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  He directed a most curious look towards the red light near the tunnel’s mouth, and looked all about it, as if something were missing from it, and then looked at me.

  That light was part of his charge? Was it not?

  He answered in a low voice, “Don’t you know it is?”

  The monstrous thought came into my mind, as I perused the fixed eyes and the saturnine face, that this was a spirit, not a man. I have speculated since, whether there may have been infection in his mind.

  In my turn I stepped back. But in making the action, I detected in his eyes some latent fear of me. This put the monstrous thought to flight.

  “You look at me,” I said, forcing a smile, “as if you had a dread of me.”

  “I was doubtful,” he returned, “whether I had seen you before.”

  “Where?”

  He pointed to the red light he had looked at.

  “There?” I said.

  Intently watchful of me, he replied (but without sound), “Yes.”

  “My good fellow, what should I do there? However, be that as it may, I never was there, you may swear.”

  “I think I may,” he replied. “Yes; I am sure I may.”

  His manner cleared, like my own. He replied to my remarks with readiness, and in well-chosen words. Had he much to do there? Yes; that was to say, he had enough responsibility to bear; but exactness and watchfulness were what was required of him, and of actual work—manual labour—he had next to none. To change that signal, to trim those lights, and to turn this iron handle now and then, was all he had to do under that head. Regarding those many long and lonely hours of which I seemed to make so much, he could only say that the routine of his life had shaped itself into that form, and he had grown used to it. He had taught himself a language down here—if only to know it by sight, and to have formed his own crude ideas of its pronunciation, could be called learning it. He had also worked at fractions and decimals, and tried a little algebra; but he was, and had been as a boy, a poor hand at figures. Was it necessary for him when on duty always to remain in that channel of damp air, and could he never rise into the sunshine from between those high stone walls? Why, that depended upon times and circumstances. Under some conditions there would be less upon the Line than under others, and the same held good as to certain hours of the day and night. In bright weather, he did choose occasions for getting a little above these lower shadows; but, being at all times liable to be called by his electric bell, and at such times listening for it with redoubled anxiety, the relief was less than I would suppose.

  He took me into his box, where there was a fire, a desk for an official book in which he had to make certain entries, a telegraphic instrument with its dial, face, and needles, and the little bell of which he had spoken. On my trusting that he would excuse the remark that he had been well educated, and (I hoped I might say without offence), perhaps educated above that station, he observed that instances of slight incongruity in such wise would rarely be found wanting among large bodies of men, that he had heard it was so in workhouses, in the police force, even in that last desperate resource, the army; and that he knew it was so, more or less, in any great railway staff. He had been, when young (if I could believe it, sitting in that hut—he scarcely could), a student of natural philosophy, and had attended lectures; but he had run wild, misused his opportunities, gone down, and never risen again. He had no complaint to offer about that. He had made his bed, and he lay upon it. It was far too late to make another.

  All that I have here condensed he said in a quiet manner, with his grave dark regards divided between me and the fire. He threw in the word, “Sir,” from time to time, and especially when he referred to his youth—as though to request me to understand that he claimed to be nothing but what I found him. He was several times interrupted by the little bell, and had to read off messages, and send replies. Once he had to stand without the door, and display a flag as a train passed, and make some verbal communications to the driver. In the discharge of his duties, I observed him to be remarkably exact and vigilant, breaking off his discourse at a syllable, and remaining silent until what he had to do was done.

  In a word, I should have set this man down as one of the safest of men to be employed in that capacity, but for the circumstance that while he was speaking to me he twice broke off with a fallen colour, turned his face towards the little bell when it did not ring, opened the door of the hut (which was kept shut to exclude the unhealthy damp), and looked out towards the red light near the mouth of the tunnel. On both of those occasions, he came back to the fire with the inexplicable air upon him which I had remarked, without being able to define, when we were so far asunder.

  Said I, when I rose to leave him, “You almost make me think that I have met with a contented man.”

  (I am afraid I must acknowledge that I said it to lead him on.)

  “I believe I used to be so,” he rejoined, in the low voice in which he had first spoken, “but I am troubled, Sir, I am troubled.”

  He would have recalled the words if he could. He had said them, however, and I took them up quickly.

  “With what? What is your trouble?”

  “It is very difficult to impart, Sir. It is very, very difficult to speak of. If ever you make me another visit, I will try to tell you.”

  “But I expressly intend to make you another visit. Say, when shall it be?”

  “I go off early in the morning, and I shall be on again at ten tomorrow night, Sir.”

  “I will come at eleven.”

  He thanked me, and went out at the door with me. “I’ll show my white light, Sir,” he said, in his peculiar low voice, “till you have found the way up. When you have found it, don’t call out! And when you are at the top, don’t call out!”

  His manner seemed to make the place strike colder to me, but I said no more than, “Very well.”

  “And when you come down tomorrow night, don’t call out! Let me ask you a parting question. What made you cry, ‘Halloa! Below there!’ tonight?”

  “Heaven knows,” said I, “I cried something to that effect—”

  “Not to that effect, Sir. Those were the very words. I know them well.”

