Chapter VII: 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.