“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.