Wilton found an indescribable scene of confusion when he came up to the
overturned engine. The male passengers and some twenty navvies, who had
been with the ballast train, were trying frantically to separate the
burning carriages from the others by forcing them back; but, although
the coupling irons were broken, the foremost carriages had been so
violently dashed against the trucks that they had become too closely
entangled to be stirred, and it seemed highly probable that the whole
train would be consumed before any means could be devised for
extinguishing the flames. Wilton's quick eye took in the difficulty in a
moment, and noticed that the blazing van, having been the first to
encounter the shock, had fallen on the side away from the ballast train,
breaking the couplings and everything breakable as it crashed over. The
next carriage had been forced upon the second truck, and the others more
or less upon those nearest them, as they were farther from the actual
collision. The unhappy guard had been dragged senseless from the
_débris_; there was, therefore, no one to direct the willing but
fruitless efforts of the volunteers. Seeing this, Wilton sprang upon the
truck nearest him, and shouted, in clear, ringing tones:
"Hold, men! you will never move that wreck! Your only chance to put out
the flames is to smother it with the damp clay here. Get your shovels
and picks--some of you jump up with the picks and loosen the stuff;
another party be ready with the shovels to pile the clay over the fire."
At the first sound of authoritative direction the men sprang to obey,
and Wilton took as supreme command as if a party of his own pioneers
were at his orders. The men worked with a will, as men generally do when
intelligently and energetically commanded. It was a wild and not
unpicturesque scene. At first the flames from the dry varnished wood
streamed out upon the breeze, which, fortunately, was not high, though
it sometimes sent wreaths of smoke and fire against the men who were
toiling to extinguish it, and bringing out in strong relief the figure
of Wilton, who had climbed upon the side of the carriage nearest the
burning fragments, and, holding on with one hand, urged the working
party with quick, commanding gestures. By the time the truck had been
half emptied the fire was evidently arrested. Every now and then a jet
of flame shot up to the sky; a few more minutes of fierce exertion and
the enemy was got under, and Wilton descended from his post of
observation to find a new authority on the scene, who was bustling about
very actively. This was the master of a small station about half a mile
farther up the line, scarcely to be seen from the fast and express
trains, which never stopped there, but elevated by the present
catastrophe into importance and authority. By his directions the guard
and stoker, who were most injured, were removed to a small town at a
little distance, where medical aid could be procured. Having discovered
and liberated his yelping dog, Wilton sought what information he could
from this official.
"No, sir; there ain't much damage done. The stoker of the ballast train
is hurt a good deal; but the guard is more stunned than hurt. No lives
lost, thank God--only some bruises and a broken head. You see, it's
getting late for night-travelling, and there wasn't a soul in the first
carriage. How did it happen? You see, the ballast train was shunted here
to wait till yours was past; but those pointsmen are overworked, and
this here forgot to set back the points; so you see, right into the
other engine," etc., etc.
After mixing with the other passengers, and ascertaining what they
intended to do, or if he could be of any use to them, Wilton bethought
him of his lonely little travelling companion, and returned to seek
her. She had advanced nearer the scene of action, and climbed up the low
bank which here bordered the line, the better to see what was going on.
"I am afraid you must think I was not coming back," said Wilton,
offering his hand to help her down.
"I saw you were well occupied," she said, touching it lightly as she
descended.
"By Jove! you are shivering with cold--and no wonder, without a cloak or
plaid! Wait for a moment and I will bring you mine from our carriage."
"Would you also be so kind as to bring my bonnet and a small travelling
bag? I should have gone for them myself, only I could hardly stand."
But Wilton was gone, and returned quickly. "There are but three other
ladies," he said, assisting to wrap his plaid around her, "and they are
going up to a small town or village about two miles off, to rest at the
inn; and when they are refreshed, intend posting on to their
destination, which is somewhere in this district. Would you like to go
with them, or wait at a little station close to this, where a fresh
train will be sent as soon as they can clear the line?"
"Oh, I will go to the station. I am anxious to get on as soon as
possible."
"And so am I. I shall, therefore, remain there also, and shall be most
happy to be of any use to you."
