joy started on her long journey in a very agitated frame of mind; though the habit of her life and her concern for her lover enabled her to so bear herself that she appeared calm. to start with, she was full of fears; some of them natural, others of that class which is due to the restrictions and conventions of a woman’s life. she was by no means an expert driver. she merely had some lessons and was never in an automobile by herself before. moreover she was not only in a country strange to her, but even the road to dumfries on which she was started was absolutely new to her. in addition to it all she was—as an american—handicapped by the difference in the rules of the road. in america they follow the french and drive on the off side: in england the “on” rule is correct.
she had no option, however; she dared not make any difficulty or even ask advice or help, for such might betray her and she might not be allowed to proceed at all. so with as brave a face and bearing as she could muster, but with a sinking heart, she started on her journey, praying inwardly that she might not meet with any untoward accident or difficulty. for she did not know anything about mechanism; the use of the wheel and the levers in driving was all that had been embraced in her lessons.
at first all went well enough. the road was clear and she felt that she had the machine well in hand. as far as balmaclellan she went slowly, carefully, climbing laboriously up the steep zig-zag road; and presently she began to feel in good heart. she did not know the name of the place; had never heard of it. but it was somewhere; one stage at least on the way home. when the village lay behind her she began to put on more speed. with the apprehension gone of not being able to get on at all, she began to think of her objective and of how long was the journey before it could be revealed. with increased speed, however, came fresh fears. the importance of the machine began to be manifest; such force and speed needed special thought. the road changed so rapidly that she felt that she wanted another pair of eyes. the wheel alone, with its speed and steering indices, took all attention. she hardly dared to look up from it. and yet if she did not how could she know the road to take; how could she look out for danger. happily the mere movement was a tonic; the rush through the air braced her. otherwise she would have been shortly in a state of panic.
very soon she began to realise the difficulty of driving on an unknown road, when one is not skilled in the art. so many things have to be considered all at once, and the onus of choosing perpetually is of nightmare shadow. the openings of bye-roads and cross-roads are so much more important than is suspected that there is a passing doubt as to direction; and country roads generally wind about so that distant land-marks, which can guide one in general direction, come and go with embarrassing suddenness. at first every cart-track or farm-road made such doubts, and even when she got to understand such minor trends she got confused over bye-roads of more importance. cross-roads there were before long, right or left making shortcuts for those who knew. these she had to pass; she could judge only of her course by the excellence of the main road—not always a safe guide in remote agricultural districts. one thing told in her favour: the magnificent bracing air of that splendid high-hung moor through which she passed. by the time she got to corsock, however, she was beginning to feel the strain severely. she was hot and nervous and wearied; only the imperative need of getting on, and getting on quickly, enabled her to keep up at all. at corsock she stopped to ask the way, but found it hard to understand the lowland scotch in which directions for her guidance were given. the result was that she started afresh with a blank despair gripping at her heart. already she felt that her effort to reach home in time was destined to failure. the time seemed to fly so fast, the miles to be so long. she even began to feel a nervous doubt as to whether she should even be able to send word to her father. east of corsock the nature of the road is confusing to a stranger. there are bye-roads leading south and up northwards into the mountains; and urr water has to be crossed. joy began to lose the perspective of things; her doubts as to whether she was on the right road became oppressive. somehow, things were changing round her. look where she would, she could not see the hill tops that had been her landmarks. a mist was coming from the right hand—that was the south, where was solway firth. then she gave up heart altogether. there came to her woman’s breast the reaction from all the happy excitement of the day. it was too bright to last. and now came this shadow of trouble worse even than the mist which seemed to presage it … oh, if only he were with her now … he! … strange it was that in all that day she had not once spoken to him by name. “dear” or “darling” seemed more suitable when her hand was in his; when he was kissing her. she closed her eyes in an ecstasy of delightful remembrance … she was recalled to herself by a sudden jar; in her momentary forgetfulness she had run up a bank.
it was a shock to her when her eyes opened to see how different were her surroundings from her thoughts. those hours when they sat together where the sunbeams stole through the trees would afford her many a comparison in the time to come. all was now dark and dank and chill. the mist was thickening every instant; she could hardly see the road ahead of her.
however, she had to go on, mist or no mist; at least till she should reach some place whence she could telegraph to her father. with a pang she realised that she must not wire also to him as she would have loved to have done. it would only upset and alarm him, poor fellow! and he had quite anxiety enough in thinking of her already! … with a heavy heart she crawled along through the mist, steering by the road-bed as well as she could, keeping a sharp look-out for cross-roads and all the dangers of the way.
