THE SHERIFF
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.