"Thank you. Can I walk to this station at once?"
"Certainly, if you will take my arm."
"I feel I must to steady myself," she replied. "I did not know I was so
much frightened and shaken. I feel ashamed."
They walked on in silence for a few yards, and then Wilton asked if she
was going much farther.
"Yes," with a sigh, "a long way--over the Border to a place called
Monkscleugh."
"Indeed!" cried Wilton; "that is my destination also."
She made no reply, and they accomplished the short distance in silence,
save for a few friendly remarks and inquiries from Wilton. The station
was almost deserted when they reached it; but the gaslight and a good
fire were very welcome; and the station-master soon returned with the
intelligence that they had collected more men, who were working hard to
clear the line, and, that, as soon as it was passable, a fresh train
would be sent on from A----.
The station-master was a short man--broad without being stout--with a
peculiarly weather-beaten aspect, his mouth screwed to one side, and one
eye squeezed down to the other, as if in the habit of facing the sun's
glare without adequate shelter. He spoke, too, in a _staccato_ style, as
if some intermittent power pumped up his words.
"I dare say this lady would be glad of a cup of tea or something," said
Wilton, looking compassionately at the figure of his companion, who had
drawn a chair to the fire, and sat down wearily, putting a small,
well-booted foot upon the fender.
"I have sent up to the village for refreshments, sir; but I am sorry to
say I have nothing in the place. I generally go away for my meals."
So saying, the station-master hurried off.
"I do not feel to want anything but sleep," said the lady. "I have not
had any for many nights, and I am scarce awake now. If I could but close
my eyes, and rest."
She raised them as she spoke to Wilton--such large, black-blue eyes, so
heavy with fatigue, that his compassion for her evident exhaustion was
naturally increased by the admiration they excited.
"You really ought to take something, if we could get it," he said. "Such
a shock must have been too much for you, though you showed remarkable
pluck."
"Yet I was dreadfully frightened," she replied, clasping her hands over
one knee, and gazing dreamily into the fire. "I do not fear death so
much as being hurt and helpless."
"Well," said Wilton, cheerfully, "we must find a resting-place for you.
There ought to be a lady's waiting-room even here." He rose and looked
about as he spoke. "And so there is"--he opened a door on the right of
the fireplace--"a very desolate-looking chamber. Still there is an
uneasy-looking stuffed bench, and perhaps, with my cloak and plaid, you
might manage to get an hour's sleep while we are waiting."
"How good of you to think of all this!" she exclaimed, looking at him
more attentively than she had yet done. "But it is dark--and see! the
lock is broken. I do not think I should like to sleep with an open
door."
"Let me light the gas," said Wilton, turning the stiff tap and striking
one of his fusees. "Now the only objection is the broken lock. I will
mount guard outside, and, trust me, no one shall intrude upon you. What
do you say?"
"Many, many thanks. I will gladly lie down and try to sleep. Are _you_
not weary?"
"Not in the least. I would advise your trying to compose yourself at
once; the others will be here soon, and will probably talk and make a
row. By-the-way," interrupting himself, "would you like to telegraph to
your friends that you are all right? I am going to do so myself."
"Telegraph to my friends!" she replied, stopping and looking full at
him, her large, dark, dewy eyes lighting up as a half-sad, half scornful
smile dimpled her cheek. "It is not at all necessary; they will not
distress themselves."
She bent her head as Wilton held the door for her to pass through.
Closing it after her, he returned to his seat by the fire, wondering at
himself; for, though far too manly a man to adopt a tone of selfish
indifference toward others, though he would have shown kindly
consideration to a plain or an elderly woman in such circumstances, he
was conscious of an extraordinary degree of interest and admiration for
his quiet, undemonstrative fellow-traveller. She was so gentle, yet so
indifferent; so simple and so self-possessed; evidently grateful to him
for his attentions, and yet utterly regardless of him as a "good-looking
fellow," or as anything save a civil travelling-companion. There was
something marvellously attractive in the almost infantine sweetness of
her mouth and delicate chin, and the contrast of her earnest, expressive
eyes.
