to
her, and it is so easy to lose oneself here. I must find out where she
is--oh, you are ill!' she broke off suddenly, as Mark staggered and
half fell.
'Only a slight giddiness,' he said; 'if--if I could sit down somewhere
for a moment--is that a stile over there?'
'It looks like one. Can you get so far without help?' she said
compassionately. 'Will you lean on me?'
He seemed to her like some young knight who had been wounded, as it
were, in her cause, and deserved all the care she could give him.
'If you will be so very good,' said Mark. He felt himself a humbug,
for he could have leaped the stile with ease at that very moment. He
had very little excuse for practising in this way on her womanly
sympathy, except that he dreaded to lose her just yet, and found such
a subtle intoxication in being tended like this by a girl from whom an
hour ago he had scarcely hoped to win another careless glance; if he
exaggerated his symptoms, as it is to be feared he did, there may be
some who will forgive him under the circumstances.
So he allowed Mabel to guide him to the stile, and sat down on one of
its rotten cross-planks while she poured _eau-de-Cologne_ or some
essence of the kind on a handkerchief, and ordered him to bathe his
forehead with it. They seemed isolated there together on the patch of
hoary grass by a narrow black ditch half hidden in rank weeds, which
alone could be distinguished in the prevailing yellowish whiteness,
and Mark desired nothing better at that moment.
'I wonder,' said Mabel, 'if there's a doctor amongst the passengers.
There must be, I should think. I am sure you ought to see one. Let me
see if I can find one and bring him to you.'
But Mark declared he was quite himself again, and would have begged
her not to leave him if he had dared; and as there really did not seem
to be anything serious the matter, Mabel's uneasiness about Dolly
returned. 'I can't rest till I find her,' she said, 'and if you really
are strong again, will you help me? She cannot have gone very far.'
Mark, only too glad of any pretence to remain with her, volunteered
willingly.
'Then will you go round the field that way,' she said, 'and I will go
this, and we will meet here again?'
'Don't you think,' said Mark, who had not been prepared for this,
'that if--she might not know _me_, you see--I mean if I was not with
you?'
'Yes, she will,' said Mabel impatiently; 'Dolly won't forget you after
what you have done, and we are losing time. Go round by there, and
call her now and then; if she is here she will come, and if not then
we will try the next field.'
She went off herself as she spoke, and Mark had nothing for it but to
obey, as she so evidently expected to be obeyed. He went round the
field, calling out the child's name now and then, feeling rather
forlorn and ridiculous as his voice went out unanswered on the raw
air. Presently a burly figure, grotesquely magnified by the mist, came
towards him, and resolved itself into an ordinary guard.
'You one of the gentlemen in my train, sir?' he said, 'the train as
broke down, that is?'
'Yes,' said Mark; 'why?'
''Cause we've got the engine put to rights, sir; nothing much the
matter with her, there wasn't, and we're goin' on directly, sir; I'm
gettin' all my passengers together.'
Mark was in no hurry to leave that field, but his time was not his
own; he ought to have been at St. Peter's long ago, and was bound to
take the first opportunity of getting back. It would not be pleasant,
as it was, to have to go and fetch down his class from the sixth form
room, where the headmaster had probably given them a temporary asylum.
He had never forgotten a morning on which he had overslept himself,
and the mortification he had felt at the Doctor's blandly polite but
cutting reception of his apologies. He had a better excuse this time,
but even that would not bear overtaxing.
He hesitated a moment, however. 'I'll go in a minute,' he said, 'but
there's a lady and a little girl with a dog somewhere about. They
mustn't be left behind. Wait while I go and tell them, will you?'
'Never you fear, sir,' said the guard, 'we won't go without them, but
I'll call 'em; they'll mind me more than they will you, beggin' your
pardon, sir, and you'd better run on, as time's short, and keep places
for 'em. You leave it all to me; I'll take care on 'em.'
Mark heard faint barks across the hedge in the direction Mabel had
taken. The child was evidently found. The best thing, he thought, to
do now was to secure an empty compartment, and with that idea, and
perhaps a little from that instinctive obedience to anything in a
uniform which is a characteristic of the average respectable
Englishman, he let himself be persuaded by the guard, and went back to
the train.
To his great joy he found that the compartment Mabel had occupied had
no one in it; he stood waiting by the door for Mabel and her sister to
come up, with eager anticipations of a delightful conclusion to his
journey. 'Perhaps she will tell me who she is,' he thought; 'at all
events she will ask me who _I_ am. How little I hoped for this
yesterday!'
He was interrupted by a guard--another guard, a sour-looking man with
a grizzled beard, who was in charge of the front van. 'Get in, sir, if
you mean to travel by this 'ere train,' he said.
