THE CAR OF DESTINY
Athlyne did not feel safe till the French vessel was dipping her
nose into the open Atlantic seas, and the Long Island Hills were a
faint blue line on the western horizon. The last dozen hours of his
stay in New York had been as though spent in prison. He knew well now
that he really loved Joy; that this was no passing fancy, no mere
desire of possession of a pretty woman. All phases of the passion of
love, from the solely physical to the purely spiritual, have their own
forces commanding different sets of nerves. Any one of these many
phases may be all-compelling--for a time. But it is rather the blind
dogged reckless pursuit of an immediate purpose than the total
abandonment to a settled conviction. All the passions--or rather the
phases of one passion--are separate and co-ordinate. Inasmuch as they
are centred in one physical identity they are correlated. Nature has
its own mysteries; and the inter-relations of various functions of a
human being form not the least of them. As there are broad divisions
of them--Christians accept three, the ancient Egyptians held to
eight--so must we accept their uses and consequences. “Body and soul,”
so runs the saying of the illiterate, not seldom used in objurgation.
“Body, mind and soul” says the quasi-thinker who believes that he has
grasped the truth of the great parcelling-out of qualities. “Heart,
soul and flesh” says the lover who knows that he understands. The
lover alone it is who knows as distinguished from believing. For his
world is complete; in it there is no striving after knowledge, no vain
desire of many things, no self-seeking. For the true lover’s one idea
is to give. In such a world there can be no doubting, no fearing, no
hoping. Before its creation Pandora’s box has been emptied to the
last. It may be that the lover’s world is only a phantasm, a
condition. It may be that it is a reality which can only be grasped by
those who have been gifted with special powers. It may be that it is
an orb as real as our own world, whirling in space in darkness, and
can only be seen by those who have a new sense of vision. Surely it is
not too much to believe, following the great analogies, that the soul
as well as the body has eyes, and that all eyes of all sorts and
degrees have vision of one kind or another; that there may be even a
power of choice. We know that in the great manifestation which we call
Light are various rays, each with its own distinctive powers and
limitations. When these are all classified and understood, then
science may take breathing time for its next great effort at
investigation. Why, then, may not certain visual organs be adapted to
specific purposes! We know through our sensoria that there is response
in various ways to seekings of our own; whatever be the means of
communication; whatever it be--electrical or magnetic, or through some
other of the occult root forces, the message is conveyed. Why may it
not be, again following the great analogies, that two forces of
varying kind coming together are necessary for creation of any kind.
We know it of lightning, we know it of protoplasm, and of whatever
lies between them of which we know anything. We find or have ground
for believing that the same conditions hold in all the worlds which
germinate and increase and multiply. May it then not be that in
love--“creation’s final law”--the meeting of the two forces of sex may
create a new light; a light strange to either sex alone; a light in
which that other world, spinning in the darkness through ether, swims
into view in that new-created light.
In physical life when flesh touches flesh the whole body responds,
provided that the two are opposite yet sympathetic. When ideas are
exchanged, mind come forth to mind till each understands with a common
force. When soul meets soul some finer means of expression comes into
play. Something so fine and of condition so rare that other senses can
neither realise nor conceive.
But in the lover all the voices speak, and speak simultaneously; the
soul and the mind and the body all call, each to its new-found mate.
What we call “heart” gives the note for that wonderful song of love;
that song of songs whose music is as necessary in a living world as
light or air, and which is more potent in the end than the forces of
winds or seas.
To Athlyne this new world had dawned. In the light which made it
visible to him other things looked small; some of them base. And this,
though the consciousness of love was still wanting; it had only spoken
instinctively. The completeness only comes with that assurance of
reciprocity which need not be spoken in words. Athlyne had been very
close to it. The yearning of his own nature had spoken in that call
out of the depths of his heart: “Joy look at me!” And if there had
been time for the girl’s new-wakened love to surge up through the deep
waters of her virgin timidity his happiness might have been by now
complete. As yet he only believed that there might yet be happiness
for him; he did not know! Had he seen in Joy’s beautiful eyes the
answering look which he hoped for, he would have been justified in a
change of his plans. He would then have spoken to her father at the
earliest possible opportunity, have told him the entire story of his
visit to America under an assumed name, and trusted to his good
feeling to understand and absolve him. As it was he had to accept
existing circumstances; and so he prepared himself for the future.
