by Bram Stoker
“Oh thank you, thank you,” said Joy seizing his hand in a burst of gratitude. “I’ll be for ever grateful to you if you’ll be so good!”
“A’m thinkin’” he went on “that perhaps ‘twill cost yer ladyship a mickle — perhaps a muckle; but A dar say ye’ll no mind that...”
“Oh no, no! It will be pleasure to pay anything. See, I have plenty of money!” She pulled out her purse.
“Na! na! Not yet ma leddie. Tis no for masel — unless yer ladyship insists on it, later on. Tis for the laddies that will do what they can. Ye see there may be some trouble o’er this. We signal-men and offeecials generally are not supposed to attend to aught outside o’ the routine. But if it should be that there is trouble to us puir folk, A’m sure yer ladyship an’ some o’ yer graan’ freensll no see us wranged!”
“Oh no indeed. My father and Mr. — and all our friends will see to it that you shall never suffer, no matter what happens.”
“Well now, ma leddy — if ye’ll joost write down your message A’ll do what A can. But ‘twill be wiser if ye gang awa intil a hotel an’ rest ye. A can send the message better when A’m quit o’ ye. Forbye ye see ‘tis no quite respectable to hae a bonny lassie here ower lang. Ma wife is apt to be a wee jalous; an’ it’s no wise to gie cause where nane there is.”
“But I do not know where to go — ” she began. He interrupted her hastily: “There’s a graan hotel i’ the toon — verra fine it is; but A’m thinkin’ that ver ladyship, bein’ by yer lonesome, may rather care to go to a quieter house. An’ as A’d recommend ye to seek the ‘Walter Scott’ hotel. Tis kep by verra decent folk, an’ though small is verra respectable an’ verra clean. Say that yer kent by Tammas Macpherson an’ that will vouch for ye, seein’ that ye’re a bit lassie by yer lanes. Tis a most decent place entirely, an’ A’m tellin’ ye that the Sheriff o’ Galloway himsel’ aye rests there when he comes to the toon.”
Joy wrote her message on the piece of paper which he had provided whilst speaking:
“To Col. Ogilvie, Inn of Greeting, Ambleside: Dearest Daddy I have been caught in a heavy fog and lost, but happily found my way here. I shall return by the first train in the morning. Love to mother. I am well and safe. Joy.”
Then the signal man gave her explicit directions as to finding the house. As she was going away he said with a diffident anxiety:
‘To what figure will yer ladyship gang in this — this meenistration? A’d joost like to ken in case o’ neceesity? She answered quickly:
“Oh anything you like — twenty-five dollars — I mean five pounds — ten pounds — twenty — a hundred, anything, anything so that my father gets the message soon.” He looked amazed for a moment. Then as he held open the door deferentially he said in a voice in which awe blended with respect:
“Dinna fash yerself more ma leddie. Yer message will gang for sure; an’ gang quick. Ye may sleep easy the nicht, an’ wi’out a thocht o’ doobt. An’ll leave wi’ ma kinsman Jamie Macpherson o’ the Walter Scott ma neem an’ address in case yer ladyship wishes me to send to yon the memorandum o’ the twenty poons.”
Joy found her way without much difficulty to the Walter Scott. The house was all shut up, but she knocked and rang; and presently the door was unchained and opened. The Boots looked for a moment doubtful when he saw a lady alone; but when she said:
“I am lost in the fog, and Mr. Thomas Macpherson of the railway told me I should get lodging here,” he opened the door wide and she walked in. He chained the door, and left her for a few minutes; but returned with a young woman who eyed her up and down somewhat suspiciously. Joy seemed to smell danger and said at once:
“I got lost in the fog, and the motor met with an accident. So I had to leave it on the road and walk on.”
“An’ your shawfer? “ asked the doubting young woman.
“He got into trouble for driving too fast, and had to be left behind.”
“Very weel, ma’am. What name shall A put down?”
