While this strange story is fresh in my memory, I am writing it, just as it was told me by my friend George B----, who a few years ago was general manager of a well-known Canadian railroad. I had known George for years, and had been superintendent of the same road. He told me the history of his life one beautiful night in June as we were seated in a sleeping car _en route_ for Montreal. For the first time I knew why he had never married, a problem that had cost me many conjectures.

The story is founded on a presentiment. Presentiments are difficult things to a.n.a.lyze, but for my part I believe the tale, and am content to let the reader use his own judgment in the matter.

"I began my railway career," commenced George, "on the Old Colony R.R., as operator at Shirley Junction, which at that time was one of the most important crossing points on the whole road. Poor Herbert Lawrence, who plays such a tragic part in this story, was the day operator. It was at Shirley Junction that I met Julia Waine, the station agent's niece. She was a singularly beautiful girl, and naturally it was her beauty that first attracted me; but her intelligence and sympathetic nature were the loadstones that drew my heart to her as I came to know her better. A week after I arrived at the Junction, the agent gave a party in honor of Julia's birthday, and Herbert and I were among the invited guests. Julia looked very beautiful and sweet, as she welcomed us in the quaint little parlor over the telegraph office. I had not been in the room ten minutes before I discovered that Herbert Lawrence loved Julia as unselfishly as I did. Herbert, who was a gentlemanly fellow, was, on account of his intensely nervous disposition, ill-adapted to the work of an operator. He was extremely sensitive, and had a painful habit of blushing that at times made him look almost ridiculous. He knew his failing, and it was pitiful to see his struggles for self-command. All the evening he sat in a corner of the parlor, like a faithful dog, content to watch the being he so dearly loved. Once or twice during the party I saw Julia go over to where he was sitting and speak to him, and from her manner I knew his love was not returned. When shaking hands with her at the close of the party I heard him say, 'I hope I may be at your next birthday party.'

"'I hope so; I shall then be twenty-one, and I am beginning to feel quite old already,' she replied brightly.

"Her next birthday party! G.o.d wisely hides the future from us! I had been at the station a little over six months when the adventure that I am about to relate occurred. November, 1873, ushered in weather that railway men heartily dislike. All day a cold rain had fallen, coating the rails with a thin layer of ice. Drivers of express trains had their work cut out to keep on time, while freight trains straggled in at all hours.

"When I came on duty that night, at seven o'clock, I saw that I was going to have a busy time of it. Until that evening I can truthfully say that I never knew what nervousness was; but scarcely had I entered the station when I felt suddenly depressed. I attributed the feeling to heat, and tried to pull myself together by poking fun at Herbert, whom I accused of wilfully keeping the trains late in order to shirk handling them. Every night Herbert gave me a written account of the trains handled during the day, and especially drew my attention to any crossing orders that had to be attended to. As Herbert was leaving the room I glanced at the book and saw there were no orders on hand. This should have satisfied me that everything was all right; but it did not, and I called out to him and asked if there were any train orders.

He replied in a low, absent voice that there were none. I could not help but notice his dejection, and a feeling of pity filled my heart for him. The evening previous Julia had promised to be my wife.

Herbert did not know this, but I knew he had a presentiment that the girl he so dearly loved cared more for me than she did for him. He did not, however, show any resentment, but appeared strangely depressed.

After he had left the station, I tried to drive away from my mind the foreboding of ill by reading; but, like Banquo's ghost, it would not down. I began to think I was going to be seriously ill. Restlessly I paced the floor, longing for, yet dreading, the approach of the express train which was due at the station at 9 p.m. The wind had risen and was buffeting the telegraph wires, making them hum in an exasperating manner.

"As the minutes slowly wore away, my disquietude alarmingly increased.

I was charged with a nervous dread, for which I could not find the slightest excuse; I knew, however, that in some strange way the approaching express was the cause of it. I thought of Julia; surely the demon of unrest would be banished if I saw her. With an almost childish impulse I sought her presence. Before I had time to seat myself, Julia, with a woman's keen perception, noticed my nervousness and asked the cause of it. Man-like I laughed at her anxiety, and tried to deceive her by being boisterously happy, but of course this failed to allay her fears. Before five minutes had elapsed I was madly anxious to get back to the operating room again, although I knew perfectly well there was nothing for me to do. To this day I cannot understand what power, despite all my common-sense, made me hurry back, and again begin to hunt through the book for an order, which in my heart of hearts I knew perfectly well was not there. After all, how little we know of the great other world and the influences that may be there at work!