First he would get rid of his alias; then he would try to see Joy
again and form some idea of his fate. After that he would make his
confession to Colonel Ogilvie; and if the latter still remained
friendly he would press his suit.
If some impartial reasoner, like Judy for instance, had been summing
up the matter for him the same would have said: “What are you
troubling yourself about. You are as good as he is, you are a suitable
match for the girl in every way. You have a title, a large estate, a
fine social position personally. You have a more than good record as a
soldier. You are young, handsome, strong, popular. You saved the
girl’s life at the risk of your own. Then why, in the name of common
sense, are you worrying? The old man is not an ass; he will understand
at once that you had a good reason for assuming another name. He will
see that the circumstances of your meeting were such that you had no
time to undeceive him. He owes you already the deepest debt of
gratitude that a father can owe. The girl owes you also her life. What
in the world better chance do you want? You love the girl yourself
…”
Aye! there it was. He loved the girl! That hampered him.
During the whole time of the voyage he kept to himself. He made no new
friends, not even acquaintances; he had begun to feel that so long as
he remained under the shadow of that accursed alias each momentarily
pleasant episode of his life was only the beginning of a new series of
social embarrassments. When the ship arrived at Havre he got off and
went at once to London. There he stayed for a few days in the lodgings
which he had taken in the name of Hardy. He set himself gravely to
work to wipe out from his belongings every trace of the false name. It
was carefully cut or scraped from the new luggage, obliterated from
the new linen and underclothes by the simple process of scissors. The
cards and stationery were burned. It was with a sigh of relief that,
having discharged all his obligations, he drove to his chambers in the
Albany and resumed his own name and his old life. He was, however,
somewhat restless. He tried to satisfy himself with long rides, but
even the speed of the Kentucky horse who got more than his share of
work did not satisfy him. There was some new uneasiness in his life;
an overwhelming want which nothing of the old routine, no matter how
pleasant it might be, could fill.
When “Mr. Hardy” had said good bye to her, Joy’s new life began. New
life indeed, for Love is a new birth, a re-creation. Whenever she
thought of herself she seemed to be leading a double life. All the
routine, the cares and the duties of the old life remained unchanged;
but superimposed on it was quite a new existence, one of
self-surrender, of infinite yearning, of infinite hope, of endless
doubting as to whether she was worthy of all that which she shyly
believed really existed. She was all sweetness to those around her, to
whom she seemed happy--but with a tinge of sadness. Both her father
and mother believed that she was feeling the reaction from the shock
of the Riverside adventure. Her mother possibly had at first an idea
that she had given some thought to the handsome young man who had
saved her; but when she herself reviewed in her mind how quietly, not
to say unconcernedly, the young man had taken the whole episode she
was content to let it take a minor place in both her concern and her
recollection.
In due course the Ogilvie family set out on their European journey,
and in due course without any occurrence of note they arrived at their
destination.
Hotel Bellevue,
Casamicciŏla, Ischia.
Dear Mr. Hardy:
As I promised to write to you I now try to keep my word. I dare say
you will think that an old maid is glad to get a chance of writing to
a man! Perhaps she is! But I may say a word in your ear: the habit of
personal reticence begins younger and lingers longer than you would
think. However this is not the time or place--or weather for
philosophising. The scenery is far too lovely to think of anything
unpleasant. We got here all right after a voyage which was nice
enough, though rather dull, and with no opportunities of making new
friends. We can’t have runaway horses on shipboard! My sister will
remain here for some weeks and I shall stay with her as it wouldn’t do
to leave her all alone. It brought the whole caboodle of us hurrying
over from America through a blizzard the last time! No, thank you! And
Colonel Ogilvie doesn’t care to travel by himself. He is set on going
up to Westmoreland which he says is the original Country of his branch
of the Ogilvies. He is complaining of getting no riding here; and yet
he says that when he gets to London he will hire a motor. Men are
queer things, aren’t they? The rest of us are quite well and looking
forward to our English visit where we may meet some friends. How are
you? I suppose spending your time as usual galloping about like a
knight-errant on a big black horse rescuing distressed ladies. And
writing letters to a pack of women not _all_ old maids! I suppose you
will spare a moment to write to one in answer to this, just to say
where you are and where you will be in the next few weeks. My
brother’s section of our party leaves here next week. As I am an old
maid I am shy of telling my sister, and most of the rest of us, that I
am writing to a gentleman; but if they knew it they too would send
their love. For my own part I must confine myself to kind remembrance.