"Who can she be?" asked Wilton of himself; "though quite unconventional,
there is a high tone about her, poor little thing! It is as well she
fell in with such a steady fellow as myself. I must see her safe to the
end of her journey, and find out all about her before we part."
His reflections were interrupted by an influx of some of the passengers,
who now began to collect, having impeded the efforts of the railway
officials as much as possible by their attempts to afford assistance;
they were all exceedingly talkative and hungry, not to say hilarious,
from the reaction of their escape. The refreshments which had been sent
for had now arrived, and the little station looked quite crowded. In the
midst of the buzz of voices, while all except Wilton were gathered round
the table discussing the viands placed thereon, he observed the door of
the ladies' room open gently and his _protégé_ appear, his cloak over
one shoulder, and trailing behind. Wilton immediately went toward her.
"I cannot sleep," she said; "I dozed a little just at first, but now I
am quite awake and restless."
"That's bad," returned Wilton. "Will you come in here and sit by the
fire?"
"Oh no!" shrinking back, "not among all those people."
"Well, it would not be very pleasant; but shall you not be very cold?"
"Not if you will still allow me to have your cloak."
"Certainly; and I hope we shall not be kept much longer. Could we not
get you a fire here?" and he walked in unceremoniously.
"I do not think even you could manage that," she returned, with a quiet
smile, as she placed herself at a table under the gaslight, and opened a
large note-book, as if about to make some entries.
"Not a strong-minded female taking notes, I hope," thought Wilton. "She
is far too pretty for that."
"No," said he, aloud, as he observed there was no fireplace. "With all
the will imaginable, I cannot manage a fire; but can I do nothing more?
I must insist on your taking some wine or tea. They are all devouring
out there; and I have had some very tolerable brandy-and-water myself,"
and Wilton beckoned a waiter to bring some refreshment.
"I tell you what you could do for me," said the young lady, suddenly
looking up more brightly than she had yet done; "make the station-master
come in here and talk--ask him questions. Oh, you know what I mean!" she
went on, with a sort of graceful petulance as Wilton looked at her in no
small surprise, "anything to make him talk. There, I think I hear him in
the next room; please to watch for him and bring him here. I will begin,
you can follow me; when I say 'thank you,' send him away--there, please
to catch him."
Wilton, greatly wondering that the first signs of animation in his
interesting companion should be aroused by so rugged and commonplace a
subject, hastened to obey, and soon returned with the functionary.
"Oh!" said the lady, bending her head with such a proud yet gracious
air that the man involuntarily removed his hat. "Pray tell me, is there
really no serious injury? I should be more satisfied were I assured by
you."
"Well, mum, I am happy to say there is no one much hurt to speak of,"
etc., etc.
"Is it long since you have had an accident before?" asked Wilton, not
very well knowing how to proceed in compliance with a little private
imperative nod from the fair inquisitor.
The question was opportune, for it launched the station-master upon
quite a flood of memories into which he rushed and talked for good ten
minutes without intermission. How long he would have continued it is
impossible to say, but one of the porters came to call him, as there was
a telegraph from ----.
Wilton followed to hear the news, and returned, after a short absence,
with the intelligence that the expected train would not arrive for
another hour.
"That is long," replied the young lady, scarce lifting her head; then,
as Wilton, a little mortified by her tone, turned to leave the room, she
exclaimed, still looking down, "Stay one moment, if not inconvenient."
"Certainly," and Wilton stood still for another minute or two.
"There," she said, holding out the book, "is that like him?"
Wilton took it and uttered an exclamation of surprise. On the page
before him was a bold, rapid, admirable sketch of the station-master;
all the characteristic lines and puckers were there, but slightly
idealized.
"This is first-rate! You are quite an artist."
"I wish I was! Let me touch it a little more. What a capital face it
is--so rugged, so humorous--yet so English; not the least bit
picturesque. I shall work this into something some day."
"Then I am right in supposing you an artist? May I look again?" said
Wilton, sitting down beside her.
"Oh, yes; you may look at my scratchings. This is my note-book. I like
to draw everything--but, you see, most imperfectly."
"I do not, indeed. I know very little of art, though I can sketch
roughly--merely professional work--but you seem to me to have both
genius and skill."