the time seemed to fly, but not the car; the road appeared to be endless. would she never come to any hospitable place! … it was a surprise to her when she came on straggling cottages, and found herself between double rows of houses. painted over a door she saw “crocketford post-office.” in her heart she thanked god that she was still on the right road, though she had only as yet come some dozen or more miles. it seemed as if a week had passed since she left dalry … and … she drew up to the post-office and went in. there she sent a wire:
“went out motoring caught here in mist am going on however but must arrive very late so do not be anxious about me. love to mother and aunt judy and dear daddy. joy.”
when she had handed it in she looked at her watch. it was only half-past five o’clock!
it was still therefore on the verge of possibility that she might get back in time. she hurried out. several people had gathered round the motor, which was throbbing away after the manner of motors, as though impatient to get to real work. a policeman who was amongst them, seeing that she was about to go on, suggested that she should have her lamps lit as it would be a protection as well as a help to her in the mist. she was about to say that she thought it would be better not; for she did not know anything about acetylene lamps and feared to expose her ignorance, when he very kindly offered to light them for her:
“’tis no wark for a bonny leddy!” he said in self-justification of bending his official dignity to the occasion. she felt that his courtesy demanded some explanation, and also that such explanation would, be accounting for her being all alone, avoid any questioning. so said sweetly:
“thank you so much, officer. i really do not know much about lamps myself and i had to leave my … my husband, who was driving, at dalry. he was going too fast, and your people had a word to say to him. however, i can get on all right now. this is a straight road to dumfries is it not?” the road was pointed out and instructions given to keep the high road to dumfries. with better heart and more courage than heretofore she drove out into the mist. there was comfort for her in the glare of the powerful lights always thrown out in front of her.
all went well now. the road was distinctly good, and the swift smooth motion restored her courage. when in about half an hour she began to note the cottages and houses grouping in the suburbs of dumfries she got elated. she was now well on the way to england! she knew from experience that the road to annan, by which they had come, was fairly level. she did not mind the mist so much, now that she was accustomed to it; and she expected that as it was driving up northwards from the firth she would be free from it altogether when she should have passed the border and was on her way south to carlisle.
in the meanwhile she was more anxious than as yet. the mist seemed to have settled down more here than in the open country. there were lights in many windows in the suburbs, and the street lamps were lit. it is strange how the perspective of lines of lamps gets changed when one is riding or driving or cycling in mist or fog. if one kept the centre of the road it would be all right; but as one keeps of necessity to the left the lines between the lamps which guide the eye change with each instant. the effect is that straight lines appear to be curved; and if the driver loses nerve and trusts to appearances he will soon come to grief. this was joy’s first experience of driving in mist, and she naturally fell into the error. she got confused as to the right and wrong side of the road. she had to fight against the habit of her life, which instinctively took command when her special intention was in abeyance. she knew that from dumfries the road dropped to the south-east and as the curve seemed away to the left from her side of the road she, thinking that the road to the left was the direct road, naturally inclined towards the right hand, when she came to a place where there were roads to choose. there was no one about from whom to ask the way; and she feared to descend from the car to look for a sign-post. the onus of choice was on her, and she took the right hand thinking it was straight ahead. for some time now she had been going slow, and time and distance had both spun out to infinitude; she had lost sense of both. she was tired, wearied to death with chagrin and responsibility. everything around her was new and strange and unknown, and so was full of terrors. she did not know how to choose. she feared to ask lest the doing so might land her in new embarrassments. she knew that unless she got home in something like reasonable time her father would be not only deeply upset but furiously angry—and all that anger would be visited on him. oh she must get on! it was too frightful to contemplate what might happen should she have to be out all night … and after having gone out with a man against whom her father had already a grievance, though he owed him so much!
the change in the road, however, gave her some consolation; it was straight and smooth, and as the wind was now more in her face she felt that she was making southward. but her physical difficulties were increasing. the wind was much stronger, and the mist came boiling up so fast that her goggles got blurred more than ever. everything around her was becoming wet.
for a few miles—she could only guess at the distance—all went well, and she got back some courage. she still went slowly and carefully; she did not mean to have any mischance now if she could help it. it would not be so very long before she was over the border. then most likely she would be out of the mist and she could put on more speed.