  “Admit those were the very words. I said them, no doubt, because I saw you below.”

  “For no other reason?”

  “What other reason could I possibly have?”

  “You had no feeling that they were conveyed to you in any supernatural way?”

  “No.”

  He wished me good night, and held up his light. I walked by the side of the down Line of rails (with a very disagreeable sensation of a train coming behind me) until I found the path. It was easier to mount than to descend, and I got back to my inn without any adventure.

  Punctual to my appointment, I placed my foot on the first notch of the zigzag next night, as the distant clocks were striking eleven. He was waiting for me at the bottom, with his white light on. “I have not called out,” I said, when we came close together; “may I speak now?”

  “By all means, Sir.”

  “Good night, then, and here’s my hand.”

  “Good night, Sir, and here’s mine.” With that we walked side by side to his box, entered it, closed the door, and sat down by the fire.

  “I have made up my mind, Sir,” he began, bending forward as soon as we were seated, and speaking in a tone but a little above a whisper, “that you shall not have to ask me twice what troubles me. I took you for some one else yesterday evening. That troubles me.”

  “That mistake?”

  “No. That some one else.”

  “Who is it?”

  “I don’t know.”

  “Like me?”

  “I don’t know. I never saw the face. The left arm is across the face, and the right arm is waved—violently waved. This way.”

  I followed his action with my eyes, and it was the action of an arm gesticulating, with the utmost passion and vehemence, “For God’s sake, clear the way!�
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  “One moonlight night,” said the man, “I was sitting here, when I heard a voice cry, ‘Halloa! Below there!’ I started up, looked from that door, and saw this someone else standing by the red light near the tunnel, waving as I just now showed you. The voice seemed hoarse with shouting, and it cried, ‘Look out!’ And then again ‘Halloa! Below there! Look out!’ I caught up my lamp, turned it on red, and ran towards the figure, calling, ‘What’s wrong? What has happened? Where?’ It stood just outside the blackness of the tunnel. I advanced so close upon it that I wondered at its keeping the sleeve across its eyes. I ran right up at it, and had my hand stretched to pull the sleeve away, when it was gone.”

  “Into the tunnel?” said I.

  “No. I ran on into the tunnel, five hundred yards. I stopped, and held my lamp above my head, and saw the figures of the measured distance, and saw the wet stains stealing down the walls and trickling through the arch. I ran out again faster than I had run in (for I had a mortal abhorrence of the place upon me), and I looked all round the red light with my own red light, and I went up the iron ladder to the gallery atop of it, and I came down again, and ran back here. I telegraphed both ways. ‘An alarm has been given. Is anything wrong?’ The answer came back, both ways, ‘All well.’ ”

  Resisting the slow touch of a frozen finger tracing out my spine, I showed him how that this figure must be a deception of his sense of sight; and how that figures, originating in disease of the delicate nerves that minister to the functions of the eye, were known to have often troubled patients, some of whom had become conscious of the nature of their affliction, and had even proved it by experiments upon themselves. “As to an imaginary cry,” said I, “do but listen for a moment to the wind in this unnatural valley while we speak so low, and to the wild harp it makes of the telegraph wires.”

  That was all very well, he returned, after we had sat listening for a while, and he ought to know something of the wind and the wires—he who so often passed long winter nights there, alone and watching. But he would beg to remark that he had not finished.

  I asked his pardon, and he slowly added these words, touching my arm—

  “Within six hours after the appearance, the memorable accident on this Line happened, and within ten hours the dead and wounded were brought along through the tunnel over the spot where the figure had stood.”

  A disagreeable shudder crept over me, but I did my best against it. It was not to be denied, I rejoined, that this was a remarkable coincidence, calculated deeply to impress his mind. But it was unquestionable that remarkable coincidences did continually occur, and they must be taken into account in dealing with such a subject. Though to be sure I must admit, I added (for I thought I saw that he was going to bring the objection to bear upon me), men of common sense did not allow much for coincidences in making the ordinary calculations of life.

  He again begged to remark that he had not finished.

  I again begged his pardon for being betrayed into interruptions.

  “This,” he said, again laying his hand upon my arm, and glancing over his shoulder with hollow eyes, “was just a year ago. Six or seven months passed, and I had recovered from the surprise and shock, when one morning, as the day was breaking, I, standing at the door, looked towards the red light, and saw the spectre again.” He stopped, with a fixed look at me.

  “Did it cry out?”

  “No. It was silent.”

  “Did it wave its arm?”

  “No. It leaned against the shaft of the light, with both hands before the face. Like this.”

  Once more I followed his action with my eyes. It was an action of mourning. I have seen such an attitude on stone figures on tombs.

  “Did you go up to it?”

  “I came in and sat down, partly to collect my thoughts, partly because it had turned me faint. When I went to the door again, daylight was above me, and the ghost was gone.”

  “But nothing followed? Nothing came of this?”

