A Fateful Ride

by Carroll Watson Rankin

A Fateful Ride

By CARROLL WATSON RANKIN

How the misbehaviour of a motor-car was responsible for a love affair

 

MISS LAYTON, on the steps of a little hotel on Loch Tay, tapped a dainty foot impatiently. Her vexed eyes swept the loch and the distant hills before returning to rest moodily on her mother's undisturbed countenance.

“It's exceedingly strange. I can't see the least vestige of smoke anywhere about. That boat should have been in sight an hour ago. You know if it doesn't come to-day there won't be the slightest hope of seeing it until Saturday. Oh, what an unleavable place!”

“Yes,” agreed Mrs. Layton, continuing to knit placidly, “staying in a place like this is no better than being cast away on a desert island.”

“But what am I going to do?”

Mrs. Layton shrugged her fat shoulders helplessly.

Carter, just round the corner and stretched at full length (which was no great length, for Carter, to his great distress, was short) in the most comfortable of hammocks, sat up, shook his twisted, somewhat shabby garments into place, and sauntered carelessly towards the steps. The moment he had hoped for since early morning had arrived, but his quiet eyes, set in a thin, dark countenance, gave no hint of the fulfilment of hope.

He paused just where the ladies were sitting and turned leisurely to survey the loch.

“Oh, don't you see just the faintest scrap of smoke anywhere?” pleaded Miss Layton, tumbling neatly into Carter's little trap.

“Not the tiniest sign.”

“I think it's too bad,” complained the girl, glad to find an obviously sympathetic listener: “Captain Gregory promised faithfully to come to-day with his old boat, and he hasn't kept his word. It's too provoking. I'm to be Helen Hewitt's bridesmaid the day after to-morrow, and unless I get to Callander to-night I can't catch my train in the morning. It's all my own fault: I should have gone last Saturday, but it was so lovely here, and that wretched Captain Gregory promised so faithfully-oh, it's too bad!”

“I think,” said Carter, with his usual, almost exasperatingly deliberate manner, “that I can see a way out of the difficulty.”

“Oh, can you?” breathed the girl excitedly. “Are there horses? Is there a boat I can hire?”

“No, but I'm going to Callander this evening in my motor.”

“Your what? Did I hear you say motor?” The girl eyed Carter incredulously. “Your motor?”

Carter smiled:

He and Ruth Layton had spent four weeks under the same roof, and she had not even suspected him of a motor.

“It's somewhere down in the cellar,” he explained, “and nothing to brag of You see, the roads about here were so disappointingly rough that I couldn't use the thing.”

“Have you ever taken it from here to Callander?” asked Mrs. Layton distrustfully. “I've no faith in motor-cars.”

“Once,” replied Carter, inwardly praying that the small grey cloud over the purple hills did not portend either rain or steamboats. “After you reach Killin, the road is really very good. I did the journey easily in three hours. I'm sorry the car holds only two, or I'd ask you to try it.”

“It really isn't quite the thing,” demurred Mrs. Layton, knitting more vigorously, “for you and Ruth to go alone, but——”

“Nonsense,” scoffed outspoken Ruth, tossing a wilful head. “I spent three hours yesterday with Mr. Maitland in a boat, three hours the day before fishing with Mr. Drake, and three hours in a motor-car with Mr. Carter aren't likely to stir up Mrs. Grundy when she doesn't know either of us from Adam.”

“I'll be round in two jiffies,” smiled Carter, turning to depart. “You see it's a quarter past four now, and it's a trip that's best taken by daylight. It won't take me long to get the thing ready.”

“I really don't like the idea of your going so far alone with him, Ruth,” said conventional Mrs. Layton. “We know nothing about the man.”

“Except that he fishes enthusiastically for six hours a day, gazes at us with melancholy, half-disapproving eyes for four more, eats and speaks like a gentleman, and never mentions his past. I have a theory. He has been disappointed in love—some tall princess who looks down upon his nice black head from a scornful height—and he thinks I resemble her. You must admit that he looks at me oftener than he does at you.”

This was not surprising, for Ruth was a decidedly attractive girl. Neither blonde nor brunette, she had been blessed with some of the best points of both types of beauty.

Her brown hair, touched with gold, curled frankly; her eyes were grey with brown flecks. She was twenty-four years old and full of girlish enthusiasm. As she stood, half-an-hour later, beside Carter, the advantage in height and breadth was ever so slightly hers.

The car, pushed into sight at that moment by a waiter and a stalwart assistant, showed signs of wear and rough usage. It was certainly not a new machine, but it looked comfortable.

It was evident to even doubting Mrs. Layton, who actually stopped knitting long enough to witness the departure, that Carter understood the shabby little machine that chug-chugged so cheerfully away from the hotel.

Ruth, with a sigh of relief at finding her troubles over, relaxed slightly, leant comfortably against the cushions, and fell to studying her chauffeur's profile.

