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Roy Glashan's Library
Non sibi sed omnibus
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This work is out of copyright in countries with a copyright
period of 70 years or less, after the year of the author's death.
If it is under copyright in your country of residence,
do not download or redistribute this file.
Original content added by RGL (e.g., introductions, notes,
RGL covers) is proprietary and protected by copyright.
RGL e-Book Cover
Based on an image created with Magic Studio software
IN the garden, close under the window just where he had stood that morning—was Evan Wynne, the pointsman.
He stood motionless, looking at me intently; waiting, as it appeared, for me to address him. The moonlight rested full upon his face, which was only a few feet from mine, and made his clear, sanguine complexion look of a dull, leaden pallor. For a moment I was too startled to utter a word, and could only gaze at him as fixedly as he at me; then, as he was still silent, I spoke: "What is the matter, Wynne? What do you want?"
Without removing his eyes from my face he pointed towards the distant line of rails and said, in a tone which had a sharp ring of entreaty or command: "Set the points for the 12.15 express!"
I stared at him blankly. "What did you say?" I asked, though I had heard plainly enough.
In exactly the same tone he repeated exactly the same words: "Set the points for the 12.15 express," and then retreated a few steps backward towards the gate.
As I still sat looking at him out of a dense mist of bewilderment, he paused; he did not speak again, but his eyes, fixed on mine, urged, implored, commanded me to obey, and his warning hand pointed again towards the railway. Mechanically following with my eyes the direction of his finger, I looked across the moor on the left, and saw, far, far off, three tiny red sparks—the lamps of the approaching train. When I looked back again Wynne was gone. Gone where? Before me was the barren little garden, with not a single shrub or bush high enough to conceal a man's figure; beyond was the unfenced road, winding away over the broad, bare moor, and lighted by the brilliant moon. Not a living creature was in sight.
I sat for a moment like one stunned, then, under the stimulus of a shapeless dread, which quickened my pulses and set my heart throbbing, I threw away my cigar, and, without wasting another moment in conjectures, prepared to obey that mysterious summons. Opening my window to its widest. I let myself drop gently into the garden, cleared the low stone wall, and set off across the moor. As I proceeded I looked sharply to right and left, strained my eyes down the road before me, and now and then paused and turned, half expecting to see Wynne behind me; but to right and left, before and behind, in all the extent of the moonlit moor, there was no human being to be seen.
At that very moment, as I was about to turn back, I saw Wynne standing in the road before me, where, a second before, there had been only empty air. He did not speak; but his eyes held mine spell-bound, with a gaze of entreaty so agonised, of command so urgent, that it made my heart stand still. As I looked at him he lifted his hand and pointed, this time in an opposite direction, and straining my eyes into the distance, I saw, coming down the inland line, the other midnight train, which passed the express just before the level crossing. He then extended his hand towards me in a gesture of warning or menace, and was gone—gone utterly, as if he had never been there.
For a moment supernatural fear paralysed me, mind and body; then, in a flash, my faculties returned to me, and I understood it all. Evan Wynne was lying dead at the level crossing, and the two trains, with their precious freight of human lives, were rushing down upon each other—nearer to destruction with every turn of the wheels. I caught my breath with a gasp, and ran as I never ran before or since. The nearest train, the express, was coming tearing over the moor to the left; I could hear, through the rushing in my ears, the panting of the engine, and the dull muffled thunder of the wheels, but I looked at nothing but the white gates before me, between which and myself lay a long, horrible stretch of road. Should I ever cover it in time?
On—on I ran, in this mad race against steam, and at length the gate was reached. I saw at a glance that Wynne was not at his post, and dashed through, across the rails to the points of the Corven line. Great Heaven!—I had forgotten which lever to use! A moment before I knew it as well as the pointsman himself; now, to save my soul, I could not recollect which of those slanting handles it was. And the train was tearing down upon me; the ground shook under my feet—the air vibrated. As I stood there, fixed and frozen, for the third time the apparition appeared to me. It stood close to me; pointed to one of the levers, and was gone again. I seized the one indicated and pushed it down, and held it, just as the first wheels of the engine touched the points where the rails branched off. There was a jerk, a shock, then the train wound smoothly along the curve, and, with a shrill scream of triumph, rushed on its way. I had just time to change the points again, when the other passed, scattering a long train of sparks behind it; then there was silence again, and the lonely line and the moonlit moor.
Then I rose and looked round. There stood the little cabin, in its tiny plot of garden, its door, as usual, open. I felt a shuddering reluctance to enter; but, putting a strong constraint upon myself, crossed the lines and approached the door.
A lamp burnt on the little table, and there, with his back to me, sat Evan Wynne. A book was open before him, and he seemed to have fallen asleep over it, for his head was lying on his folded arms. But, before I touched him, before I raised his head, and turned his calm, dead face to the light, I knew that he slept "the sleep which knows no waking."
Yes, he was dead—struck down by heart disease in the prime of his lusty manhood.
Roy Glashan's Library
Non sibi sed omnibus
Go to Home Page
This work is out of copyright in countries with a copyright
period of 70 years or less, after the year of the author's death.
If it is under copyright in your country of residence,
do not download or redistribute this file.
Original content added by RGL (e.g., introductions, notes,
RGL covers) is proprietary and protected by copyright.