CHAPTER II.
AN ACCIDENT.
While the two were talking, a long train, part carriages, part trucks,
was rattling through a dreary country, where it could never have been
were there not regions very different on both sides of it. For miles in
any direction, nothing but humpy moorland was to be seen, a gathering of
low hills, with now and then a higher one, its sides broken by
occasional torrents, in poor likeness of a mountain. No smoke proclaimed
the presence of human dwelling; but there were spots between the hills
where the hand of man had helped the birth of a feeble fertility; and in
front was a small but productive valley, on the edge of which stood the
ancient house of Potlurg, with the heath behind it: over a narrow branch
of this valley went the viaduct.
It was a slow train, with few passengers. Of these one was looking from
his window with a vague, foolish sense of superiority, thinking what a
forgotten, scarce created country it seemed. He was a well-dressed,
good-looking fellow, with a keen but pale-gray eye, and a fine forehead,
but a chin such as is held to indicate weakness. More than one, however,
of the strongest women I have known, were defective in chin. The young
man was in the only first-class carriage of the train, and alone in it.
Dressed in a gray suit, he was a little too particular in the smaller
points of his attire, and lacked in consequence something of the look of
a gentleman. Every now and then he would take off his hard round hat,
and pass a white left hand through his short-cut mousey hair, while his
right caressed a far longer mustache, in which he seemed interested. A
certain indescribable heaviness and lack of light characterized his pale
face.
It was a lovely day in early June. The air was rather cold, but youth
and health care little about temperature on a holiday, with the sun
shining, and that sweetest sense--to such at least as are ordinarily
bound by routine--of having nothing to do. To many men and women the
greatest trouble is to choose, for self is the hardest of masters to
please; but as yet George Crawford had not been troubled with much
choosing.
A crowded town behind him, the loneliness he looked upon was a pleasure
to him. Compelled to spend time in it, without the sense of being on the
way out of it, his own company would soon have grown irksome to him; for
however much men may be interested in themselves, there are few indeed
who are interesting to themselves. Those only whose self is aware of a
higher presence can escape becoming bores and disgusts to themselves.
That every man is endlessly greater than what he calls himself, must
seem a paradox to the ignorant and dull, but a universe would be
impossible without it. George had not arrived at the discovery of this
fact, and yet was for the present contented both with himself and with
his circumstances.
The heather was not in bloom, and the few flowers of the heathy land
made no show. Brown and darker brown predominated, with here and there a
shadow of green; and, weary of his outlook, George was settling back to
his book, when there came a great bang and a tearing sound. He started
to his feet, and for hours knew nothing more. A truck had run off the
line and turned over; the carriage in which he was had followed it, and
one of the young man's legs was broken.