  He touched me on the arm with his forefinger twice or thrice, giving a ghastly nod each time—

  “That very day, as a train came out of the tunnel, I noticed, at a carriage window on my side, what looked like a confusion of hands and heads, and something waved. I saw it just in time to signal the driver, Stop! He shut off, and put his brake on, but the train drifted past here a hundred and fifty yards or more. I ran after it, and, as I went along, heard terrible screams and cries. A beautiful young lady had died instantaneously in one of the compartments, and was brought back in here, and laid down on this floor between us.”

  Involuntarily I pushed my chair back, as I looked from the boards at which he pointed to himself.

  “True, Sir. True. Precisely as it happened, so I tell it you.”

  I could think of nothing to say, to any purpose, and my mouth was very dry. The wind and the wires took up the story with a long lamenting wail.

  He resumed, “Now, Sir, mark this, and judge how my mind is troubled. The spectre came back a week ago. Ever since, it has been there, now and again, by fits and starts.”

  “At the light?”

  “At the Danger-light.”

  “What does it seem to do?”

  He repeated, if possible with increased passion and vehemence, that former gesticulation of “For God’s sake, clear the way!”

  Then he went on. “I have no peace or rest for it. It calls to me, for many minutes together, in an agonised manner, ‘Below there! Look out! Look out!’ It stands waving to me. It rings my little bell—”

  I caught at that. “Did it ring your bell yesterday evening when I was here, and you went to the door?”

  “Twice.”

  “Why, see,” said I, “how your imagination misleads you. My eyes were on the bell, and my ears were open to the bell, and if I am a living man, it did not ring at those times. No, nor at any other time, except when it was rung in the natural course of physical things by the station communicating with you.”

  He shook his head. “I have never made a mistake as to that yet, Sir. I have never confused the spectre’s ring with the man’s. The ghost’s ring is a strange vibration in the bell that it derives from nothing else, and I have not asserted that the bell stirs to the eye. I don’t wonder that you failed to hear it. But I heard it.”

  “And did the spectre seem to be there when you looked out?”

  “It was there.”

  “Both times?”

  He repeated firmly: “Both times.”

  “Will you come to the door with me, and look for it now?”

  He bit his under lip as though he were somewhat unwilling, but arose. I opened the door, and stood on the step, while he stood in the doorway. There was the Danger-light. There was the dismal mouth of the tunnel. There were the high, wet stone walls of the cutting. There were the stars above them.

  “Do you see it?” I asked him, taking particular note of his face. His eyes were prominent and strained, but not very much more so, perhaps than my own had been when I had directed them earnestly towards the same spot.

  “No,” he answered. “It is not there.”

  “Agreed,” said I.

  We went in again, shut the door, and resumed our seats. I was thinking how best to improve this advantage, if it might be called one, when he took up the conversation in such a matter-of-course way, so assuming that there could be no serious question of fact between us, that I felt myself placed in the weakest of positions.

  “By this time you will fully understand, Sir,” he said, “that what troubles me so dreadfully is the question, What does the spectre mean?”

  I was not sure, I told him, that I did fully understand.

  “What is its warning against?” he said, ruminating, with his eyes on the fire, and only by times turning them on me. “What is the danger? Where is the danger? There is danger overhanging somewhere on the Line. Some dreadful calamity will happen. It is not to be doubted this third time, after what has gone before. But surely this is a cruel hauntin
g of me. What can I do?”

  He pulled out his handkerchief, and wiped the drops from his heated forehead.

  “If I telegraph Danger, on either side of me, or on both, I can give no reason for it,” he went on, wiping the palms of his hands. “I should get into trouble and do no good. They would think I was mad. This is the way it would work—Message: ‘Danger! Take care!’ Answer: ‘What Danger? Where’? Message: ‘Don’t know. But, for God’s sake, take care!’ They would displace me. What else could they do?”

  His pain of mind was most pitiable to see. It was the mental torture of a conscientious man, oppressed beyond endurance by an unintelligible responsibility involving life.

  “When it first stood under the Danger-light,” he went on, putting his dark hair back from his head, and drawing his hands outward across and across his temples in an extremity of feverish distress, “why not tell me where that accident was to happen—if it must happen? Why not tell me how it could be averted—if it could have been averted? When on its second coming it hid its face, why not tell me, instead, ‘She is going to die. Let them keep her at home’? If it came, on those two occasions, only to show me that its warnings were true, and so to prepare me for the third, why not warn me plainly now? And I, Lord help me! A mere poor signalman on this solitary station! Why not go to somebody with credit to be believed, and power to act?”

  When I saw him in this state, I saw that for the poor man’s sake, as well as for the public safety, what I had to do for the time was to compose his mind. Therefore, setting aside all question of reality or unreality between us, I represented to him that whoever thoroughly discharged his duty must do well, and that at least it was his comfort that he understood his duty, though he did not understand these confounding Appearances. In this effort I succeeded far better than in the attempt to reason him out of his conviction. He became calm; the occupations incidental to his post as the night advanced began to make larger demands on his attention: and I left him at two in the morning. I had offered to stay through the night, but he would not hear of it.