CHAPTER II. — TWO’S COMPANY.
Elma was just engaged in debating with herself internally how a young lady of perfect manners and impeccable breeding, travelling without a chaperon, ought to behave under such trying circumstances, after having allowed herself to be drawn unawares into familiar conversation with a most attractive young artist, when all of a sudden a rapid jerk of the carriage succeeded in extricating her perforce, and against her will, from this awkward dilemma. Something sharp pulled up their train unexpectedly. She was aware of a loud noise and a crash in front, almost instantaneously followed by a thrilling jar—a low dull thud—a sound of broken glass—a quick blank stoppage. Next instant she found herself flung wildly forward into her neighbour’s arms, while the artist, for his part, with outstretched hands, was vainly endeavouring to break the force of the fall for her.
All she knew for the first few minutes was merely that there had been an accident to the train, and they were standing still now in the darkness of the tunnel.
For some seconds she paused, and gasped hard for breath, and tried in vain to recall her scattered senses. Then slowly she sank back on the seat once more, vaguely conscious that something terrible had happened to the train, but that neither she nor her companion were seriously injured.
As she sank back in her place, Cyril Waring bent forward towards her with sympathetic kindliness.
“You’re not hurt, I hope,” he said, holding out one hand to help her rise. “Stand up for a minute, and see if you’re anything worse than severely shaken. No? That’s right, then! That’s well, as far as it goes. But I’m afraid the nervous shock must have been very rough on you.”
Elma stood tip, with tears gathering fast in her eyes. She’d have given the world to be able to cry now, for the jar had half stunned her and shaken her brain; but before the artist’s face she was ashamed to give free play to her feelings. So she only answered, in a careless sort of tone—
“Oh, it’s nothing much, I think. My head feels rather queer; but I’ve no bones broken. A collision, I suppose. Oughtn’t we to get out at once and see what’s happened to the other people?”
Cyril Waring moved hastily to the door, and, letting down the window, tried with a violent effort to turn the handle from the outside. But the door wouldn’t open. As often happens in such accidents, the jar had jammed it. He tried the other side, and with some difficulty at last succeeded in forcing it open. Then he descended cautiously on to the six-foot-way, and held out his hand to help Elma from the carriage.
It was no collision, he saw at once, but a far more curious and unusual accident.