The Relentless CityBenson, E. F. (Edward Frederic)
General
The Relentless City
Benson, E. F. (Edward Frederic)
British -- United States -- Fiction; New York (N.Y.) -- Social life and customs -- Fiction; Upper class -- Fiction
About the same time the party left Molesworth to drive to the station,
where the Liverpool express would be stopped for them. It was a
distance of not more than three miles, but they stopped in the village
close to the station in case there was anything at the post-office
which had come by the second post, and would thus miss them. There
was only one thing--a telegram from Bilton, re-directed from Seaton
House, asking that the train might be stopped at Wyfold. So they drove
on to the station, and there learned that the express had already
passed through Wyfold without stopping, and would reach Molesworth in
six or seven minutes. So Mr. Palmer, who never wasted regrets on the
inevitable, shrugged his shoulders and inspected the book-stall, while
Mrs. Palmer inundated the telegraph-office with despatches, and Bertie
and Amelie strolled up and down the platform.
Bilton came to himself with a blank unconsciousness of where he was.
It was quite dark, and he first realized that he was not in bed by the
feel of his clothes. Then he put his hand to his head, and drew it away
with a start of horror, for it was warm and wet. Then he felt with his
hand the metal of the roadway, and, following that, encountered one of
the rails. At that the broken ends of memory joined themselves, and he
knew where he was. Simultaneously he heard the dead silence broken by a
distant roar and rumble.
At this he started to his feet, wavered, and nearly fell again. All
his senses were suddenly electrified, vivified, by that noise, and he
remembered all--how he had started to walk through the tunnel, how he
had picked up the coat, how he had fallen, how the engineer had told
him that the next train through would be that to Liverpool. But where
was he? On which line had he fallen? There were four tracks; he thought
he ought to move to the right across the rails--no, to the left. Hell!
was it to the right or to the left that that train would pass?
The roar got louder; it echoed with an infernal clangour from the
curved sides of the tunnel; it prevented him thinking, and he felt sure
that if it would only stop for one second his head would be clear, and
he could take two steps to safety. But that noise must stop a moment,
and in a frenzy, no longer master of himself, he shouted hoarsely, and
impotently waved his hand in the darkness. From which way did it come?
From in front of him or behind him? If he could only settle that, he
would know what to do.
Public-domain text, read in full here on John Shaqi.
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