“I will go and see what it is, and return in a moment,” he said to her, signing to Ossian to remain in the carriage, and leaving the door open.
She did not attempt to detain or to follow him.
“That is a thoroughbred woman,” he said to himself.
He did return in a few minutes, and brought word that they had stuck fast in the snow. The engine-driver had slackened speed in time to avoid an accident, but they might be detained for hours; the telegraph wires were all down through the weight of the snow.
“It is extremely disagreeable, but it is not dangerous,” he said to reassure her. “We shall be quittes pour la peur. We shall probably have time to get dreadfully keen about eating, and have nothing to eat. England is such a small place: one never thinks of ‘stoking’ when one travels in it.”
“My poor maid!” she said anxiously. “I am afraid she must be very frightened, wherever she is.”
“Can I look for her?”
“You are very kind, but how should you know her? I will get out myself.”
“It may be as well to get out. You would be warmer if you stayed in the carriage, but there is the chance that a train may come up behind and run into ours, though men have gone down the line with lamps.”
She had nothing with her except her book and a bouquet of violets. Closely followed by Ossian, he accompanied her along the line, looking into each compartment to find her maid. There were many people, both in the train and out of it, talking confusedly, suggesting this, that, and the other; the air was full of fog and snow; the engine, snorting and smoking, stood with its brazen breast pushed against the high white hillocks.