A LETTER
Before he set out for London, Colonel Ogilvie wrote a letter to “Mr.
Hardy” which he sent to the address given on the card handed to him at
New York. He had thought over the matter of writing with the
seriousness which he always gave to social matters. Indeed he was
careful to be even more punctilious than usual with this young man;
firstly because he had got the idea that his overtures had not been
cordially received and he wished to be just, secondly because he felt
he must not forget the great service rendered to his daughter and
himself. In his letter he apprised Mr. Hardy that with his daughter he
was coming to London for a week or more, that they would be staying at
Brown’s Hotel, Albemarle Street, and that they would be very pleased
to see him there if he would honour them with a visit, and that
perhaps he would make it convenient to dine with them any evening
which he himself might select. He also told him that Mrs. Ogilvie and
her sister were to remain some weeks longer in Italy, and that they
would join him in the North of England, whence they would go all
together to some bracing part of Scotland, to be decided later on when
the time came for the after-cure. Of course, as he did not know that
Athlyne was already in correspondence with Miss Judy, and was
particular to give details of his future movements. Before posting it
he showed the letter to Joy so that he might have her opinion as to
whether all was correct. Joy was secretly fluttered, but she preserved
admirably her self-control and came well through the ordeal, leaving
no suspicion in the mind of her father as to the real state of things.
She was now very deeply in love; the days that had passed had each and
all fed the flame of her incipient passion. Time and the brain working
together have a period of growth of their own which the
physiopsychists have called “unconscious cerebration,” a sort of
intellectual process whereby crude thoughts are throughout the
darkness of suspended effort developed into logical results. Again,
one of Nature’s mysterious workings; again one of her analogies to the
inner and outer worlds of growth. As the hibernating seed, as the
child in the womb, so the thought of man. Growth without ceasing, in
light or darkness. Logical development, from the gates of Life to the
gates of Death.
Joy was so deeply in love that all her thoughts, all her acts, all her
hopings and fearings were tinged by it. Dreams need a physical basis
somewhere; and whatever is the outward condition of man or woman so
will be the mind. Whatever the inward, so will be the outward; each is
the true index to the other. Her father, though an acute enough man in
other respects, was sublimely unconscious of any change in his little
girl; indeed he held her in his mind as but a child to whom the
realities of life had not yet presented themselves. And yet even as a
father he was feeling the effects of her developed affection. All the
sweetness of her childhood had ripened. Somehow her nature had become
more buoyant, more elastic. Sweetness and thoughtful understanding of
his wishes seemed to breathe from her. Now and again were languorous
moments when her whole being seemed to yield itself involuntarily to a
wish outside her own. To a woman these are times of danger. For when
the will ceases, passivity is no longer negative; it is simply a
doubling of the external domination--as though an active spirit had
been breathed into inertness. There are many readings to any of the
Parables. When certain devils have been cast out and the house has
been swept and garnished may it not be that spirits other than devils
may find place therein. May it not also be that there is a virtue in
even selfishness; if only that its protective presence keeps out
devils that would fain enter the house where it abides.
With a spirit of meekness Joy waited the coming of the friend who had
been bidden. She had every confidence that he would come. True that he
had not written to her; but she had seen his unsigned letter to Judy,
and into its barrenness had read meanings of her own. How could he
_not_ come to her when she would have so gladly flown to him? Besides
there was always with her the memory of that rapturous moment when he
had spoken her name: “Joy look at me!” It was not hard to remember
that; it was the only time she had heard her name upon his lips. As
the weeks had gone by, that little sentence impulsively spoken had
arrived at the dignity of a declaration of passion. It had grown in
her mind from a request to a command; and she felt the sweetness of
being commanded by a man she loved. In that moment she had accepted
him as her Master; and that acceptance on a woman’s part remains as a
sacred duty of obedience so long as love lasts. This is one of the
mysteries of love. Like all other mysteries, easy of acceptance to
those who believe; an acceptance which needs no doubting
investigation, no proof, no consideration of any kind whatever. She
had faith in him, and where Faith reigns Patience ceases to be a
virtue.