The thin, dark face was not handsome. The bones showed too prominently, and the slender, aristocratic nose was not quite straight. The dark eyes, however, were good, and the mouth, with its clear-cut, refined, firmly-closed lower lip, was distinctly pleasing.

That he was a gentleman, in spite of his invariably inexpensive attire, was evident at a glance.

At the lakeside hotel, with its many opportunities for mild or more serious flirtations, Carter had been the one man to hold aloof.

Other less fortunate fishermen had made brief visits, to depart leaving their hearts, they declared stoutly, with pretty, lively Ruth.

Carter had sat opposite the girl at table for four solid weeks, but if his heart were not still all his own, he had given no outward sign of having lost any portion of it.

He had displayed no jealousy, he had shown no eagerness for her company; yet when circumstances had thrown them together—and he had, it is true, sometimes unobtrusively assisted circumstances—he had proved a thoroughly pleasant acquaintance.

Ruth, however, could not understand his attitude. She was accustomed to devotion of a decidedly strenuous sort, and here was a man—a wonderfully attractive man at that—who had failed to pay tribute. She wondered why.

•⁠•⁠•⁠•⁠•

“I love the woods,” said Ruth, sniffing contentedly at the spicy odours of the pines. “I'd like to live under one of those big, sweet-smelling trees all summer long.”

“I see,” said Carter, turning to smile comprehendingly: “'A book of verses underneath the bough——”

“Nonsense,” laughed Ruth happily. “I'm afraid I'd want all the comforts of home, a water-tight tent, and a generous supply of provisions properly served three times a day. But it really seems almost sacrilegious to go racing along this heavenly road in this undryad-like fashion. One should go softly and on foot.”

“Are you good for twenty-six miles?” asked Carter.

“I'm afraid not,” returned the girl, smilingly displaying a delicately-shod foot. “These are my town shoes, and they were not built for country roads. I don't expect to do any walking this journey.”

For the next hour the car maintained a steady but not precisely a rapid pace, while its occupants chatted merrily of books they had read or meant to read.

Carter had not hitherto enjoyed such a long, uninterrupted conversation with Ruth, for Maitland or Drake had monopolised her time. This, however, was Carter's hour, and he was making the best of it.

Ruth, too, seemed contented with the car's low rate of speed, and it was not until the vehicle emerged from the wood to run on higher ground, along a road bordered, but not shaded, by elders, that either of them noticed the sky.

It had grown dark and threatening. Both eyed it with dismay.

“We'll have to race for Callander,” said Carter, reluctantly increasing his speed. “It's going to rain in a few minutes.”

“Which of these roads do we take?” asked Ruth a few moments later, noticing suddenly that the highway forked.

Carter brought the machine to an abrupt standstill and jumped to the ground.

“I'll have to investigate,” said he. “I declare I haven't an idea this moment which of those two roads it was I took last time, but the proper one should show more signs of wear than the other.”

A moment later he returned, climbed in, and started the machine.

“I think,” said the obviously puzzled young man rather dubiously, “that this is the right road; if it isn't we can come back. They look precisely alike.”

“Where does the other go?”

“I haven't an idea. If this is the right road (and it seems to be keeping the right direction), we shall reach Callander by seven, provided we have luck.”

But luck they did not have. Within five minutes it began to rain—a heavy, settled, steady downpour that threatened to last for hours.

Carter pulled a waterproof cloak from under the seat and insisted on Ruth wearing it. The necessary delay was disastrous, for the little car refused obstinately to start. Carter crawled underneath and did things to sundry bolts and nuts and the machine started off bravely, but the huge, wet tyres gathered a ludicrous burden of mud, and progress was slow.

The road had been sloping gradually downward towards a second deep, dark wood. Here travelling was certainly better, but under the trees, where twittering birds for the night, it was twilight.

“I'll have to light the lamps,” said Carter, again bringing the motor-car to a standstill, and groping for matches. “It's getting dark awfully early, but don't be frightened—we can make better time over this partly sheltered road.”

“I'm not afraid,” said Ruth, who had removed her hat and was looking particularly lovely with her wet hair curled about her serene, trustful countenance. “I'm sure we're perfectly safe, and I always did like paddling about in the rain.”

For perhaps five minutes after the lamps were lighted the car ran smoothly. Then, were already settling themselves just as Carter began to feel confident that their troubles were over, there was a sudden, sharp, grinding shriek from somewhere underneath, something gave way unexpectedly, and the machine stopped with an abruptness that would have hurled Ruth over the dash-board if Carter had not opportunely seized her nearest elbow.

The rain by this time was coming down in a steady torrent.

“Have you any idea,” asked Ruth, “where we are?”

“No,” said Carter ruefully, “I haven't; but wherever it is, I'm afraid we'll have to stay unless you're willing to walk.”

“I'm not,” replied Ruth promptly. “I couldn't, in these ridiculous shoes, and in all this mud—these thin soles wouldn't last ten minutes. What's the alternative?”

