it was late in the afternoon when the sheriff rode into dalry. the police sergeant spoke to him, and he kindly came into the station. there the sergeant put the matter before him. he was an elderly man, hearty and genial and with a pleasant manner which made every man his friend. when he heard the details of the case, regarding which the policeman asked his advice, he smiled and took snuff and said pleasantly to the officer:
“i don’t think ye need be uneasy in your mind. after all ’tis only a matter of a fine; and as the chauffeur is ready to pay it, whatever it may be; and is actually in your custody having as you say more than sufficient money upon him to pay the maximum penalty hereto inflicted for furious driving in this shire, i think you will not get much blame for allowing the lady to go away in the car to a ‘foreign country,’ as you call it. i suppose sir” turning to athlyne “you can get good bail if required?”
“i think so” said athlyne smiling. “i suppose a deputy lieutenant of ross shire is good enough;” whereupon he introduced himself to the sheriff. they chatted together a few minutes and then, as he went to his horse which a policeman was holding at the door, he said to the sergeant:
“i must not, as sheriff, be bail myself. but if any bail is required i undertake to get it; so i think you needn’t detain his lordship any longer. you’d better serve the summons on him for the next session and then everything will be in order.”
athlyne walked down the village with him, he leading his horse. when he knew that athlyne was going to walk to castle douglas so as to be ready to catch his train to the south he said:
“to-morrow is a busy day there and you may find it hard to get rooms at the douglas, especially as the fog will detain many travellers. now i had my rooms reserved at the walter scott, kept by an old servant of mine, where i always stay. an hour gone i wired countermanding them as i am going to stay the night with mulgrave of ennisfour where i am dining; so perhaps you had better wire over and secure them. i shall be there myself in the morning as i have work in castle douglas, but that need not interfere with you. if you go early you may be off before i get there.”
“i do not want to go south very early; so i hope you will breakfast with me if i am still there.” the genial old sheriff shook his head:
“no, no. you must breakfast with me. i am in my own bailiwick and you must let me be your host.”
“all right!” said athlyne heartily. the old man who had been looking at him kindly all the time now said:
“tell me now—and you won’t think me rude or inquisitive; but you’re a young man and i’m an old one, and moreover sheriff—can i do anything for you? the sergeant told me you were in a state of desperate anxiety to get away—or at any rate to let the lady get off; and i couldn’t help noticing myself that you are still anxious. the policeman said she was young, and much upset about it all. can i serve you in any way? if i can, it will i assure you be a pleasure to me.” he was so frank and kind and hearty that athlyne’s heart warmed to him. moreover he was upset himself, poor fellow; and though he was a man and a strong one, was more than glad to unburden his heart to some one who would be a sympathetic listener:
“the fact is, sir, that the young lady who was with me came for a drive from ambleside and we came on here on the spur of the moment. her father had gone to london and returns this evening; and as no one knew that i—that she had gone out motoring he will be anxious about her. naturally neither she nor i wish to make him angry. you will understand when i tell you that she and i are engaged to be married. he does not know this—though” here he remembered the letter he had posted at ambleside “he will doubtless know soon. unhappily he had some mistaken idea about me. a small matter which no one here would give a second thought to: but he is a kentuckian and they take some things very much to heart. this was nothing wrong—not in any way; but all the same his taking further offence at me, as he would do if he heard from someone else that she had been motoring with me without his sanction, might militate against her happiness—and mine. so you can imagine mr. sheriff, how grateful i am to you for your kindness.” the sheriff paused before replying. he had been thinking—putting two and two together: “they are engaged—but her father doesn’t know it. then the engagement was made only to-day. no wonder they were upset and anxious. no wonder he drove fast. … ah, youth! youth!” …
“i understand, my lord. well, you did quite right to get the lady away; though it was a hazardous thing for her to start off alone in the mist.”
“it hadn’t come on then, sir. had it been so i should never have let her go alone—no matter what the consequences might be! but i hope she’s out of it and close to home by this time.”
“aye that’s so. still she was wise to go. it avoids all possibility of scandal. poor bairn! i’m hoping she got off south before the fog came on too thick. it’s drifting up from the firth so that when once she would have crossed the border most like it would have been clear enow. anyhow under the circumstances you are right to stay here. then there can be no talk whatever. and her father will have had time to cool down by the time ye meet.