"It was now 8.45. In fifteen minutes more the express would be in. I was actually unable to endure the dreadful suspense, and had just made up my mind to go and see Herbert, who boarded across the road from the station, when the waiting-room door opened and he entered. Without speaking to me he walked dejectedly over to the station agent's door, and was just going to knock at it, when I reached his side and said to him in deep agitation, 'Tell me, Herbert, are you quite sure you received no orders to hold the express? she will soon be here now.' My voice trembled with anxiety. Without looking at me or appearing to notice my strange manner, he replied, 'No orders, if you received none.' As the door closed behind him I could have cried out, so keen was the feeling of dread that again swept over me. Just then I heard the whistle of the locomotive, which seemed to stop my very heart from beating. Like one bereft I ran back into the telegraph office, and began to call the dispatcher's office. There was one more chance of saving the express if it was in danger, and that was by asking if an order had been sent to hold it for a crossing. I had waited until the last minute before I could make up my mind to do this: because, if the dispatcher had telegraphed an order, he would know by repeating it that Herbert had forgotten to book it and turn the red light facing the station on to the track. Such a grave omission would mean sure dismissal. If he had not sent one he would want to know what made me ask him such a strange question, and would at once get an inkling that something was wrong. True it is that troubles never come singly!

For a full minute I stood desperately calling the dispatcher's office, but got no answer. Either the wires had been crossed or the man had for a few minutes left his post. I closed the key and sank weakly back on my chair.

"As the door opened and old Conductor Rawlings, with the typical railway man's good-natured bustle, entered the room and noisily banged his lamp down on the desk, I buried my face in my hands, completely prostrated by contending emotions. The feeling that the train should not be allowed to proceed burned in me more fiercely than ever.

"'Here, there!' yelled Rawlings, 'hurry up and trot out that clearance order.' If I had been chained to the chair I could not have been more unable to move. Getting no answer from me, Rawlings walked quickly into the telegraph office, and catching me unceremoniously by the arm, said impatiently, 'Come, now, wake up and give me that order; what do you mean by keeping me like this?'

"With a dazed feeling I staggered to my feet and took up a pad of orders. If I signed and gave him one of them, I was responsible for the safety of the train until it reached the next station. The orders read that the track was clear of all trains, and that no instructions had been received by the operator to detain trains for crossings. The forms were printed. All the operators had to do was to sign them. With averted face I seized the pen and tried to sign my name to one of the slips, but so fearfully were my nerves unstrung that the pen fell twice from my hand to the floor. The next thing I knew, Rawlings had turned me round and was letting the glare of the lantern fall full on my face.

"'I will report you for this detention. What is the matter with you?

You look wild enough to be put in an asylum.'

"Mechanically I completed the signature and handed him the order. Just as he was about to step from the station to the platform, he suddenly turned round, and said somewhat apprehensively, 'Of course you have received no orders to detain me?' 'No,' I replied, in a voice that did not sound like my own.

"As the train began to move slowly out of the station I sprang to my feet, ran to the window, and gazed in terror at it.

"Just as Rawlings was about to jump on one of the cars, some impulse made him pause and glance at the window where I was standing.

Something in my face must have strangely affected him, as he allowed the car on which he was about to jump to go by, and without apparently seeming to know what he was doing, swung his lantern from right to left. If the engineer had seen this signal he would have stopped the train. With an impatient shake of his head Rawlings jumped on to the step of the next car. He stood on the step as he pa.s.sed, and with contracted brow again fixed his eyes on mine. The moment I lost sight of the train the spell that bound me to the window was broken. An involuntary cry came from my dry lips, and I dashed my hand through the gla.s.s with the imbecile impulse of stopping the train. The remarkable presentiment that the train should not go on had full possession of me now.

"Like one possessed I ran out of the office, burst open the door leading to the agent's house, mounted in bounds the stairs leading to it, and ran through the sitting-room into the parlor, where I knew I should find Herbert. Just before I entered the room I heard Herbert say in a broken voice, 'Then there is no hope for me?'

"'No,' replied a choked voice, which I recognized as Julia's. An embarra.s.sing scene met my gaze; kneeling at Julia's feet with a look of keen disappointment on his face was Herbert.

"As I rushed into the room he sprang to his feet with an exclamation of anger and amazement. But when he saw my face, an expression of deadly fear pa.s.sed over his. Without stopping to think, I caught him by the coat-collar with my wounded hand; instantly his white shirt was stained with blood. 'Herbert,' I cried desperately, 'the express has just left! For heaven's sake tell me that you are quite sure you got no order to hold her. I am certain something is going to happen, something dread--'

"I never finished the sentence. I pray that I never again may see such a look of mortal agony on any face as pa.s.sed over his, or again hear such a scream as he uttered, when he rushed past me with uplifted arms, and ran downstairs crying at the top of his voice, 'Stop her!

stop her!' This terrible scene had all been acted in less than a minute. I bounded after him. Someone was following me, but I never thought of stopping to see who. My mind was now quite clear. If the express had not pa.s.sed the semaph.o.r.e she might yet be stopped. The semaph.o.r.e was nearly a quarter of a mile from the station, and the arm was down. If the engine had pa.s.sed it by a hair's breadth, ninety-nine chances out of a hundred the engineer would go on. If I could let up the arm before the engine reached it, all might be well. My main hope was in the icy condition of the track; I knew it would take her much longer than usual to get under way on such rails.

