Chapter XIII: A Collision

THEY were nearing Woodleigh fast. The last preceding station lay in their rear, and the next stoppage would mean home.

Joan had been for some time sitting upright in her cushioned seat, trying to make out the features of the country through deepening nightshades. Ghostly white telegraph posts flashed past at regular intervals, but little else was visible. Still Joan gazed on, her brows bent with a look of intense gravity.

George Rutherford sat opposite, making believe to read a newspaper by lamplight, but in reality watching Joan. He could not decipher her thoughts. It was something unusual for her to be so absorbed as to remain unconscious of his scrutiny.

Dulcibel and Nessie, tired with the long day’s journey, were comfortably ensconced in the two farther corners of the compartment, both sound asleep. The seats between were empty.

“Father,” Joan said at length abruptly, turning her face towards him, “I wonder if—”

“Yes, my dear—” as she came to a pause.

“No; I think I’ll ask you by-and-by,” Joan answered, flushing.

“Afraid of me?”

“Oh, no! As if that were possible! But there are some things one can’t say always and anywhere. I could ask you questions which I couldn’t put to anybody else—in your study, sitting by your side on a stool, when it is nearly dark.”

“It is nearly dark now, Joan; and there is room for you by my side.”

“But this is not your study,” Joan replied archly, taking the offered position.

“We may make it so for the moment, to all intents and purposes. Shut your eyes, and picture the bookshelves around. What were you going to ask me?”

A break, and then—“I can’t now, father. Some other time.”

“My dear, if a thing has to be said or done, there is no time like the present.”

“Yes—but—”

“But my little woman is shy?”

“I suppose I am,” said Joan. “Some things are so difficult to speak about, even to the people one loves most and best. I should like to turn my heart inside out to you, if I could do it without talking. Having to put everything into words is hard. One word is too strong, and another is not strong enough, and no two people mean exactly alike by the same word.”

“Earthly language is defective,” assented George. “I suppose that want will be fully supplied in heaven.”

Joan’s face said—“How?”

“Each word having its own absolute meaning, being in exact accordance with the thing signified, and being used always in its rightful sense. There will be no misunderstandings in heaven.”

“But you never misunderstand me, father. Other people do, of course.”

“I think you must have some fear of the possibility even with me, or you would find speaking out an easier task.”

There was no direct response to this. Joan said, after a minute—“We are almost there.”

“Is that tone just a little regretful?”

“N-no, father,” said Joan slowly. “Wales has been very delightful. But I couldn’t regret going home. Only—”

“My dear, I don’t think I quite understand you this evening,” said George.

“I don’t think I quite understand myself,” Joan answered, flashing a look up at him in the lamplight; “I was going to say—‘Only there is that old Mr. Brooke.’”

“He seems rather a bugbear of your imagination at present. Did he not assure you of non-troublesome intentions?”

“Oh, yes. But people change their minds betimes.”

“They do,” George said. “Will you change yours now, Joan, and ask me the little question which you had in your thoughts a minute ago?”

Joan’s eyes fell.

“I don’t think I can,” she said.

“Not if I wish it?”

Joan fidgeted with one of her gloves. Once she looked up, and met his kind, wistful gaze. Words were hovering on her lips, yet they did not come forth. She said at length, desperately—

“Father, I can’t.”

“Well, I won’t tease you. Some other time I hope you will be able. No need to say how glad I am to give my Joan help, whenever it is possible.”

Yes, Joan knew that well; and as the momenta sped she began slowly to wish that she had not let the opportunity slip. She could scarcely have told what she had wanted to ask, only she had a sense of need, a desire for something of spiritual help. And, after all, no time for appealing to George Rutherford could well be better than this lost time. But it was now too late. The train was rushing into Woodleigh, and the station lay close ahead. Rapid slackening of speed had already begun.

“Here we are!” George said, giving her a kind, reassuring smile, as if he feared she might think him vexed by her refusal.

“I’ll get down the umbrellas,” Joan said, moving to the other end of the compartment, where Dulcibel was slowly opening her eyes.

“Is this Woodleigh? Oh, dear, I am so tired! Nessie, you must wake up. Joan, just put—”

The sentence was cut short. A fierce jarring shock vibrated through the train, and they were at a standstill.

Joan was distinctly conscious of the shock, conscious of the shuddering thrill which shook the boards under her feet, conscious of the force with which she was flung against the side of the carriage and down upon the cushioned seat. The long grinding crash of the train, brought suddenly to a stop—happily from not half its usual speed—reached her ears vividly, mingled with shrieks of human terror. The hiss and rush of water came next, sounding close at hand, and in one instant the air was full of white, blinding steam.

Joan tried to struggle up from her prone position, and found herself held firmly down. Something seemed to be clutching her dress, but there was no painful pressure; her arms were free, and her mind was clear. “Father!” was the first involuntary cry, as she groped around with outstretched hands, and then—“Mother! Nessie! Oh, what has happened?”

But no response came, only the outside din went on continuously, and her voice rose to a scream with the terrified appeal—.

“Father, father, are you hurt?”

Silence still. Something streaming down her own face made her put up one hand, and she knew it to be blood. She could feel the outlines of a cut on her forehead, though still unconscious of pain. Bodily sensations were lost in bewilderment and dread.

A hand touched hers as if by accident, and the two closed together tightly.

“Nessie,” Joan cried.

And Nessie said hoarsely—

“Joan, mother doesn’t move.”