presently she felt that the car was going up a steep incline. when it had been running swiftly she had not felt such, but now it was apparent. it was not a big hill, however, and the run down the other side was exhilarating, though the fear of some obstacle in front damped such pleasure as there was. even then the pace was not fast; ordinarily it would have been considered as little better than a rapid crawl. for a while, not long but seeming more than long, the road was up-and-down till she saw in the dimness of the mist glimpses of houses, then a few gleams of light from the chinks of shut windows. here she went very slowly and tooted often. she feared she might do some harm; and the slightest harm now might mean delay. she breathed more freely when she was out in the open again. that episode of the arrest and the prolonged agitation which followed it had unnerved her more than she had thought; and now the mist and the darkness and the uncertainty were playing havoc with her. it was only when she was long past the little place that she regretted she had not stopped to ask if she was on the right road. there was nothing for it, however, but to go on. the road was all up and down, up and down; but the surface was fairly good, and as the powerful lamps showed her sufficient space ahead to steer she moved along, though it had to be with an agonising slowness. how different it all was, she thought, from that fairy-chariot driving with him in the morning. the road then seemed straight and level, and movement was an undiluted pleasure! for an instant she closed her wearied eyes as she sighed at the change—and ran off the road-bed.
happily she was going slowly and recovered herself before more than the front wheels were on the rough mass of old road-scrapings. in a couple of seconds she had backed off and was under way again. she was preternaturally keen now in her outlook. she felt the strain acutely; for the road seemed to be always curving away from her. moreover there was another cause of concern. night was coming on. even in the densest mist or the blackest fog the light or darkness of the sky is to some degree apparent. now the sense came on her that over the thick mist was darkness. she stopped a moment and getting out looked at her watch in the light of the lamps.
her heart fell away, away. it was now close to eight o’clock. there was no use worrying she felt; nothing to be done but to go on, carefully for the present. when she made up her mind to the worst, her courage began to come back and she could think. she felt that as the wind was now strongly in her face she must be nearing the firth, and that in time she would pass the border and be heading for home and father. she jumped into her seat and was off again.
the fog—she realised now that it was not mist but fog—was thicker than ever; the wind being strongly in her face, it seemed above the glare of the powerful lamps, to come boiling up out of the roadway which she could see but dimly. fear, vague and gaunt, began to overshadow her. but there was no use worrying or thinking of anything except the immediate present which took the whole of her thought and attention. in the face of her surroundings she dared not go fast, dared not stop. and so for a time that seemed endless she pressed on through the fog. presently she became aware that the wind was now not so much in her teeth. as she was steering by the road-bed she did not notice curves; there was no doubt as to her route, as there did not seem to be any divergent roads at all. on, on, on, on! a road full of hills, not very high nor especially steep but enough to keep a driver on constant watch-out.
at last she felt that she was close to the sea. the wind came fiercely, and the drifting fog seen against the luminous area round the lamps seemed like a whirlpool. there was a salt smell in the air. this gave her some hope. if this were the firth she must be close to the border and would soon be at the bridge over which they had entered scotland. instinctively she went forward faster. and at last there surely was a bridge. a narrow enough bridge it was; as she went slowly across it she wondered how it was that they had seemed to fly over it in the morning.
however she could go on now in new hope. she was in england and bye and bye she would come through the fog-belt, and having passed carlisle would drop down through the lake roads to ambleside. though the fog was dense as ever she did not feel the wind so much; she crowded on—she did not dare go much faster as yet and as she was now climbing a long steep hill she ceased to notice it. after a while, when there came a stronger puff than usual, she noticed that it was on her back—the high hood of the car had protected her for some time past. after a little however the old fear came back upon her. at the present rate of progress to reach home at any time, however late, seemed an impossibility. and all was so dark, and the fog was so dense; and the road didn’t seem a bit like that they had come by between carlisle and the border. all at once she found that she was crying—crying bitterly. she did not want to stop the car, and so dared not take her hands from the wheel, even to find her pocket-handkerchief. she wept and wept; wept her heart out, whilst all the time mechanically steering by the light of the lamps on the road. her weeping aided the density of the fog, and with her eyes set on the road and the driving wheel in her hands she did not notice that she was going between houses. she came to a bridge, manifestly of a little more importance than the one she had already passed, and crossed it. the road swayed away to the left; presently this was crossed by another almost at right angles, but she kept straight on. there was no one from whom to ask the way; and had there been anyone she probably would not have seen him. a little way on there was another cross-road but of minor importance; then further on she came to a place of difficult choice. another cross-road, again almost at right angles; but the continuance of the road she was on showed it to be but a poor road ill-kept. so, too, was that to her left; but the road to the right was broad and well kept. it was undoubtedly the main road; and so keeping to the rule she had hitherto obeyed, she followed it.
