Then ensued a scene of confusion, a Babel of tongues, as the passengers poured out upon the platform. "What was the meaning of it all?" hotly demanded an infuriated little man before he was well out of the carriage. "Why had a train been allowed to start if it was to be overturned by a snow-drift? What had the company been about not to make itself aware of the state of the line? What did the railway officials mean by—" etc. But he was not going to put up with such scandalous treatment. He should cause an inquiry to be made; he should write to the Times, he should—in short, he behaved like a true Englishman in adverse circumstances, and poured forth abuse like water. Others followed—some angry, some silent, all cold and miserable. A stout woman in black, who had been sent for to a dying child, was weeping aloud; a dazed man with bound-up head and a terrified wife were pounced upon immediately by expectant friends, and borne off with voluble sympathy. One or two people slightly hurt were helped out after the others. The train was emptied at last. Aurelia was not there. Charles went down the length of the train looking into each carriage, and then came back, answering Ralph's glance with a shake of the head. The man in black, who seemed to have been watching him, came up.
"Have all come back by this train?" Charles asked.
"All, sir, except,"—and he hesitated—"except a few. The doctor who went has not returned; and the guard says there were some of the passengers, badly hurt, that he would not allow to be moved from the farm when the train came for them. The engine-driver and one or two others were—"
Charles made a sign to him to be silent.
"How far is it?" he asked.
"Twenty miles, sir."
"Are the roads practicable?"
"No, sir. At least they would be very uncertain once you got into the lanes."
"We can walk along the line," said Ralph. "That must be clear. Let us start at once."
"Could not the station-master send us down on an engine?" asked Charles. "We would pay well for it."