“I can’t either, can you?” Joan answered hurriedly. “I’m held down. There’s a weight on my dress, I think. If I could only get to father! He must be hurt, or he would come. Oh, I don’t know what to do! Nessie, are you all right?”

“Yes, I think so. But mother!” Nessie said.

“But father!” was the cry of Joan’s heart. She struggled to release herself, struggling in vain. Each effort brought a fresh flow of blood from the cut in her forehead, and Joan grew faint.

“I can touch mother, but she won’t answer or move,” Nessie said fearfully.

“Nessie, couldn’t you go to father?” asked Joan, in a voice which sounded to herself strange and far-away.

“I can’t. The sides of the carriage seem jammed in, so there’s no getting past you. If only this horrid white mist would clear! It must be from the engine, I suppose.” Nessie spoke in a tone of unwonted flurry and excitement, not surprising under the circumstances. “Some one ought to help us out. Why doesn’t any one come? I’ve tried to open the door, and I can’t.”

“Father must be hurt, or he would speak,” moaned the other. “Nessie, call for help—call loudly. They don’t know we are here, perhaps.”

She could not tell whether Nessie obeyed. Buzzing sounds filled her ears, and the dim, white mist faded into blackness. Seconds, minutes, even hours, might have passed before she revived to a consciousness of voices, faces, and lantern light. Troubled eyes were peering in through the shattered window, and the steam had partially cleared away.

“Some ladies this side,” a voice said, and Joan was vaguely conscious of a familiar sound. “Here, men.”

“Three of us,” Nessie’s small tones chimed in. “And a gentleman at the other end. We can’t get to him.”

With much exertion and difficulty the door of their compartment was forced open. Strong hands lifted Dulcibel out, and Nessie followed, an exclamation of concern in that same deep voice greeting the two. Joan did not hear it, nor did she know that the owner of the voice gave up his lantern to another, and hastened elsewhere. Her release was no quick matter; for some of the broken woodwork had closed like a vice upon her skirts, and part of the dress had to be cut away before she could be freed. She said impatiently once, “Oh, leave me—don’t mind about me! Only see to my father?” One of the men answered, “The gentleman has gone, miss,” and they worked on steadily.

Out at last upon the ground, amid the scattered debris of the collision; with a black sky above, and rain dripping on her head; a wrecked carriage in front, and an overturned engine close beyond; lanterns glimmering here and there, and men moving confusedly to and fro. A good many passengers had made their way already to the Cross Arms Hotel, a rather superior village inn, within two minutes’ walk of the spot where the accident had occurred. Others preferred to wait, and give needed help.

No other carriages had suffered to the same extent as the foremost compartment, in which the Rutherfords had travelled; but many people were more or less shaken and bruised. One lady in violent hysterics sat near, filling the air with her shrieks, and declining to stir; while a poor stoker, with a broken leg, lay not far or, scarcely groaning in his pain—only waiting to be carried away. He was not the worst among the injured. Mr. Forest, the Woodleigh doctor, and a surgeon from a distance, travelling by this same train, were both occupied elsewhere.

Joan herself looked ghastly—pallid, dizzy, and streaked with blood. One of her rescuers lifted a lantern, throwing its light full upon her; and she staggered, grasping at somebody’s arm. Needed support was at once given, and the question, “Are you much hurt?” was asked in concerned, deep tones, so familiar in their articulation that Joan turned, with one sharp cry of relief—“Oh, father!”

“No, Joan; don’t you know me?”

“No. Oh, I don’t care—” and she snatched away her arm from that of the tall, broad built fair-haired man by her side, in bitter, almost angry disappointment. “I thought it was father’s voice! Will nobody get him out? Will nobody see what is the matter? He hasn’t said a word. Oh, do make haste!”

“He has been taken out from the other door. They could not have reached him from this side.” Joan had not thought of that possibility, and the words would have brought relief, only something in the speaker’s manner stirred her to renewed fear. “I have been there—helping.... Joan, are you much hurt? Don’t you know me?” as she stared at him. “I am Leonard Ackroyd—Leo! Are you badly hurt?”

“No, no, no. It is nothing—only a cut—nothing at all,” cried Joan passionately. “If I could know about father? Nothing else matters! Where is he? I must go to him.”

Leo’s hand was on her arm detainingly.

“Not yet—impossible yet,” he said. “The surgeons are there!”

“The surgeons?”

“Mr. Forest, and another, a friend of mine, going by this train—”

“Where?”

“They are with him.”

“Where?” repeated Joan, in agony.

Leonard would not give a direct answer. He doubted his own power to keep her back if she once knew whither to turn her steps, so wild in determination was the blanched face.

“He has been taken under shelter. They are seeing to him at once. There could be no delay.”

Joan’s colorless lips could hardly frame the word—“Hurt!”

“I am afraid so—very much.”

“Worse than others?”

“You were nearest the engine; and his end of the compartment—” Leo seemed unable to continue, yet those craving eyes would not let him off. “There was—Joan, will you not come with me? We shall know—presently.”

She almost stamped her foot.

“There was—what—what? Tell me.”

“From the engine—a rush of boiling water—that, or hot steam; I don’t know which—or how,” Leo said with difficulty. “He seemed to be severely scalded.”

“Could he speak?”

“No.”

“Not—not—dead?”

“No, Joan—” very sadly; and then a pause. “But—”

Joan’s white face grew whiter, and the ground seeming falling from under her feet. “I must go to him,” she strove to say; and then all power to move or speak died away. Leonard Ackroyd lifted her like a child in his strong arms, and bore her elsewhere.