she was now feeling somehow in better heart; the fit of crying had relieved her, and some of her courage had come back. she wanted comforting—wanted it badly; but those whose comfort only could prevail were far away; one behind her in scotland, the others still far away at ambleside. the latter thought made her desperate. she put on more speed—and with her thoughts and anxieties not in the present but the future, ran up a steep bank. there was a quick snap of something in front of the car; the throbbing of the engine suddenly ceased. with the shock she had been thrown forward upon the wheel, but fortunately the speed had not been great enough to cause her serious injury. the lamps made the fog sufficiently luminous for her movements, and she scrambled out of the car. she knew she could do nothing, for she was absolutely ignorant of the mechanism, and she had no mechanical skill. the only thing she could do was to go along the road on the blind chance of meeting or finding some one who could help her, or who might be able to assist her in finding better help. and so with a heavy heart, and feet that felt like lead, she went out into the fog. it was a wrench for her to leave the car which in the darkness and the unknown mystery of the fog seemed by comparison a sort of home or shelter. it was an evidence of the mechanical habit of the mind, which came back to her later, that through all her weariness and distress she thought to pin up her white frock before setting out on the dusty journey.
it was astonishing how soon the little patch of light disappeared. when she had taken but a few steps she looked back and found all as dark as it was before her. one thing alone there was which saved her from utter despair: the fog seemed not to be so absolutely dense. in reality it was not that the fog had lessened, but that her eyes, so long accustomed to the glare of the lamps which had prevented her seeing beyond the radius of their power, had now come back to their normal focus. though the darkness seemed more profound than ever, since there was no point of light whatever, she was actually able to see better. after all, this fog was a sea mist unladen with city smoke, and its darkness was a very different thing from the cimmerian gloom of a city fog. to her, not accustomed to winter fogs, it was difficult and terrifying. when, however, she began to realise, though unconsciously, that the nebulous wall in front of her fell back with every step she took, her heart began to beat more regularly, and she breathed more freely. it was a terrible position for a delicately nurtured girl to be in. though she was a brave girl with a full share of self-reliance her absolute ignorance of all around her—even as to what part of the country she was in—had a somewhat paralysing effect upon her. however she had courage and determination. her race as well as her nature told for her. her heart might beat hard and her feet be heavy but at any rate she would go on her set road whilst life and strength and consciousness remained to her. she shut her teeth, and in blind despair moved forward in the fog.
in all her after life joy could never recall the detail of that terrible walk. like most american girls she was unused to long walks; and after a couple of miles she felt wearied to death. the long emotional strain of the day had told sorely on her strength, and the hopeless nerve-racking tramp on the unknown road through the gloom and mystery of the fog had sapped her natural strength. looking back on that terrible journey she could remember no one moment from the other, from the time that she lost sight of the lamps until she found herself in a dip in the road passing under a railway bridge. the recognition of the fact reanimated her. it was an evidence that there was some kind of civilisation somewhere—a fact that she had begun in a vague way to doubt. she would follow that line if she could, for it must lead her to some place where she might find help; where she could send reassuring word to her father, and where there would be shelter. shelter! at the first gleam of hope her own deplorable position was forced upon her, and she realised all at once her desperate weariness. she could now hardly drag herself along.
beyond the railway there was a branch road to the left; and this she determined to follow, rather than the main road which went away from the line. she stumbled along it as well as she could. the time seemed endless. in her weariness the flicker of hope which her juxtaposition to the railway had given her died soon away. the fog seemed denser, and the darkness blacker than ever.
the road dipped again under the line; she was glad of that; manifestly she was not straying from it. she hurried on instinctively; found the road wider, and rougher with much use. her heart beat hard once again, but this time it was with hope.
and then, right in front of her, was a dim gleam of light. this so overcame her that she had to sit down for a moment on the road side. the instant’s rest cheered her; she jumped to her feet as though her strength had been at once restored. feeling in her heart a prayer which her lips had not time to utter, she climbed over a wire fence between her and the light; stumbled across a rough jumble of sleepers and railway irons. then the light was over her head—the rays were manifest on the fog. she called out:
“hullo! hullo! is there any one awake?” almost instantly the window through which the light shone was opened and a man looked out:
“aye! a’m awake! did ye think a’d be sleepin’ on a nicht like this. ’tis nae time for a signal-man to be aught but awake a’m tellin’ ye.”
