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?”