“we’re parting here, my lord. good-bye and let me wish ye both every form of human happiness. perhaps by morn you will have had some news; and i’m hoping ye’ll be able to tell me of her safe arrival.”
at the cross roads the men parted. the sheriff rode on his way to ennisfour, and athlyne went back to dalry. he ordered his dinner, and then went out to send a telegram at the little post office. his telegram ran:
to walter scott hotel castle douglas
keep rooms given up by sheriff for to-night.
athlyne.
he had written the telegram through without a pause. the signature was added unhesitatingly, though not merely instinctively. he had done with falsity; henceforth he would use his own name, and that only. he felt freer than he had done for many a day.
he ate his dinner quietly; he was astonished at himself that he could take matters so calmly. it was really that he now realised that he had done all he could. there was nothing left but to wait. in the earlier part of that waiting he was disturbed and anxious. difficulties and dangers and all possible matters of concern obtruded themselves upon his thought in endless succession. but as time wore on the natural optimism of his character began to govern his thinking. reason still worked freely enough, but she took her orders from the optimistic side and brought up arrays of comforting facts and deductions.
it was with renewed heart and with a hopeful spirit that he set out on his road to castle douglas. he had deliberately chosen to walk instead of taking a carriage or riding. he did not want to arrive early in the evening, and he calculated that the sixteen miles would take him somewhere about four hours to walk. the exercise would, whilst it killed the time which he had to get through, give him if not ease of mind at least some form of mental distraction. such, he felt, must be his present anodyne—his guarantee of sanity. as he had no luggage of any kind he felt perfectly free; the only addition to his equipment was a handful of cigars to last him during the long walk.
he had left dalry some miles behind him when he began to notice the thickening of the mist. after a while when this became only too apparent he began to hesitate as to whether it would not be wiser to return. by this time he realised that it was no mere passing cloud of vapour which was driving up from the south, but a sea fog led inward through the narrowing firth; he could smell the iodine of the sea in his nostrils. but he decided to go on his way. he remembered fairly well the road which he had traversed earlier in the day. though a rough road and somewhat serpentine as it followed the windings of the ken and the dee, it was so far easy to follow that there were no bifurcations and few cross-roads. and so with resolute heart—for there was something to overcome here—and difficulty meant to him distraction from pain—he pushed on into the growing obscurity of the fog.
on the high ground above shirmers he felt the wind driving more keenly in his face; but he did not pause. he trudged on hopefully; every step he took was bringing him closer to england—and to joy. now it was that he felt the value of the stout walking cudgel that he had purchased from a passing drover. for in the fog he was like a blind man; sight needed the friendly aid of touch.
but it was dreadfully slow work, and at the end of a few hours he was wearied out with the overwhelming sense of impotence and the ceaseless struggling with the tiniest details of hampered movement. being on foot and of slow progress he had one advantage over travelling on horseback or in a vehicle: he was able to take advantage of every chance opportunity of enlightenment. from passing pedestrians and at wayside cottages he gathered directions for his guidance. it was midnight—the town clock was striking—when he entered castle douglas and began to inquire his way to the walter scott hotel.
after repeated knocking the door was opened by the boots—a heavy, thick-headed, sleepy, tousled man, surly and grudging of speech. athlyne pushed past him into the hall way and said:
“i wired here in the afternoon to have kept for me the sheriff’s rooms. did my telegram arrive.”
“aye. it kem a’recht. but that was all that kem. ye was expectit, an’ the missis kep the rooms for ye till late; but when ye didna come she gied ye up an’ let anither pairty that was lost i’ the fog hae the bedroom. all that’s left is the parlour, an that we can hae an ye will. forbye that ye’ll hae to sleep on the sofy. a’m thinkin’ it’s weel it’s o’er long than ordinair’, for ye’re no a ween yersel. bide wheer y’ are, an’ a’ll fetch ye a rug or two an’ a cushion. ye maun put up wi’ them the nicht for ye’ll git nane ither here.” he left him standing in the dark; and shuffled away down a dim stairway, to the basement.
in a few minutes he re-appeared with a bundle of rugs and pillows under his arm; in his hand was a bottle of whiskey, with the drawn cork partly re-inserted. with the deftness of an accomplished servitor he carried in his other hand, together with the candle, a pitcher of water and a tumbler. as he went up the staircase he said in a whisper:
“man, walk saft as ye gang; an’ dinna cough nor sneeze or mak’ a soond in the room or ye’ll maybe waken th’ ither body. joost gang like a man at a carryin’. an’ mind ye dinna snore! lie ye like a bairn! what time shall a ca’ ye?”
“i want to catch the morning train for the south.”
“that’ll be a’recht. a’ll ca’ ye braw an’ airly!”
“good night!” said athlyne as he softly closed the door.
he spread one rug on the sofa, which supplemented by a chair, was of sufficient length; put the other ready to cover himself, and fixed the cushions. having stripped to his flannels he blew out the candle, and, without making a sound, turned in. he was wearied in mind and nerve and body, and the ease of lying down acted like a powerful narcotic. within a minute he was sound asleep.