“A night in the wood, I'm afraid,” returned Carter gravely. “I could leave you——”

“To be frightened to death,” cried Ruth, clutching his wet sleeve nervously, “while you are miles away, hunting for a farm house? I think not. If I'm going to stay here, you're going to stay, too. It may clear up. How far do you suppose we are from Callander?”

“That's what troubles me most,” confessed Carter, patting Ruth's clinging hands reassuringly. “If we're on the right road, which I very much doubt, the distance is about four miles, I imagine, but the rain seems to have blotted out every landmark, so I can't be sure. If this is the wrong road it would, of course, be seven or eight miles further; nothing at all in daylight in fair weather, but utterly impossible in this.”

“But what are we going to do?”

“You said two hours ago that you wanted to live under a tree. I'm afraid you're going to.”

“I said with a tent and provisions,” objected Ruth, who stood in the misty, luminous path made by the lamps, her eyes grown suddenly wide with apprehension, her cheeks pale.

“You shall have both,” promised Carter, unscrewing one of the lights. “Just stand here like a brave girl while I find your tree.”

“You won't go far,” pleaded Ruth, with a little shudder. “I'm not afraid with you here, but it's horribly dark and lonely all by oneself. It's—it's really terrifying.”

Having found a suitable tree with a small open space beside it, Carter, whose movements Ruth could watch from the road, gathered dry twigs and succeeded in finding a few bits of bark and in building a small but cheerful fire.

This accomplished, he bent two small saplings almost to the ground and, with bits of string, firmly fastened them down.

Over the bent saplings he hung one of the two rubber blankets unearthed from the car's surprising interior. The other blanket was stretched on the ground inside the improvised tent, and over a thick cushion of hastily gathered boughs.

“Now for supper,” cried Carter cheerfully, assisting Ruth from the faithless motor-car to the driest spot within the circle of genial firelight. “Do you prefer tea or coffee?”

“Coffee,” said Ruth, remembering Carter's preference for that beverage. “Can't I help? It's really quite comfortably dry here by the fire, and this great spreading tree is like an umbrella.”

“Sit on this log,” said Carter, dragging it closer to the fire, and turning its dry side uppermost. “You may heat this long handled frying-pan while I see how much water my two tin pails have caught. We're to have bacon, coffee, and biscuits. I never travel without a well-filled kit, but this is the first time I've had occasion to use it.”

The coffee properly boiled, and the bacon fried, the castaways, as they dubbed themselves merrily, crawled under the shelter Carter had made, to eat, by the light of the replenished fire, an exceedingly satisfying meal.

When they could eat no more, Carter deftly cleared away all signs of the feast and produced cards and a cribbage board.

They played game after game as comfortably as they had played one evening a week previously, at the hotel—more comfortably, perhaps, for there was no third person to disturb the count.

Afterwards, when the game palled, and while the darkness and the rain lasted, the castaways exchanged confidences and discreet compliments.

At two o'clock the rain ceased and the stars came out. The branches of a fallen tree had provided ample firewood and the castaways had managed to keep warm and fairly dry.

At four the surrounding blackness melted away, and a forest of grey tree trunks stood half-revealed and ghostlike. At half-past five it was daylight.

Carter, whistling cheerfully, raked the smouldering fire into shape and cooked breakfast. After drinking their coffee, neither Carter nor serene Ruth looked any the worse for the sleepless night.

“You're a first-rate camper,” declared Carter, packing his cooking utensils neatly one within another. “But I'm afraid we'll have to make quick tracks now for Callander if you're to catch that train.”

At that moment the lively jingle of a cowbell called them hastily to the roadside.

Carter asked the grinning youth who followed the cows how far they were from the town.

“Less than a mile,” returned the lad. “You just keep straight along this road, and there you are. Broke down, did you? Well, wait till I get these cows to pasture up that there path and I'll push your go-cart in for you if you like.”

“Only a mile!” gasped Ruth. “Why, how perfectly scandalous.”

“Only a mile!” exclaimed Carter. “I never would have believed it. I was convinced that we were on the wrong road.”

Later Ruth and Carter followed the car townwards, but at a slow pace, for Carter was assuring Ruth that he had loved her devotedly from the moment of her arrival at the hotel, and was certainly not proposing marriage merely from a quixotic sense of duty; and Ruth was assuring Carter that, although she hadn't been conscious of loving him previously to that perfectly dreadful, delightful night, his tenderness and courtesy during those hours of darkness had certainly made it possible for her to consider his proposal seriously.

“But why,” asked Ruth, trudging cheer fully along the highway in the glorious sunlight, “didn't you say anything about your affections when you were at the hotel?”

“Because I was so abominably sensitive about my height and my money—I'm disgustingly short and disgracefully rich.”

“Were you waiting to grow taller and poorer?” queried Ruth.

“Not exactly. I wanted to be loved for myself, not for my money; but I couldn't imagine any girl taking kindly to a man nearly an inch shorter than herself.”

“Bless you,” cried Ruth, “you seemed monstrously tall to me last night when I was feeling so little and afraid in all that darkness.”

“I know it,” said Carter, drawing her close. “That was what gave me the courage to ask you.”