Believe me,
Yours faithfully,
Judith Hayes.
P. S.--By the way, I forgot to say that the first contingent will
after a few days in London go on to Cumberland or Westmoreland--I know
it is the “Lake” country!
Athlyne read the letter eagerly; but when he had finished he dropped
it impatiently. There was not a thing in it that he wanted to
know--not once the name he wanted to see. He sat for a while thinking;
then he took it up again saying to himself:
“She’s no fool; it must have taken her some pains to say so little.”
As he read it the second time, more carefully this time and not merely
looking for what he wished to find, the letter told its own story, and
in its own way. Then he smiled heartily as he sat thinking it over and
commenting to himself:
“Not a word about her; not even her name! And yet she must know that
it would be of _some_ interest to me to hear of her. I wonder if it
would do to run over to Ischia. There seems to be a party of them …”
He read over the letter again with a puzzled look, which all at once
changed to a smile. “Good old Judy! So that’s it is it! That’s not the
first letter Miss Judy has written with a double meaning in it. She
hasn’t those fine eyes and that quick wit for nothing. Why it’s as
clever and as secret as that sent to Basing at Pretoria.” For a good
while he pondered over it, making notes on the back of the envelope.
Then he read these over:
“We are at Ischia.
“I am writing because I promised.
“The habit of personal reticence (that means not saying a thing for
yourself) is for both young and old.
“Our voyage was dull, no adventure, no meeting any one like you.
“Mrs. Ogilvie and Judy remain at Ischia some weeks.
“Colonel Ogilvie doesn’t like going alone and goes to the Lake County
(who is to be with him but Joy?)
“He wants to go motoring (seems more in this--think it over).
_The rest of us_--(that can only mean Joy) are looking forward to
meeting friends in England--(that proves she is going with her
father).
“Let me know where you will be during the coming weeks.
“My brother’s section of our party--(He and Joy)--leave here next
week.
“I haven’t told Mrs. Ogilvie _or most of the rest of us_ (Besides Mrs.
O. there are only two so that _most_ of them must mean the
bigger--that is Colonel Ogilvie--she has not told that one of the
two--then she _has_ told the other. And the other is Joy!)
“If any of those kept in ignorance knew they _too_ would send their
love!
“‘_Too!_’ Then one does. Judy sends her own ‘kind remembrance.’ The
only other one, Joy, sends her love--to me.
“Joy sends her love to me!”
He sat for a moment in an ecstasy, holding the letter loosely in his
hand. Then he raised it to his lips and kissed it. Then he kissed it a
second time, a lighter kiss, murmuring:
“That’s for Aunt Judy!” He proceeded with his comment:
“The postscript: ‘After a few days in London--will go on to Cumberland
or Westmoreland.’ No address in either place, what does that mean? She
has been so clever over the rest that she can’t be dull in this. She
_must_ know the London address … she thinks it best not to tell it
to me--why?”
That puzzled him. He could not make out any reason from her point of
view. He was willing to accept the fact and obey directions, but Judy
had been so subtle in the other matter that he felt she must have some
shrewd design in this. But the simple fact was that in this matter she
had no design whatever. She intended to write to him again on hearing
from him and to give him all details.
But for his own part Athlyne had several reasons for not seeing
Colonel Ogilvie in London. Knowing that the father might make some
quarrel out of his coming to his home in a false name he wanted to
make sure of the daughter’s affection before explaining it to him.
Besides there was the matter of continuing the fraud--even to Judy.
Until things had been explained, meeting and any form of familiarity
or even of hospitality on either side was dangerous. He could neither
declare himself nor continue as they knew him. He was known in London
to too many people to avoid possible _contretemps_, even if he decided
to continue the alias with them and take chance, until he could seize
a favourable opportunity. And as he could not introduce the old
gentleman to his friends and his clubs it would be wiser not to see
him at all. When all was said and done the pain of patient waiting
might be the least of many ills.