"Some taste, scarce any skill."
There was something quite genuine in her tone--not the least tinge of
mock-modesty--as she turned over the pages, and touched them here and
there, while her manner was singularly devoid of coquetry. Wilton might
have been her grandfather for all of embarrassment or excitement his
attentions caused.
"And you can draw; perhaps you know these trees; they are not far from
Monkscleugh."
She showed him a group of beeches most delicately yet clearly drawn.
"I do not know the neighborhood. I am going there for the first time.
May I ask if you reside there?"
"Yes, at present. Oh, you will find a great deal to sketch all
about--especially by the river--and there is beauty, too, in the gray
skies and rich brown moors; but how unlike the beauty of the sunny
south!"
"It is not necessary to ask which you like; your voice tells that," said
Wilton.
"And are you not fond of drawing?" she resumed, as if the subject had an
irresistible attraction.
"You would not look at such school-boy productions as mine," returned
Wilton, smiling. "As I said before, they are mere rough professional
drawings."
"Professional! What is your profession?"
This rather leading question was put with the most straightforward
simplicity.
"I am a soldier."
"A soldier!"--looking very earnestly at him--"what a pity!"
"Why?" asked Wilton, surprised, and a little nettled. "Soldiers are
necessary evils."
"But what evils! what symbols of deeper evils than themselves! I do not
mean to say," interrupting herself with a sudden consciousness that her
words were rude, while a delicate tinge of color came and went in her
cheek, "that _you_ are bad or wicked; but it is so sad to think that
such things, or people rather, should be necessary still."
"No doubt it would be better for the world to be in an Arcadian or
paradisiacal condition; but, as it is, I am afraid it will be a long
time before we can dispense with fighting or fighting-men. However, you
are right--war is a horrible thing, and I hope we shall have no more for
a long time."
"Alas! how dare we hope that, so long as it is in the power of three or
four men to plunge three or four nations into such horrors?"
"Ah, I see I have encountered a dangerous democrat," said Wilton,
laughing; and, vaguely pleased to see her drawn out of her cool
composure, he watched the varying color in her cheek while she was
turning over the leaves of her sketch-book, seeming to seek for
something. "Pardon me," said Wilton, after waiting for a reply, and
determined to speak again, "but I imagine you are not English."
"I scarcely know--yes, I believe I am." She spoke in her former quiet
tone again.
"In England all young ladies are conservative, at least all I have ever
known," continued Wilton.
"Conservative!--I have read that word often in the journals. Is it
legitimacy, Church and state, and all that?"
"Exactly."
"Well, the young ladies I know--and they are but few--are very charming,
very accomplished; but they know nothing, absolutely nothing. Is it not
strange?"
There was not the slightest approach to cynicism in her tone, but she
looked at Wilton as if fully expecting him to share her wonder.
"Is this the character of the young ladies of the unknown land into
which I am about to plunge? I fancied Scotchwomen were educated within
an inch of their lives."
"I know English girls best. Some are very learned; have been taught
quantities; they can tell the very year when printing was tried, and
when Queen Elizabeth first wore silk stockings, and when every great
pope was born; and they read French and German; and oh, I cannot tell
all they can do and say. And yet--yet, they know nothing--they care for
nothing--they lead such strange lives."
"I suppose the lives of all girls are much alike," observed Wilton, more
and more curious to find out some leading acts concerning his rather
original companion. "But, as we are both bound for the same place,
perhaps I may have some opportunity of communicating my observations on
the intellectual status of the Monkscleugh young ladies?"
"There is very little probability of such an event," said she, with an
amused smile.
"Then you do not reside at Monkscleugh?"
"Within three miles of it."
"I am going down to a shooting-lodge called Glenraven," hoping she would
respond by naming her own abode.
"Indeed! I know it; there are some lovely bits about there."
"We shall be neighbors, then?"
"Yes, in a certain sense. Here," she continued, turning over a fresh
page of her book, "this is the outline of a very lovely brae and burn
close to your abode."
