Mother was there, quiet as usual, and she held in her hand a white handkerchief with red stains. On the floor, lying flat, was a young woman, dressed in black—rather young, that is to say, though not quite a girl, with shut eyes and a white face, and something red spotting her white lips. A young man stood close to mother, tall and dark-haired, and with such a troubled face!—and the surgeon of Claxton neighbourhood, Mr. Baitson, knelt on the other side of the young woman, stooping over her. I could not see what he was doing, and I did not wait to find out. I had a dread of the sight of blood, and I fled away at once to the platform.
The bustle and confusion there were more than I know how to describe. Everybody seemed to have leaped out of the train the moment it stopped, and everybody was talking. Some were asking questions, and some were angry, and two or three ladies were half fainting, and one was in a fit of shrieking hysterics, with a lot of folks round her. Perhaps she had been so taken by surprise that she could not control herself; but yet I think she need not have screamed so loud.
Nobody noticed me at first, and I stepped into the corner beside the big station-clock, where I stood, quaking still, and glad to lean against the wall.
The engine and truck had met before the train came to a standstill, for the truck was turned half over, twisted round, and thrown partly off the rails. The shock must have been sharp enough to do some damage, and yet it could not be called much of a collision, compared with what it might have been. Strange to say, neither the engine nor any of the carriages had left the rails; and nobody seemed to be much hurt except the one passenger in the waiting-room.
One very stout person near me had put himself into a tremendous rage. He stamped his foot, and was as red as fire; and he stormed at everybody all round in a perfect fury. "It was scandalous!—disgraceful!—atrocious!" he shouted. "Atrocious! disgraceful! scandalous!" He said those words over and over, till I never could hear them since without remembering him.
I was innocent enough to think that he must be some very important man, he made such a fuss. But I might have known better. I learnt later that he was a rich butcher from the next town, who had made his fortune and retired from business. There was a quiet little grey-haired gentleman, going about in the crowd, asking one and another in a soft voice who was hurt; and I never should have guessed him to be an Earl, but he was. The butcher did scolding enough for him and every one.
Then I saw Sir Richard Arthur, and our clergyman, Mr. Armstrong, and a stranger, all three talking with my father in a little group, near to me. Poor father looked terribly pale, as well he might, and Sir Richard was pale too. The stranger was a brother of Sir Richard's, I soon found, and was one of the Company's directors, travelling by that train. I heard him say to Mr. Armstrong—
"But who waved the signal which has saved our lives?"
"Nobody seems to know," was the answer.
Mr. Armstrong was an elderly man, with grey hair and a kind face. He had been Rector in Claxton for many years, and he was like a father to the whole village. As he spoke his eyes fell on me, shrinking into the shadow of the clock, and he said "Kitty!" in a surprised tone.