All the morning and afternoon he thought over the letter which he was
to write to Judy. He despaired of writing anything which could mean so
much; and beyond that again he felt that he could say nothing which
would be so important to its recipient as the message of Judy’s letter
had been to him. How could he hope for such a thing! The letter, which
just before the time of collection he posted with much trepidation,
ran:
“My Dear Miss Hayes:
“Thank you very much for your most kind letter and for all that you
have said and left unsaid. I too had a dull journey from New York and
found London duller still. As a town it seems to have fallen off; but
it will brighten up again I am sure before long! I am glad you are all
well. I suppose your party will re-unite after Mrs. Ogilvie’s cure has
been completed. It is strange how we are all taking to motor cars. I
am myself getting one, and I hope in the early summer to have some
lovely drives. I am looking out for a companion. But it is a difficult
thing to get exactly the one you want, and without such it is lonely
work. Even going the utmost pace possible could not keep one’s mind
away from the want. When I went to America that time I was feeling
lonely and dull; and I have felt lonelier and duller ever since. But
when I get my motor I hope all that will shortly cease. I hope that
when you arrive--if you and Mrs. Ogilvie do come over--that you will
honour my car by riding in it. I shall hope to have some one with me
whom you must like very much--you seem to like nice people and nice
people seem to be fond of you. I greatly fear it will not be possible
for me to see Colonel Ogilvie in London, for I have to be away very
shortly on some business, and I probably shall not be back in time;
but I am going up North in a few weeks--in my new car if it is
ready--and I shall hope to see my friends. Perhaps Colonel Ogilvie and
some of his friends will come for a drive with me. Won’t you let me
know where he will be staying after he leaves London. Please give, if
occasion serves, my warm remembrance to all. I have not forgotten that
delightful conversation we had before tea the day I called. Tell Miss
Joy that I wish we could renew and continue it. Miss Ogilvie must be a
very happy girl to have, in addition to such nice parents who love her
so much, an aunt like you so much her own age, so sympathetic, so
understanding. I cannot tell you how much I am obliged to you for
writing. I look eagerly for another letter.
“Believe me,
Yours very sincerely.”
There he hesitated. He had meant never to write again the name Richard
Hardy. Here the letter seemed to demand it. He had already thought the
matter over in all ways and from all points of view and had, he
thought, made up his mind to go through with the fraud as long as it
was absolutely necessary. There was no other way. But now when he had
to write out the lie--as it appeared to him to be--his very soul
revolted at it. It seemed somehow to dishonour Joy. Since he had
looked into the depth of her eyes, scruples had come to him which had
not ever before troubled him. It was unworthy of her, and of himself,
to continue a lie. And so with him began again the endless circle of
reasoning on a basis of what was false.
A lie, little or big, seems gifted with immortality. At its creation
it seems to receive that vitality which belongs to noxious things. The
germs which preserve disease survive the quick lime of the plague-pit
and continue after the seething mass of corruption has settled into
earthly dust; and when the very bones have been resolved into their
elements the waiting germs come forth on disturbance of the soil
strong and baneful as ever.
Sometimes Athlyne grumbled to himself of the hardness of his lot. It
was too bad that from such a little thing as taking another name, and
merely for the purpose of a self-protective investigation of a lie, he
should find himself involved in such a net-work of deceit. Other
people did things a hundred times worse every day of their lives. He
had often done so himself; but nothing ever came of it. But now, when
his whole future might depend upon it, he was face to face with an
actual danger. If Colonel Ogilvie quarrelled with him about it that
would mean the end of all. Joy would never quarrel with her father; of
that he felt as surely as that he loved her. All unknown to himself
Athlyne had an instinctive knowledge of character. Any one who had
ever seen him exercise the faculty would have been astonished by the
rapidity of its working. The instant he had seen Joy he had recognised
her qualities. He had understood young Breckenridge at a glance;
otherwise he was too shrewd a man to trust him as he had done. It is
not often that a man will entrust the first comer in a crowd with a
valuable horse. To this man, too, an utter stranger, he had entrusted
his secret, the only person who now knew it on the entire American
continent. So also with Colonel Ogilvie. He was assured in his inner
consciousness that that old gentleman would be hard to convince of the
necessity for disguise. There was something about his fine stern-cut
features--so exquisitely modified in his daughter--and in his haughty
bearing which was obnoxious to any form of deceit.