“thank god, oh thank god!” joy’s heart was too full for the moment to say more. the man leaned further out:
“is yon a lassie? what are ye daein’ here a nicht like this? phew! a canna see ma ain hond!”
“yes, i’m a girl and i’m lost. will you let me come in?” the man’s voice became instantly suspicious.
“na! na! a canna let ye in. ’tis no in accord wi’ the company’s rules to let a lassie intil the signal-box. why don’t ye go intil the toon?”
“oh do let me in for a moment,” she pleaded. “i have been lost in the fog, and my motor broke down. i have had to walk so far that i am wearied and tired and frightened; and the sight of a light and the hope of help has finished me!” she sat right down on the ground and began to cry. he heard her sob, and it woke all the man in him. this was no wandering creature whose presence at such a time and place might make trouble for him. he knew from the voice that the woman was young and refined.
“dinna greet puir lassie!—dinna greet. a canna leave the box for an instant lest a signal come. but go roond to the recht and ye’ll find a door. come recht up! rules or no rules a’m no gangin’ to let ye greet there all by yer lanes. there’s fire here, and when ye’re warmed a can direct ye on yer way intil the toon!”
with glad steps she groped her way to the door. a flood of light seemed to meet her when she opened it, and she hurried up the steep stairs to where the signal-man held open the upper door.
“coom in lassie an hae a soop o’ ma tea. ’tis fine and warrm! … coom in and let me offer ye some refreshment, an’ if a may mak sae bold may a offer ye all a hae that’ll warm ye? coom in ma’am. coom in ma leddie!” he said in a crescendo of welcome and respect as he saw joy’s fine motor coat and recognised her air of distinction.
glad indeed was joy to drink from the worthy fellow’s tin tea-bottle which rested beside the stove; glad to sit down in front of the fire. then indeed she felt the magnitude of her weariness, and in a minute would have been asleep.
but the thought of her father, and all that depended on her action and his knowledge, wakened her to full intellectual activity. she stood up at once and said quickly:
“what place is this?”
“the signal-box of castle douglas junction.”
“and where is that? i think i have heard the name before.”
“’tis a toon as they ca’ it here. the junction is o’ the glasgie an’ south western, the caledonian, the port patrich an’ wigtownshire, the london an’ north western, an’ the midland lines. but for short there are but twa. one frae kirkcudbright, an’ th’ ither frae newton stewart.”
“in what country are we?” seeing the astonishment in his face she went on: “i am an american, and not familiar with the district. we came from england this morning—from westmoreland—from ambleside—and i am confused about the border. i had to drive myself because my—we got into trouble for driving fast, and i had to come on alone. and then the fog overtook me. i went along as well as i could. are we anywhere near carlisle?” her face fell as she saw the shake of his head:
“eh ma leddie but ye’re mony a mile frae carlisle. ’tis over fifty miles be the line. ye maun hae lost yer way sair. ye’re in kirkcudbright-shire the noo.” her heart sank:
“oh i must send a telegram at once.”
“ye canna telegraph the nicht ma leddie! the office is closed till eight the morn’s morn.”
“my god! what shall i do. my father arrived from london to-night and he does not know where i am. i came out for a drive and thought to be back in good time to meet him. he will be in despair. is there no way in which i can send word? it is not a matter of expenses; i shall pay anything if it can be done!” she looked at him in an agony of apprehension. the man was stirred by the depth of emotion and by her youth and beauty; and his clever scotch brain began to work. his mouth set fast in a hard line and his rough heavy brows began to wrinkle. after a pause he said:
“a’ll do what a can, ma leddie; though a can’t be sure if ’twill wark. the telegraphs are closed. even if we could find an operator it wouldn’t be possible to get the wires. our own lines are closed, for we’ll hae no traffic till morn.” here an idea struck joy and she interrupted him:
“could i not get a special train? i am willing to pay anything?”
“lord love ye, ma leddy, they don’t have specials on bit lines like this. ye couldn’t get one nigher than glasgie, an’ not there at this time o’ day. let alone they’d no send in such a fog anyhow. but i’m thinkin’ that a can telephone to dumfries. the operator o’ oor line there is a freend o’ mine, an’ if he’s on dooty he’ll telephone on to carlisle wheer there’s sure to be some one at the place. an’ mayhap the latter’ll telephone on till ambleside. so, if there be any awake there, they’ll send to the hotel. is it a hotel yer faither’ll be in?”
“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’ freens’ll 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 yer 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.