Her father waited also, though not in the same meekness of spirit.
Indeed his feeling was fast becoming an exasperation in which the
feeling of gratitude was merging. He felt that he had done all that
was right and correct with regard to the young man. He had gone out of
his way to be nice to him; but with only the result of insult--that
was the way in which he was beginning to construe the silence of Mr.
Hardy. Insult to his daughter as well as himself; and that was a thing
which could not be brooked from anyone no matter how strong or how
numerous were his claims for leniency! Joy saw that there was some
cause of displeasure with her father, and with a sinking heart had to
attribute it to the real cause. She knew--which her father did
not--from his letter to Judy that Mr. Hardy would have to be away from
London just at the time of their visit; but she was afraid to speak
lest she should precipitate catastrophe. It was not that she had fear
in the ordinary sense. Much as she loved her father she would face him
if necessary. But she felt that it would be unwise to force the issue
prematurely; her father was a man of such strong prejudices--he called
them convictions!--that once they were aroused they mastered his
judgment. What might happen if he should give them scope on this
occasion! Her heart sank more deeply still at the very thought.
In her anxiety she took what was probably the wisest course; she kept
him perpetually busy, trotting about with her to see the sights of
London. This was a pleasure which she had long promised herself
with--since the adventure with the run-away horse--the added interest
of having present a nice Englishman to point out and explain. This
special charm had now to be foregone; and the denial made her secretly
sad. However, the best anodyne to pain is pain; her anxiety regarding
her father’s case was a counteractant to her own. Father and daughter
were so busy, morning noon and night, and the girl appeared to be so
tired when the day’s programme as laid down had been exhausted, that
occasion was lacking for consideration of a disagreeable subject.
Towards the end of the first week, however, Colonel Ogilvie’s patience
began to fail. He felt that he must speak of his annoyance to some
one, and there was no choice. Joy felt that the moment had come, and
she did not flinch. She had a grim foreboding that there would be
something said which would give her pain to hear. Her hands were tied.
She could not even mention that Mr. Hardy was away; her father would
be sure to ask how she knew it. If he did so, she would not dare to
tell him; for she knew well that if he learned that the man who had
not even answered his own letter was in secret correspondence with the
ladies of his own family--that is how he would put it--the fact would
add fuel to the flame, would change chagrin to fury. And so she
steeled herself to the quiet endurance of suffering.
The blow fell at breakfast time when her father had looked through the
few letters which lay beside his plate.
“Well, I do think that that young man’s rudeness is unpardonable!”
Joy looked up with a pleasant smile which belied the chilly feeling
about her heart. She felt that she must pretend ignorance; her father
might, later on, hold a too ready acceptance as suspicious:
“What, Daddy? Who? Whose rudeness?”
“That--that gentleman whom I asked to dine with us. Mr. Hardy.”
“Perhaps he may not have got your letter.”
“How do you mean, daughter? He must have got it; I directed it to the
address he gave me himself.”
“But Daddy, he may be away. You remember he told you at dinner that
day in the Holland that he had important business. It may have been
prolonged you know. He may not even be in London.”
“Then he should see that his letters are duly sent on to him.”
“Certainly he ought. But perhaps Daddy he’s not as careful as we are.
He may not be a man of business!” Colonel Ogilvie smiled:
“I’m afraid that is a very bad argument my dear. You have just used
the opposite!”
“How so, Daddy?” she asked wrinkling up her brows.
“You said he might be away on business!” He was so pleased with his
combating of her argument that her purpose was effected; he abandoned
the subject--for a time.
The next morning, however, he renewed it again under similar
circumstances:
“I think, my dear, that we had better give up any idea of keeping that
young man on the list of our friends. It is quite evident that he does
not care to continue our acquaintanceship!” Joy suffered much this
time; all the more because there was nothing that she could say which
would be wise. She had to content herself with a commonplace
acceptance of his views. So she answered with as steady a voice as she
could manage:
“Of course, Daddy! Whatever you think right!” The answer pleased her
father; he showed it in his reply:
“I am sorry about it, my dear; for he seemed a fine young fellow, and
he saved you very bravely. However we cannot help it. _We_ did all we
could to make him welcome; but we can’t force him to come to us. It
isn’t an occasion for wain-ropes!” After a pause she ventured to say
meekly:
“Yes. It would be a pity if we had to quarrel with a man who did so
much for us. I suppose if he _could_ show that he did not get your
letter, then it would be--you could forgive him.”
“Of course I would, my dear. But these English are so stand-off that
there is no understanding them. I wanted to be friends with the man
who saved my little girl … But there, it is no use wishing anything
when people are pig-headed …”
His words somehow made Joy’s heart glow. It might be all right yet, if
only …
But the present was sadly un-right. The suspense, the uncertainty, the
waiting in the dark were hard to bear. It was little wonder that in
the middle of the following week her father noticed that she had grown
pale and listless. Deep down in his mind he connected it somehow with
“that damned fellow” but he took care not to betray his thought to his
daughter in any way. His present wish was that even the existence of
the fellow should fall out of the memory of his family. As for himself
he never let a grievance fall out of his memory; there had to be a day
of reckoning for all concerned in such.
He quietly made preparations for their northern tour, and when all was
ready told Joy who joined with alacrity in the move. London was now
growing hateful to her.
In the meantime Athlyne, living either in his castle of
Ceann-da-Shail--which he had long looked on as his home--as a centre,
was flying about in his new motor, learning each day fresh mysteries
of driving. The speeds of the motor are so much above those of other
vehicles that a driver, howsoever experienced he may be in other ways,
seems here to be dealing with a new force. The perspective changes so
fast as the machine eats up the space that the mind requires to be
practised afresh in judging distances and curves. It had been a bitter
regret to him that he had to keep out of London just when Joy had come
to it. His mind was always running on what a delight it would be to be
with her when all the interesting things came before her; to note the
sudden flushes of delight, to see the quick lifting of the beautiful
eyes, to look into their mysterious, bewildering depths. At first when
such ideas took him whilst driving, he nearly ran into danger.
Unconsciously his hands would turn the wheel for speed, and in his
eagerness he would make such swerves and jumps that undesirable things
almost happened. However, after a few such experiences his nerves
learned their own business. It is part of the equipment of a chauffeur
to be able to abstract and control his driving senses from all other
considerations; and such dual action of the mind requires habit and
experience for its realisation. The constant watchfulness and anxiety
had at least this beneficent use: that for a part of the day at all
events his mind was kept from brooding over his personal trouble.
The arrival of Colonel Ogilvie’s letter, sent on to him from London,
made in a way a new trouble for him; for whilst he was delighted to
get so friendly an overture it was he saw but another difficulty ahead
of him. He must either reply in his false name, which was now hateful
to him; or he must leave the letter, for the present, unanswered. This
latter alternative would be dangerous with a man so sensitive and so
punctilious; but, all told, it was the lesser evil. He had had
opportunity to make up his mind on the subject before the letter came,
for Aunt Judy had said in her last letter that Colonel Ogilvie had
spoken about writing to him before they should arrive in London. Still
it was a sore trial to him to be so discourteous, with the added
chagrin that it might--probably would--stand in his way with the one
man in the world whom he wished to propitiate.
As he did not know anything about the history of Colonel Ogilvie’s
family he went to the peerage books and made lists of the bearers of
that name in its different spellings; and then as he decided to go to
many of the places named, he made runs into Perthshire and Forfar. He
came to the conclusion that he must have misunderstood Colonel Ogilvie
in alluding to the “Border Counties.” He laid up, however, a good deal
of local information which might be pleasing to his prospective
father-in-law.
One morning he had a letter which quite fluttered him. It was from
Aunt Judy telling him that Colonel Ogilvie had announced his intention
of starting on the then coming Thursday for the north, and that he had
given as the direction of his letters till further notice the “Inn of
Greeting,” Ambleside. The unqualified pleasure which he received from
this news was neutralised by the postscript:
“By the way--this of course in your private ear, now and
hereafter--Colonel Ogilvie is vastly disappointed that you have not
been to see him in London, and that you have not even replied to his
letter. Surely there must be some mistake about this. I sincerely hope
so, for he looks on any breach of courtesy, or any defect in it, as an
unpardonable sin. I know from the fact of his mentioning it to his
womenkind that he has taken it to heart. Do, do my dear friend, who
have done so much for us and whose friendship we wish to hold, repair
this without delay. He is an old man and may possibly expect more from
a younger man than from one of his own standing. I am sure that if
there has been any omission there is on your part a good reason for
it. But do not lose any time. If you wish to please us _all_--and I am
sure you do--you would do well to go up to Ambleside--if you have not
seen him already--and call on him there. And do like a dear man drop
me a line at once to say you have received this and telling me what
you intend to do.”
He sat for a while quite still, putting his thoughts in order. It was
now Monday so that Colonel Ogilvie would have been already some days
at Ambleside. He took it for granted that Joy was with him, but he
could not help a qualm of doubt about even that. Aunt Judy had not
mentioned her in the matter. The only possible allusion was in the
underlining of the word “all.” Otherwise the letter was too direct and
too serious for any cryptic meaning.
He came to the conclusion that his best plan would be to go at once to
some place on Windermere, and from there go quietly to Ambleside and
find out for himself how things lay. The best place for him to stay at
would, for his purposes, be Bowness. There he would leave his car with
the chauffeur and drive in a carriage to Ambleside. When there he
would contrive to meet if possible Joy alone. He would surely be able
to form from her attitude some opinion of her disposition towards him.
If he were satisfied as to this he would at once go to her father,
tell him the whole story, and place himself in his hands.
But then he thought that if he were so near, his name might become
known to Colonel Ogilvie; that infernal alias seemed to be always
standing in his way! He was so obsessed by the subject that at times
he quite overlooked the fact that neither the Colonel nor any of his
family knew anything whatever of the matter. It took him an hour’s
hard thought before this idea presented itself to him. It took a
weight off his mind. If by any chance Colonel Ogilvie should hear that
an individual called Lord Athlyne was in the neighbourhood it would
mean nothing to him. Nothing except the proximity of one more of that
“bloated aristocracy,” which one class of Americans run down--and
another run after.
He was then up in Ross. As he did not wish to “rush” matters he
decided to start next day. When that time came he had fully made up
his plan of action. As the Ogilvies were at Ambleside he would go to
Bowness. As there was a service of public coaches he could go between
the places mentioned--without even the isolation of a carriage for his
sole use. He would go quietly to the Inn of Greeting and learn what he
could about their movements. The rest must depend on circumstances.
But there must be no hurry; the matter was too serious now and the
issue too important to take any risk. But when he should have seen Joy
and knew, or believed, or understood … Then he would lose not a
moment in seeing her father. But he might not get a chance of seeing
him alone and under circumstances favourable to his purpose. He must
be ready. All at once an idea struck him …
All these weeks Athlyne had now and again had a vague feeling of
uneasiness which he could not understand: a sort of feeling that he
would some time wake and wonder what he had been fretting and fuming
about. Why could he not have written to Colonel Ogilvie at any time?
Even before he had left New York, or whilst he had been on board ship,
or whilst the American family had been in Italy, or even when the
Colonel had been in London? Why not now? After all, there was nothing
in any way wrong; nothing to be ashamed of. He was of good social
position; at least as good as Joy’s father was. He was himself rich
and wanted no fortune with his wife. He had won certain honours--a man
to whose name had been suffixed V.C. and D.S.O. must be considered
personally adequate for ordinary purposes. And so on. Vanity and
self-interest, in addition to the working of the higher qualities,
supplied many good reasons.
And yet! … He was always being brought up against one of two things:
Colonel Ogilvie’s peculiar views and character, or his own position
towards him with regard to the alias. He could always find in either
of these something which might cause pain or trouble to Joy. Moreover
there was another matter which was a powerful factor in his
conclusions, although it was one which he did not analyse or even
realise. It was one that worked unconsciously; a disposition rather
than an activity; a tendency rather than a thought. Lord Athlyne was
Scotch and Irish; a Celt of Celts on his mother’s side. He had all
that underlying desire of the unknown which creates sentiment, and
which is so pronounced a part of the Celtic character. This it is
whence comes that clinging to the place of birth which has made the
peasantry of the Green Isle for seven hundred years fight all opposing
forces, from hunger to bayonets, to hold possession of their own. This
it is which animated a race, century after century, to suffer and
endure from their Conquerors of a more prosaic race all sorts of pain
and want, and for reasons not understandable by others. Those who have
lived amongst those Celts of the outlying fringes, amongst whom racial
tendencies remain unaltered by changing circumstances, and by whom
traditions are preserved not by historical purpose but by the exercise
of faith, know that there is a Something which has a name but no
external bounds or limitations, no quick principle, no settled
purpose. Something which to an alien can only be described by
negatives; if any idea can at all be arrived at by such--any idea
however rudimentary, phantasmal or vague--it can only be acquired at
all by a process of exclusions. The name is “The Gloom”; the rest is a
birthright. Those who can understand it need no telling or explaining;
others can no more understand it than those born without eyes can see.
It is a quality opposed to no other; it can exist with any. It can
co-exist with fighting, with song, with commerce. It makes no change
in other powers or qualities of the children of Adam. Those who
possess it can be good or bad, clever or silly, heroic or mean. It can
add force to imagination, understand nature, give quiet delight or
spiritual pain. And the bulk of those who have it do not think of it
or even know it: or if they do, hardly ever speak of it.
Athlyne had his full share of it. Being young and strong and of a
class in life which seldom lacks amusement he had not been given to
self-analysis. But all the same, though he did not think of it, the
force was there. In his present emotional crisis it brought the lover
in him up to the Celtic ideal. An ideal so strangely saturated with
love that his whole being, his aims and ambitions, his hopes and
fears, his pleasures and pains yielded place to it and for the time
became merged in it. To him the whole world seemed to revolve round
Joy as a pivotal point. Nothing could be of any use or interest which
did not have touch of her or lead to her. So, he wanted to know beyond
the mere measure of intellectual belief if Joy loved him or was on the
way to doing so. When he was satisfied as to this he would be free to
act; but not before.
On the journey he had allowed the chauffeur to drive, as he wanted to
think over the whole matter without fear of interruption. He had sat
in the tonneau and made from time to time notes in his pocket-book. He
had now made up his mind that he would write a letter to Colonel
Ogilvie telling him the whole circumstances. This he would keep in his
pocket so that at the first moment when he was satisfied as to Joy’s
views he could post it, in case he could not have the opportunity of a
personal explanation. After dinner the second night of the journey and
then in his bedroom he sat up writing the letter and then copying it
out on his own note paper of which he had for the purpose brought a
supply with him. When it was completed it left nothing that he could
think of open to doubt. When he had got this off his mind sleep came
to him.
Next day he took the wheel himself; and that day when there was
fitting opportunity the car hummed along merrily at top speed. Before
sunset they arrived at Bowness. There he left the car in charge of the
chauffeur, on whom he again impressed the necessity for absolute
silence. The man was naturally discreet, and he saw that he was in a
good situation. Athlyne was satisfied on leaving him that his orders
would be thoroughly carried out.
In the forenoon of the next day he took the steamer which plies along
the Lake, and in due course landed at Ambleside. His heart beat
quickly now and his eyes searched keenly all around him as he moved.
He would not miss a chance of seeing Joy.