One of these grumbling fits came on him now, and so engrossed him that
he quite forgot to sign the letter. It was in the post box when he
recollected the omission. He rejoiced when he did so that he had not
written the lie. It was queer how sensitive his conscious was
becoming!
One immediate effect of the awakened conscience was that he went about
a motor car that very afternoon. He had said to Miss Judy that he was
getting one, and his words had to be made good. Moreover he had, in
addition to the train of reasons induced by Miss Judy’s mention of
Colonel Ogilvie’s getting a car, a sort of intuition that it would be
of service to him. Of service to him, meant of course, in his present
state of mind with regard to Joy--of service in furthering his love
affair. He had wished for a horse and got one, and it had brought him
to Joy. Now he wanted a motor … The chain of reasoning seemed so
delightfully simple that it would be foolish to dispute it.
Sub-conscious intuition supplied all lacunæ.
The logic of fact seemed to support that of theory. He looked in at
his club to find the name of a motor agency. There in the hall he met
an old diplomatic friend, who after greeting him said:
“This is good-bye as well.”
“How so?” he asked.
“I am off for Persia. Ballentyre got a stroke just as he was starting
and they sent for me in a hurry and offered me the post. It is too
good to refuse, so I am booked for another three years. I was
promising myself a long rest, or a spell in a civilised place anyhow.
It is too bad, just when I was expecting home my new
Delaunay-Belleville car which has been nearly a year in hand.”
“Do you take the car with you?” asked Athlyne feeling a queer kind of
beating of his heart.
“No. It would be useless there; at all events until I see what the
country and the roads are like. I was just off to the agents to tell
them to sell it for me.”
“Strange we should meet. I came here to look up the address of an
agent. I want to buy a car.”
“Look here, Athlyne; why not take over this? I shall have to sell it
at a sacrifice, and why shouldn’t you have the advantage. I’ll let you
have it cheap; I would rather clear it all up before I go.”
“All right, old chap. I’ll take it. What’s the figure?”
“I agreed to pay £1,000. You may have it at what you think fair!”
“All right. Can we settle it now?”
“By all means.” Athlyne took out his cheque-book and wrote a cheque
which he handed to the other.
“I say,” said Chetwynd. “You have made this for the full sum.”
“Quite so! What else could I offer. Why man, do you think I would beat
you down because you are in a hurry. If there is any huckstering it is
I who should pay. I get my car at once, the very car I wanted. I
should have to wait another year.”
Three days after, the car arrived. Athlyne had spent the time in
getting lessons at a garage and learning something of the mechanism.
He was already a fair mechanic and a fine driver of horses; so that
before another week was out he had learned to know his car. He got a
good chauffeur so that he would always have help in case of need; and
before the next letter arrived from Miss Judy he was able to fly about
all over the country. The new car was a beauty. It was 100-110 h. p.
and could do sixty miles an hour easily.
The next letter which he received from Miss Hayes was short and
devoid, so far as he could discern after much study, of any cryptic
meaning whatever. She thus made allusion to the fact that he had not
signed his letter:
“By the way I notice that you forgot to sign your letter. I suppose
you were thinking at the time of other things.” The later sentence was
underlined. The information in the letter was that Colonel Ogilvie and
“his daughter” expected to be in London on the Saturday following her
letter and would stay at Brown’s Hotel, Albemarle Street, “where I
have no doubt they will be happy to see you if you should chance to be
in London at the time. I think Lucius intends to write you.”
The latter sentence was literally gall to him. He knew that he must
not be in London during their stay there. To be away was the only
decent way of avoiding meeting them. He must not meet Colonel Ogilvie
until he had made certain of Joy’s feeling towards him, for he could
not make his identity known till he had that certainty. He could then
explain his position … The rest of the possibilities remained
unspoken; but they were definite in his own mind.
As he had to go away he thought it would be well to study up the
various branches of the Ogilvy as well as of the Ogilvie family. He
would then make a tour on his own account to the various places where
were their ancient seats. As Colonel Ogilvie was interested in the
matter some knowledge on his part might lead … somewhere.