"As Herbert dashed out of the station I was not two feet behind him.

With naked head, and hands outstretched toward the rapidly departing train, and still uttering impotent cries, ran the demented fellow, his reason for the time being entirely gone. The rampant wind blew the half-frozen rain in my face with such force that I could scarcely breathe, while my eyes smarted so under the onslaught that I could see only with great difficulty. With what wonderful velocity the mind works in moments of great danger! Even before I had left the station, my alert brain had weighed and reweighed the chances of the plans it had with such marvellous rapidity given birth to. As I ran, the quick panting of the locomotive was borne to my strained ears with great distinctness by the hurrying wind. The ear is easily deceived as to sounds; whether the train was fifty yards or half a mile away I could not tell. A few more steps and the lever that worked the semaph.o.r.e was in my hands. I quickly released the wire which held down the distant semaph.o.r.e arm. Just as I did so I saw Herbert jump from the platform on to the track, along which he ran, still calling in piteous tones for the express to stop.

"Then followed an experience so fearful that I wonder my mind, too, did not lose its balance. Regardless of wind and rain I stood clutching the lever, waiting for the engine to whistle the station to lower the arm. If no whistle came, I was too late! My very heart seemed to stop and listen, while my nerves seemed as if they must surely snap, so overwrought were they. To my excited imagination every second seemed an hour. Still the dreadful suspense went on, while the panting of the engine grew quicker and quicker. The suspense was actually too great to bear, and I weakly sank on to the platform. A moment later there came floating a sound sweeter to my ears than the triumphant song of the nightingale; yet it was only the deep discordant whistle of the fleeing locomotive calling for the semaph.o.r.e arm to be lowered.

"Saved! I sprang to my feet, sobbing like a child. As I turned to go back to the station, a startling apparition met my eyes; standing ten paces from me and waving a red lamp was Julia. Her white clothing and the fitful glare of the red light made her look like something supernatural. The fierce wind tossed the hair in sweet disorder about her refined delicate face, while the cold rain made the clothing cling to her slender figure like a shroud. 'Julia!' I exclaimed aghast, advancing toward her with faltering steps. Then the lantern fell, and I caught her as she was about to fall. I carried her back to the station, with the strength born in me by the continued angry whistling of the engine, and by the final cessation of its violent breathing. As I laid her on one of the benches in the waiting-room, I heard the driver whistle 'brakes off.' I knew the train would now soon be back to the station again with its precious load!

"Hardly had Julia recovered before the light on the rear car of the express backed past the station. Standing on the platform of the car was old Rawlings. With an imprecation he ran into the station and laid his hand heavily on my shoulder. 'What does all this mean? why did you throw up the semaph.o.r.e and wave the red light for us to return?' he demanded, his face all aglow with pa.s.sion. 'Don't talk like that,' I replied; 'thank G.o.d for the red lamp and the semaph.o.r.e! You likely now would have been a corpse were it not for them. There is a crossing order to hold you here. Herbert got it and forgot to enter it in the book and turn the lamp. He will soon be back and tell you whether the crossing is with a freight or pa.s.senger special.'

"'Bless me, what an escape!' burst out Rawlings. 'There will be a mighty big row about this. Where is that a.s.s of a fellow?' The question was soon answered. Slowly walking backward, with bent shoulders and arms wrapped around some dark object, entered the driver of the express, while following him and bent in a like manner came the fireman. With a dull foreboding of evil I took a step forward. They were carrying Herbert, all torn and mangled! 'We must have backed over him,' said the driver, quietly as he laid the poor battered burden down. 'There is just a spark of life left in him, nothing more.' I saw the pallid lips move, and kneeling, bent my ear to them. The last words they ever formed came very slow and faint, yet faint as they were I heard them: 'The express must--cross--the--pa.s.senger--special.

I--loved--her--so.' Then the weary lips were at peace--lasting peace.

As I rose, my eyes fell on Julia; she was crouching at the feet of the poor fellow whom, but a few moments ago she had refused to marry. As the driver threw a sheet over the remains he said, 'Poor fellow, his mistake cost him dear.' Then turning to me: 'What a blessing it was that you kept your head and signalled us with the red light; for I had just pa.s.sed under the semaph.o.r.e when the arm rose. Consequently I thought nothing of the matter; but the fireman at that moment ran up the back of the tender to throw down some coal near the fire-box, and while doing so he noticed the light. He at once called to me to look behind. The signal, coupled with the arm being thrown up before the whole train had pa.s.sed under it, made me think something was wrong, so I reversed the engine and came back.'

