The guard was at the door as Tom let down the window, and met his question with—
“Tunbridge, sir. Take in water. Engine’s been detached. Back directly.”
“Don’t lose a moment.”
“No, sir. Like to get out, sir?”
“No.”
Tom threw himself back in his seat, and waited impatiently what seemed an hour, but was really only five minutes; when, just as he was rising to thrust his head out of the window, there was a slight concussion, the rattle of chains, and he knew the engine was once more attached.
“Right away!” A whistle from the guard, an answering shriek from the engine, and they glided along the platform, while the night porter on duty looked curiously at the carriage where the young man sat, after giving the signal to start; and in a few minutes, always gathering speed, away they went once more, faster and faster, into the darkness of the night.
It was refreshing to feel the wind blowing against his cheeks, even though at times he could hardly get his breath; but as he gazed forward it was almost with a feeling of wonder that they had had no accident, so black was all ahead.
From time to time a goods train dashed by them in the opposite direction, while as often they rushed by carriages which stood in sidings until those on their urgent way had passed. At last, after trying all he could to contain himself, and grow calm and fit to see the poor sufferer whom he feared to encounter, he sat in despair listening to the dreadful fancied utterances of the train.
With a prayer on his lips that it might not be too late, he lowered the window on the other side, and gazed out through the darkness in the direction that he believed to be the one where Jessie lay. “We must be near now,” he felt; and he began to look out eagerly for the town, which once reached, his journey would soon be ended.