It was only a bit of broken bank; a stream, dotted with stones, lay
below, with some mountain ash trees spreading their feathery foliage
against the sky; but there were wonderful grace and beauty in the
sketch. "This gives you a very faint idea of the reality," she resumed,
in a low, soft tone, as if inwardly contemplating it. "The water is
clear brown; it foams and chafes round these large black stones, and all
sorts of delicious mosses and leaves lurk below the edge; and then ferns
wave about the rocks on the brae, and there are gleams of purple heather
and tufts of green, green grass, and behind here a great, wild, free
hill-side. Oh, it is so quiet and dreamy there--delicious!"
"And this delightful brae is near the lodge?" said Wilton, when she
paused, after listening an instant in hopes she would speak on, there
was such caressing sweetness in her voice.
"No, not very near; almost a mile away, I think." She evidently knew the
place well.
"I hope you will continue to transfer the beauties of Glenraven after I
become a dweller there."
"Oh, yes; whenever I have time; to draw is my greatest pleasure."
With all her frankness, he was not an inch nearer the discovery of her
actual abode.
"I suppose you do not live far from the scene of your sketch?"
"Not far: Brosedale is quite a mile and a half on this side," touching
the page with her pencil; "and the pathway to Monkscleugh goes over the
brae."
"Indeed! I imagine I have heard the name of Brosedale before."
"Very likely; it is, I believe, the largest gentleman's seat in the
neighborhood."
"Yes, yes; I remember now: it belongs to Sir Peter Fergusson."
"Exactly."
"She cannot be his daughter," thought Wilton; "I suppose she must be
the governess.--I understand he is quite the grand seigneur of
Monkscleugh," he said aloud.
"Well, I suppose so. He is a good little man--at least, whenever I see
him he is very kind." After some further, but intermittent conversation,
there was a sort of movement in the next room, and Wilton's companion
begged him to go and see what was the matter.
The matter was the arrival of the promised engine and train; so Wilton's
conversation and inquiries were put an end to for the present.
To his infinite disgust, when they resumed their places, a fat elderly
man, a commercial traveller from Glasgow, intruded upon their
_tête-à-tête_, and absorbed all the talk to himself. He was great in
railway experiences, accidents included, and addressed a steady,
unceasing flow of talk to Wilton, who burned to eject him summarily from
the window.
The young lady had sunk to sleep at last, carefully wrapped in Wilton's
cloak, and the bagman, having exhausted either his powers or his
subject, composed himself to slumber. But Wilton could not rest for a
long time, and he seemed hardly to have lost consciousness before they
stopped at Carlisle. Here the commercial traveller alighted, and
Wilton's puzzling companion woke up.
"We shall be at Monkscleugh in three-quarters of an hour," said Wilton;
"can I be of any further use to you if your friends are not there to
meet you, as may be the case?"
"There will be no friends to meet me," she replied; "but I need trouble
you no more: I go to the house of one of the Brosedale employés, who
will send me on."
"After a hair-breadth 'scape, such as ours," said Wilton, amused at his
own unwonted bashfulness and difficulty in putting the question, "may I
ask the name of my comrade in danger?"
"My name?" with some surprise. "Oh, Ella--Ella Rivers."
"And mine; do you not care to inquire?" said Wilton, bending forward to
look into her eyes.
"Yes," she said, slowly, with a slight sigh; "what is your name?"
"Wilton."
"Have you no other?--there is always more character in a Christian
name."
"Mine is Ralph."
"Ralph--Ralph--I do not seem to understand it. Are you noble?"
"No; simply Colonel Wilton."
"Ah! a colonel is higher than a captain, and lower than a general?"
"Just so."
She relapsed into silence, scarcely responding to Wilton's endeavor to
make her talk and turn her eyes upon him. He was surprised to find
himself counting the minutes that remained before he should be compelled
to lose sight of his curiously fascinating companion. The parting moment
came all too quickly, and Wilton was obliged to say "Good-by."
"I hope to have the pleasure of seeing you again," he said, politely.
"There is nothing so unlikely," she returned, with a slight blush;
"but," holding out her hand, "your kindness will always be a pleasant
recollection."
She bowed and turned away so decidedly that Wilton felt he must not
follow.