"It was Julia, then, and not I, who had saved the express!

"On reaching the operating room I found the conductor of the pa.s.senger special waiting. He had heard of the forgotten order, and said, 'That is the closest call I have had for years. We should have met about the trestle bridge over the ravine. It would have been a terrible pitch-in, as I have eight cars of excursionists.'

"A few moments later both trains had departed, and the only sounds to be heard were the ticking of the busy instrument and the monotonous hum of the wires. I looked at the clock. It was 9.09--just nine minutes since the regular express had steamed into the station. It seemed impossible to me that so much could have happened in so short a time. Had each minute been a week it could not have seemed longer."

George paused as though his story was done. "And Julia?" I asked, laying my hand lightly on his knee. Without replying, he drew out of his pocket an old frayed pocket-book, took out of it a slip of faded newspaper, and silently handed it to me. The words printed on it were very few; simply these: "Died March 8th, 1874, of rapid consumption, Julia Waine, aged twenty years and five months."

As I raised my head and looked at him, he said as he looked out of the low window, "The cold she took that fearful night killed her."

A Memorable Dinner.

As I often have wondered whether a Christmas dinner ever was so fearfully and wonderfully constructed, and under such novel circ.u.mstances, as the one to which I sat down on Christmas Day, 1879, I have decided to relate--in the truthful, unvarnished style that one always looks for in the old railway man--the incidents in which I was fortunate enough to partic.i.p.ate on that occasion.

That year, I was a.s.sistant-Superintendent of the St. ---- R.R., and was returning on Christmas eve from the annual inspection of the line, in company with the General Manager of the road, in the private car "St. Paul," when one of the worst blizzards I ever experienced, even in that prairie country, burst upon us, and in less than an hour, had buried the track so deeply that further progress was impossible.

It was about midnight when the engine, fully five miles distant from a human habitation, and two hundred miles from our home, sulkily admitted the superior power of nature's forces and hove to.

Fortunately, for humanity's sake, there were on our special--which consisted of the engine, the baggage car, and our private car--only five souls: Charles Fielding, the manager; myself, William Thurlow; Fred Swan, the conductor; Joe Robbins, the driver; and the hero of this history, Ovide Tetreault, the French-Canadian fireman.

It was about two o'clock in the morning when we finally gave up all hope of getting along any farther, at least for some hours, and Fielding and I lay down in our berths with the hope that the storm would abate before daybreak, so that a snow-plough might reach us and clear the line, in time to enable us to reach our homes for the Christmas dinner.

But as I lay awake and listened to the shrieks of the storm, the presentiment grew upon me that the chances of our spending the best part of Christmas Day in our contracted abode were depressingly promising. These thoughts, coupled with the knowledge that our car was but poorly provisioned, and that we were without a cook--having let that functionary stop off for Christmas Day at the station beyond which we were stranded--were in nowise conducive to my falling asleep more readily than was my wont.

I awoke a little after eight o'clock, and was just about to hurry into my clothes to see what the weather was like, when I suddenly decided there was no need of any undue haste--the roar of that festive wind could have been heard a mile away.

When I did reach the body of the car and looked out of the window, a sight met my gaze that might have made a less sinful man, than one who had spent the best part of his life on railways, give vent to comments that I am persuaded would not appear quite seemly in print.

Our car was wedged well-nigh up to the windows in a huge drift, while the wind, which had whipped the hara.s.sed snow into fragments as fine as dust, caught up great clouds of the dismembered flakes, and with triumphant shrieks drove them against the panes of gla.s.s. As I stood glaring at this inspiring picture, Fielding joined me and said, as he, too, feasted his eyes on the scene: "A villainous day! we shall be lucky if we get home by midnight. A lovely way to spend Christmas shut in like rats in a trap! If we only had our cook to do up the little food we have, it would not be so hard on us."

This last reflection was uttered in such a doleful key that I had considerable difficulty in not laughing outright, for my superior officer was a man of imposing breadth, and I knew his one weakness was the love of a good meal. The contemplation of the loss of his Christmas dinner had made him forget his usual blunt, hopeful tone of speech, and adopt this dismal strain.

During the long pause which followed, I knew that he was casting anxious glances at me. Finally he said, insinuatingly: "Er--er--William, during all the years that I have known you, it never occurred to me to ask you if you knew anything about cooking.

But, of course, it is a foolish question to put to the a.s.sistant-superintendent of a railroad," he added deprecatingly.