'I'm waiting for a young lady,' said Mark, rather ingenuously, but it
slipped out almost without his knowledge. 'The other guard promised
me----'
'I don't know nothing about no young ladies,' said the guard
obdurately; 'but if you mean my mate, he's just give me the signal
from his end, and if you don't want to be left be'ind you'd better
take your seat while you can, sir, and pretty sharp, too.'
There was nothing else to do; he could not search for Mabel along the
train; he must wait till they got to King's Cross; but he took his
seat reluctantly and with a heavy disappointment, thinking what a fool
he had been to let himself be persuaded by the burly guard. 'But for
that, _she_ might have been sitting opposite to me now!' he thought
bitterly. 'What a fool I was to leave her. How pretty she looked when
she wanted me to see a doctor; how charming she is altogether! Am I in
love with her already? Of course I am; who wouldn't be? I shall see
her again. She will speak to me once more, and, after all, things
might be worse. I couldn't have counted on _that_ when we started.'
And he tried to console himself with this, feeling an impatient anger
at the slow pace of the train as it crept cautiously on towards the
goal of his hopes. But the breakdown had not happened very far from
town, and, tedious as the time seemed to Mark, it was not actually
long before the colour of the atmosphere (there was no other
indication) proved that they were nearing the terminus.
It changed by slow gradations from its original yellow-whiteness to
mustard colour, from that to a smoky lurid red, and from red to
stinging, choking iron-grey, and the iron-grey pall was in full
possession of King's Cross, where the sickly moonlight of the electric
lamps could only clear small halos immediately around their globes.
Mark sprang out before the train had stopped; he strained his eyes in
watching for the form he hoped to see there, but in vain; there were
no signs in all that bustle of Mabel or Dolly, or the little dog to
whom he owed so much.
He sought out the guard who had deluded him and found him
superintending the clearing of the luggage van. He hardly knew whether
it was merely a fancy that the official, after making a half-step
forward to meet him, and fumbling in all his pockets, turned away
again as if anxious to avoid meeting his eye.
Mark forced him to meet him, however, willing or not. 'Where is the
lady?' he said sharply. 'You left her behind after all, it seems?'
'It wasn't my fault, sir,' said the guard wheezily, 'nor it wasn't the
lady's fault, leastways on'y the little lady's, sir. Both on us tried
all we could, but the little missy, her with the tarrier dawg, was
nervous-like with it all, and wouldn't hear of getting in the train
again; so the young lady, she said, seeing as they was so near London,
they could get a fly or a cab or summat, and go on in that.'
'And--did she give you no message for me?' said Mark.
There was such evident expectation in his face that the guard seemed
afraid to disappoint it. 'I was to give you her respecks and
compliments,' he said slowly--'or was it her love, now?' he
substituted quickly, after a glance at Mark's face, 'and you was not
to be in a way about her, and she'd be seein' of you again before very
long, and----'
'That's all a lie, you know,' said Mark, calmly.
'Well, then, she didn't say nothing, if that warn't it,' said the
guard, doggedly.
'Did she--did she leave any directions about luggage or anything?'
said Mark.
'Brown portmanty to go in the left-luggage room till called for,' said
the guard. 'Anything else I can do for you, sir; no? Good mornin',
then, and thanky, sir!'
'Never did such a thing as that in my life afore,' he muttered, as he
went back to his van; 'to go and lose a bit o' paper with writing on
it, d'reckly I got it, too; I'm afraid my head's a-leavin' me; they
ain't keepin' company, that's plain. I made a mess o' that, or he
wouldn't have wanted her direction. _I_ saw what he was up to--well,
they'd make a good-looking pair. I'm sorry I lost that there paper;
but it warn't no use a-tellin' of him.'
As for Mark, this lame and impotent conclusion brought back all his
depression again. 'She never even asked my name!' he thought,
bitterly. 'I risked my life for her--it _was_ for her, and she knew
it: but she has forgotten that already. I've lost her for ever this
time; she may not even live in London, and if she did I've no clue to
tell me where, and if I had I don't exactly see what use it would be;
I won't think about her--yes, I will, she can't prevent me from doing
that, at any rate!'
By this time he had left the City station of the Metropolitan Railway,
and was going back to his underground labours at St. Peter's, where he
was soon engaged in trying to establish something like discipline in
his class, which the dark brown fog seemed to have inspired with
unaccountable liveliness. His short holiday had not served to rest and
invigorate him as much as might have been expected; it had left him
consumed with a hopeless longing for something unattainable. His
thirst for distinction had returned in an aggravated form, and he had
cut himself off now from the only means of slaking it. As that day
wore on, and with each day that succeeded it, he felt a wearier
disgust with himself and his surroundings.