Joy’s mind had been working. Her tiredness and her sleepiness were brushed aside by the pert young woman’s manifest suspicion. She remembered Mr. Hardy’s caution not to give her own name; and now, face to face with a direct query, remembered and used the one which had been given to her on the Cryptic. It had this advantage that it would put aside any suspicion or awkwardness arising from her unprotected position, arriving as she did in such an un-accredited way. So she answered at once:
“Athlyne. Lady Athlyne!” The young woman seemed impressed. Saying: “Excuse me a moment” she went into the bar where she lit a candle. She came back in a moment and said very deferentially:
“It’s ‘all recht yer ladyship. There’s twa rooms, a sittin’-room an’ a bed-room. They were originally kept for the Sheriff, but he sent word that he was no comin’. So when the wire came frae th’ ither pairty the rooms were kept for him. When no one arrived the name was crossed aff the slate. But it’s a’ recht! Shall I light a fire yer Leddyship?”
“Oh no! I only require a bedroom. I must get away by the first train in the morning. I shall just lie down as I am. If you can get me a glass of milk and a biscuit that is all I require. If it were possible I should like the milk hot; but if that is not convenient it won’t matter.” As they went upstairs the girl said:
“Ye’ll forgie me yer Leddyship, but I didna ken wha ye were. Mrs. Macpherson was early up to bed the nicht when the fog had settled doon and she knew there was no more traffic. To-morrow is a heavy day here, and things keep up late; and she wanted to be ready for it. An’ she’s michty discreet aboot ony comin’ here wi’oot — wi’oot — ” She realised that she was getting into deep water and turned the conversation. There is yer candle lit. The fire in the kitchen is hearty yet, an’ I’ll bring yer milk hot in the half-o’ two-twos. I’ll leave word that ye’re to be called in good time in the morn.”
Within a few minutes she came back with the hot milk. Joy was too tired and too anxious to eat; and refusing all proffers of service and of help as to clothing, bade the girl good night. She just drank the milk; and having divested herself of her shoes and stockings which were soiled with travel and of all but her under-clothing, crept in between the sheets. The warmth and the luxury of rest began to tell at once; within a very few minutes she was sound asleep.
CHAPTER 17
THE SHERIFF
It was late in the afternoon when the Sheriff rode into Dairy. 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 Casde 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 r
ooms 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 Casde 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 yell be able to tell me of her safe arrival.”
At the cross roads the men parted. The Sheriff rode on his way to Ennis-four, and Athlyne went back to Dairy. 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 Casde 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 Dairy 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 striking — when he entered Casde Douglas and began to inquire his way to the Walter Scott hotel.
After repeated knocking the door was opened by the Boot — 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 Sheriffs 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. Forebye 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 stai
rway, 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 softy 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.
CHAPTER 18
PURSUIT
Colonel Ogilvie found his wife in excellent health and spirits. The cure had been effective, and the prospect of meeting Joy so filled her with delight that her youth seemed to be renewed. He could see, when the morning light was admitted to their bedroom, that her eyes were bright and her cheeks rosy; and all her movements were alert and springy. Judy too, when they went to breakfast, looked well and was in good spirits; but there was something about her which he could not understand. It was not that she was quick of intellect and speech, for such had been always her habit; it was not that she was eager, for she was not always so; it was not that she was exuberantly fond of Joy — she had never been anything else. But there seemed now to be some sort of elusive background to all her thoughts. He began to wonder in a vague way if it were possible that she had fallen in love. She asked, after her usual manner, a host of questions about Joy and about the visit to the Lakes; where they had been and who they had seen; and of all the little interests and happenings during the time of separation. Colonel Ogilvie felt a little wearied of it all. He had already covered the ground with the girl’s mother, for arriving in the grey of the dawn, he had gone straight to his wife’s room where he had rested till breakfast time. There he had told her all that he could remember. With, however, the patient courtesy which had not as yet in his life failed him with women he went over all the ground again with Judy. He could not but be struck with Judy’s questioning on one subject: whether they had met at Ambleside any special acquaintance. He concluded that she meant Mr. Hardy, and asked her if such were the case. She blushed so brightly when she admitted it that he conceived the idea that the peccant Englishman was the object of her affection. Then, as she dropped that subject of questioning, he, in order to draw her out, went on: