ECHO OF A TRAGEDY
Athlyne had one other day almost similar to the last. This time he
came to Ambleside a little earlier; fortunately so, for Joy had got up
early. When he came into the square she was standing in the window
looking out. Not in his direction; did a woman ever do such a stupid
thing when at the first glance she had caught sight of the man far
off. No, this time she appeared to be eagerly watching two tiny
children toddling along the street hand in hand. He had time for a
good look at her before she changed her position. This was only when
the children had disappeared--and he had gained the shelter of the
lilacs.
Love is a blindness--in certain ways. It never once occurred to
Athlyne that Joy might have seen him, might have even known of his
being at Ambleside or in its neighbourhood. Any independent onlooker
or any one not bound by the simplicity and unquestioning faith of
ardent love would at least have doubted whether there was not some
possible intention in Joy’s movements. His faith however saved him
from pain, that one pain from which true love can suffer however
baseless it may be--doubt. Early morning took him to Ambleside; he
only went back to Bowness when those windows of the hotel which he
knew were darkened for the night.
The second day of waiting and watching was just like the first, with
only the addition that the hearts of both the young people were more
clamant, each to each; and that the rising passion of each was harder
to control. The same routine of going out and returning was observed
by the Ogilvies, and each of the lovers had tumultuous moments when
the other was within view. More than once Athlyne was tempted to put
his letter in the post or to leave it at the hotel; but each time
Joy’s chance phrase: “If I ever fall in love” came back to him as a
grim warning. He knew that if he once declared himself to Colonel
Ogilvie the whole truth must come out, and then his title and fortune
might be extraneous inducements to the girl. Whenever he came to this
point in his reasoning he thrust the letter deeper into his pocket and
his lips shut tight. He would win Joy on his mere manhood and his
manhood’s love--if at all!
By the post next morning Colonel Ogilvie and Joy both got letters from
Italy. That of the former was from his wife who announced that they
were just starting for London where they wished to remain for a few
days in order to do some shopping. When this was done she would wire
him and he could run up to London and bring them down with him. This
pleased him, for he was certain that by then he would have his
automobile. He felt in a way that his pride was at stake on this
point. He had told his women folk that the car would be ready, and he
wished to justify. He wired off at once to the agents, in even a
sterner spirit than usual, as to the cause of delay. For excuses had
come in a most exasperating way. Long after it had been reported that
the car had started and had even proceeded a considerable distance on
the way he was told that there had been an error and that by some
strange mistake the progress made by a car long previously ordered by
another customer had been reported; but that Colonel Ogilvie’s
esteemed order was well in hand and that delivery of the car was
daily--hourly--expected; and that at once on its receipt by the writer
it would be forwarded to Ambleside either with a trusty chauffeur or
by train as the purchaser might wish. Colonel Ogilvie fumed but was
powerless. He wanted the car and at once; so it was useless for him to
cancel the contract. He could only wait and hope; and console himself
with such attenuated expressions of disapproval as were permissible in
the ethics of the telegraphic system.
Joy’s letter was from Judy. It was in her usual bright style and full
of affection, sympathy and understanding, as was customary in her
letters to her niece. Judy had of late been much disturbed in her mind
about the future, and as she feared Joy might be taking to heart the
same matters as she did and in the same way, she tried to help the
other. She knew from Colonel Ogilvie’s letters to his wife which they
talked over together that he was seriously hurt and pained by the
neglect of Mr. Hardy. Indeed in his last letter he had declared that
in spite of the high opinion he had formed of him from his brave and
ready action he never wished to see his face again. To Judy this meant
much, the most that could be of possible ill; Joy’s happiness might be
at stake. The aunt, steeped through and through with knowledge of the
world and character--a knowledge gained from her own heart, its hopes
and pains and from bitter experience of the woes of others--knew that
her niece would suffer deeply in case of any rupture between her
father and the man who had saved her life. It was not merely from
imaginative sympathy that she derived her belief. She had had many and
favourable opportunities of studying Joy closely, and she had in her
own mind no doubt whatever that the girl’s affections were given
beyond recall to the handsome stranger. So in her letter she tried to
guard her from the pain of present imaginings and yet to prepare her
subtly for the possibility of disappointment in the future. Her letter
in its important part ran:
“Your father is undoubtedly very angry with Mr. Hardy; and though I
believe that his anger may have a slight basis it is altogether
excessive. We do not know yet what Mr. Hardy’s limitations of freedom
may be. After all, darling, we do not know anything as yet of his
circumstances or his surroundings. He may have a thousand calls on his
time which we neither know nor understand. For all we can tell he may
have a wife already--though this I do not believe or accept for a
moment. And you don’t either, my dear! Of course this is all a joke.
We _know_ he is free as to marriage, though I don’t believe his heart
is--Eh! Puss! But seriously if you ever get a chance tell him to try
to be very nice to your father. Old men are often more sensitive in
some things that young ones, more sensitive than even we women are
supposed to be. So when he does come to see you both--for he _will_
come soon (if he hasn’t come already)--don’t keep him all to yourself,
but contrive somehow that your father can have a little chat with him.
You needn’t go altogether away you know, my dear. Don’t sit so far
away that he can’t see you nor you him (this is a whisper expressed in
writing) and I dare say you will like to hear all they say to each
other. But if he says a word about seeing your daddy alone for a
moment, if he begins to look ill at ease or to get red and then pale
and red again, or stammers and clears his throat do you just get up
quietly and go out of the room without a word in the most natural way
in the world, just as if you were doing some little household duty. I
suppose I needn’t tell you this; you know it just as well as I do,
though I have known it by experience and you can not. You know how I
know it darling though I never told you this part of it. Women are
Cowards. _We_ know it though we don’t always say so, and we even
disguise it from others now and then. But in such a time as I have
mentioned we are _all_ Cowards. We couldn’t stay if we would. We
_want_ to get away and hide our heads just as we do when it thunders.
But what an awful lot of _rot_ I am talking. When Mr. Hardy and your
father meet they will, I am sure, have plenty to talk about without
either you or me being the subject of it. They are both sportsmen and
fond of horses--and a lot of things. It is only if they don’t meet
that I am afraid of. I am writing by the way to Mr. Hardy this post to
know where he is at present and where he has been. I shall of course
write you when I hear; or if there be anything important I shall wire.
We are off to London and it is possible that whilst we are there we
may have unexpected meetings with all sorts of friends and calls from
them. I hope, darling, that by the time we reach Ambleside we shall
find you _blooming_, full of happiness and health and freshness, the
very embodiment of your name.”
The letter both disquieted Joy and soothed her. There were suggestions
of fear, but there was also a consistent strain of hope. Judy would
never have said such things if she did not believe them. Moreover she
herself knew what Judy did not; her aunt hadn’t peeped from behind
window blinds at a tall figure behind lilac bushes or sitting in the
darkness with only a fiery cigar tip to mark his presence. Poor Judy!
The girl’s sympathetic heart, made more sympathetic by her own burning
love, ached when she thought of the older woman’s lonely, barren life.
She too had loved--and been loved; had hoped and feared, and waited.
The very knowledge of how a woman would feel when the man was asking
formally for parental sanction disclosed something of which the girl
had never thought. She had always known Judy in such a motherly and
elderly aspect that she had never realised the possibility of her
having ever been in love; any more that she had given consideration to
the love-making of her own mother. Now she was surprised to find that
she too had been young, had loved, and had pleasures and heart-pains
of her own. This set her thinking. The process of thought was silent,
but its conclusion found outward expression; the girl understood now.
The secret of her life--the true secret was unveiled at last:
“Poor Aunt Judy. Oh, poor Aunt Judy!”
Athlyne’s letter reached him a day later, having been sent on from
London. It was a fairly bulky one, with a good many sheets of foreign
post, written hastily in a large bold hand.
“My Dear Friend:
I have been, and am, much concerned about you. I gather from his
letters that Colonel Ogilvie has been much disappointed at not having
heard from you. And I want, if you will allow me to take the liberty,
to speak to you seriously about it. You will give me this privilege I
know--if only for the fact that I am an old maid; for the same Powers
that made me an old maid have made me an old woman, and such is
entitled, I take it, to forbearance, if not to respect. You
should--you really should be more considerate towards Colonel Ogilvie.
He is an old man--much older than you perhaps think, for he bears
himself as proudly as in his younger days. But the claim on you is not
merely from his years; that claim must appeal to all. From you there
is one more imperative still, one which is personal and paramount: he
is under so very deep an obligation to you. A matter which from
another would pass unconsidered as an act of thoughtfulness must now,
when it is due to you, seem to him like a studied affront. I put it
this way because I know you are a man of noble nature, and that
generosity is to such even a stronger urge than duty--if such a thing
be possible. In certain matters he is sensitive beyond belief. Even to
a degree marked in a place where men still hold that their lives rest
behind every word and deed, every thought or neglect towards another.
I have some hesitation in mentioning this lest you should think I am
summoning Fear to the side of Duty. But you are above such a
misunderstanding, I am sure. Oh my dear friend do think of some of the
rest of us. You have saved the life of our darling Joy--the one
creature in whom all our loves are centred. Naturally we all want to
see you again--to make much of you--to show you in our own poor way
how deeply we hold you in our hearts. But if Colonel Ogilvie thinks
himself insulted--that is how he regards any neglect however
trivial--he acts on that belief, and there is no possible holding him
back. He looks on it as a sacred duty to avenge affront. You must not
blame him for it. In your peaceful English life you have I think no
parallel to the ungovernable waves of passion that rage in the hearts
of Kentuckians when they consider their honour is touched. Ah! we poor
women know it who have to suffer in silence and wait and wait, and
wait; and when the worst is made known to us, to seal up the founts of
our grief and pretend that we too agree with the avenging of wrong.
For it is our life to be silent in men’s quarrels. We are not given a
part--any part. We are not supposed to even look on. It is another
world from ours, and we have to accept it so. Please God may you never
know what it is to be in or on the fringe of a Feud. Well I know its
dread, its horror! My own life that years ago was as bright and
promising as any young life can be; when the Love that had dawned on
my girlhood rose and beat with noonday heat on my young-womanhood made
it seem as if heaven had come down to earth. And then the one moment
of misunderstanding--the quick accusation--the quicker retort--and my
poor heart lying crushed between the bodies of two men whom I loved
each in his proper way… Think of what I say, if only on account of
what I have suffered.
“Forgive me! But my anxiety lest any such blight should come across a
young life that I love far far beyond my own is heavy on me. I have
lost myself in sad thoughts of a bitter past… Indeed you must take
it that my earnestness in this matter is shown in the lurid light of
that past. I have been silent on it always. Never since the black
cloud burst over me have I said a word to a soul--not to my
sister--nor to Joy whom I adore and whose questioning to me of my
‘love affair’--as they still call it when they speak of it--is so
sweet a tightening bond between us. I have only said to her: ‘and then
he died,’ and my heart has seemed to stop beating. Be patient with me
and don’t blame me. You are a man and can be tolerant. Think not of me
or any gloom of my life but only that makes me sadly, grimly, terribly
in earnest when I see similar elements of tragedy drawing close to
each other before my eyes. You may be inclined to laugh at me--though
I know you will not--and to put down my thinking of possible great
quarrels arising from such small causes as ‘an old maid’s’ fears. But
when I have known the awful effect of a mere passing word,
misunderstood to such disastrous result, no wonder that I have fears.
It is due to that very cause that my fears are those of an old maid. I
suppose I need not ask you to be sure to keep all this locked in your
own breast. It is my secret; I have shared it with you because I deem
such necessary for the happiness of--of others. I have kept it so
close that not even those nearest and dearest to me have even
suspected it. The rowdiness of spirit--as it seems to me--which other
friends call fun and brightness and high spirits and other such
insulting terms--has been my domino as I have passed through the
hollow hearted carnival of life. Judge then how earnest I am when I
put it aside and raise my mask for you a stranger whom I have seen but
twice; I who even then was but an accessory--a super on the little
stage where we began to act our little--comedy or tragedy which is it
to be?
“There! I have opened to you my memory, not my heart. That you have no
use for. After such a letter as this I shall not pretend to go back to
the Proprieties, the _Convenances_. If I am right in my surmise--you
can guess what that is or why have you written to the old rowdy aunt
instead… there is every reason why I should be frank. But remember
that I hold--and have hitherto held--what I believe to be your secret
as sacredly as I hope you will hold mine. And if I am right--and from
my knowledge and insight won by past suffering I pray to God that I
am--you have no time to lose to make matters right, and possibly to
save the world one more sorrowful heart like my own. It is only a word
that is wanted--a morning call--a visit of ceremony. Anything that
will keep open the doors of friendship which you unlocked by your own
bravery. We are going in a day or two to Ambleside. In the meantime we
shall be in London at Brown’s Hotel Albemarle Street where my sister,
and incidentally myself, shall be glad to see you. …
“Won’t you let me have a line as soon as you can after you get this. I
am torn with anxiety till I know what you intend to do about visiting
Colonel Ogilvie. Again forgive me,
Your true friend,
Judy.
“P. S.--I shall not dare to read this over, lest when I had I should
not have courage to send it. Accept it then with all its faults and be
tolerant of them--and of me.”
Athlyne read the letter through without making a pause or even an
internal comment. That is how a letter should be read; to follow the
writer’s mind, not one’s own, and so take in the sequence of thoughts
and the general atmosphere as well as the individual facts. As he read
he felt deeply moved. There was in the letter that manifest sincerity
which showed that it was straight from the heart. And heart speaks to
heart, whatever may be the medium, if the purpose is sincere. It was a
surprise to him to learn that Miss Judy’s high and volatile spirits
rested on so sad a base. His appreciation of her worthiness came in
his unconscious resolution that when he and Joy were married Aunt Judy
should be an honoured guest in the house, and that they would try to
lighten, with what sympathy and kindness they could, the dark shadows
of her life.
He sat with the letter in his hand for some time. He was sitting in
the window of the hotel at Bowness looking out on the lake. It was
still early and the life of the day had hardly begun. At Bowness the
life was that of the tourists and visitors and it would still be an
hour or more before they began to move out on their objectives. He had
very many various and whirling thoughts, but supreme amongst them was
one: Time was flying. He must not delay, for every hour was more and
more jeopardising his chance of winning the woman he loved. He
realized to the full that his neglect of Colonel Ogilvie, for so it
was being construed, was making--had made--a difficulty for him. Each
day, perhaps each hour, was widening the breach; if he did not take
care he might end with the door permanently closed against him. As he
came to the conclusion of his reasoning he drew once more from his
pocket the sealed letter to Colonel Ogilvie, and stood up. He fancied
that his determination was made that he would see Colonel Ogilvie as
soon as possible and broach the subject to him. As however he went
towards the boat--for he was going to Ambleside by water--he postponed
the intention of an immediate interview. He would wait this one day
and see what would turn up. If nothing happened likely to further his
wishes he would whilst at Ambleside the next morning put the letter in
the post. Then he would hold himself ready for the interview with
Joy’s father for which the letter asked.
At Ambleside he took his place behind the lilacs in the garden and
kept watch on the window where Joy was wont to appear. A little before
breakfast-time she appeared there for a brief space, and then moved
back into the room. He waited with what patience he could till nearly
eleven o’clock when the same carriage which they used drove up to the
door; waiting became then an easier task. Presently Colonel Ogilvie
came out and stood on the steps. Athlyne wondered; this was the first
time that Joy had not been before him. Throwing his eyes around in
vague wondering as to the cause he saw Joy standing in the window
dressed and pulling on her gloves. She was radiantly beautiful. Her
colour was a little heightened and her lovely grey eyes shone like
stars. Her gaze was fixed so that her eyes seemed to look straight
before her but beyond him. The look made him quiver as though he felt
it were directed at him, and his knees began to tremble with a mighty,
vague longing. For quite a minute she stood there, till her eyes
falling she caught sight of her father standing by the carriage below.
She drew back quickly and almost immediately appeared at the
hall-door, saying:
“I am so sorry, Daddy. I hope I did not keep you waiting too long!”
“Not a bit little girl. It is a pleasure to me to wait for you; to do
anything for you, my dear. Whatever else is the use of being a
father.”
“You dear! May we go to-day up the mountain road where we can look
over the lake. I want you to have a nice glimpse of it again before
you go.”
Here Athlyne’s heart sank for an instant. This was the first idea he
had of any intention of moving, and it actually shook him. Joy had as
usual a handful of sugar for the horses. She went to the off side
horse first and gave him his share. Then when she stood at the head of
the other, her face toward the lilacs, she turned to her father and
said in a low, thrilling tone:
“Daddy, am I nice to-day? _Look at me!_” She stood still whilst the
old man looked at her admiringly, proudly, fondly.
“You are peerless, little girl. Peerless! that’s it!” She was
evidently pleased at the compliment, for her colour rose to a deep
flush. Her grey eyes shone through it like two great grey suns. Whilst
her father was speaking to the coachman she gave the other horse, now
impatient, his share of the sugar and stood looking across the road.
Athlyne could hardly contain himself. The few seconds, although flying
so fast, were momentous. Past and present rushed together to the
creation of a moment of ecstasy. The sound of the words swept him; the
idea and all it rewoke and intensified, transfigured his very soul.
And then he heard her say in a low, languorous voice which vibrated:
“Thank you Daddy for such a sweet compliment. I am glad I said ‘_Look
at me!_’” As she spoke it seemed to Athlyne that her eyes fixed across
the road sent their lightnings straight into his heart. And yet it did
not even occur to him at the moment that the words could have been
addressed to him.
During the drive Joy kept her father interested in all around them. He
saw that she was elated and happy, and it made his heart glad to that
receptive mood which is the recrudescence of youth. In the girl’s mind
to-day several trains of thought, all of them parental of action, went
on together. She did not analyze them; indeed she was hardly conscious
of them. The mechanism of mind was working to a set purpose, but one
which was temperamental rather than intentional--of sex and individual
character rather than of a studied conclusion. For that morning was to
her momentous. She knew it with all her instincts. Unconsciously she
drew conclusions from facts without waiting to develop their logical
sequence.
A telegram had arrived from Mrs. Ogilvie saying that she and Judy were
now ready to leave London and, as her husband had said that he wished
to escort them to Ambleside, they would be prepared on his coming to
leave on the next morning or whatever later time he might fix. After a
glance at the time-table he had wired back that he would go up on that
night, and that they would all start on the following morning. Joy had
offered to accompany him, but he would not have it: “No, little girl,”
he said. “Travel at night is all very well for men; but it takes it
out of women. I want your mother to see the bright, red-cheeked girl
that has been with me for the last week, and not a pale, worn-out
draggled young woman with her eyes heavy with weariness. You stay
here, my dear, and get plenty of air and sunshine. You will not be
afraid to be here alone with your maid!” Joy smiled:
“Not a bit, Daddy! I shall walk and drive all day and perhaps go down
the Lake in a boat. If I do the latter I shall take Eugenie with me
and we shall lunch down at Newby Bridge. We shall be home here in good
time to drive over and meet you all at the station at Windermere.”
From that moment Joy hardly left her father out of her sight.
Instinctively she knew that the chance of her life had come. She had a
conviction--it was more than a mere idea or even a belief--that if she
were alone whilst her father was up in London or on the way down, that
figure which even now was hidden by the lilacs would abandon secretive
ways and come out into the open where she could see him close, and
hear the sound of his voice--that voice whose every note made music in
her ears. It was the presence of her father which kept him hidden. It
was imperative, both in accordance with his wishes as well as from her
own apprehensions of what might happen if they should meet
unexpectedly before she had time to warn him, that no mischance should
prevent an early meeting, free from any suspicion between herself and
Mr. Hardy. When Daddy was well on his way. … Here she would close
her eyes; definite thought was lost in a languorous ecstasy. The
coming day would mean to her everything or. …
The drive was a fairly long one and they did not get back till nearly
one o’clock. Colonel Ogilvie had said to Joy:
“I shall have a good time to-day, have plenty of fresh air and be
ready for sleep when I get into the train. As I shall arrive early in
the morning I shall have time to express my opinions on their conduct
to those automobile people. They won’t expect my coming and be able to
get out of the way. I fancy it will do me good to say what I feel; or
at any rate enough to give them some indication of what I could say,
and shall say if there is any further delay in the matter.”
When they arrived Joy went at once into the hotel leaving her father
to tell the coachman at what hour to be ready for the afternoon drive.
She went straight to the window and, keeping as usual behind the
curtain, looked over at the lilac bushes. She could see through the
foliage that there was _some one_ there, and that satisfied her. She
would have liked to have instructed the driver herself so that she
would have been sure that he knew; but on this occasion a wave of
diffidence suddenly overwhelmed her. Times were coming when she would
not be able to afford the luxury of such an emotion, so she grasped it
whilst she could.
Colonel Ogilvie was to catch the train from Windermere at nine
o’clock, so the second drive should come after lunch and not after
tea; and when she was in her own room, Joy feared that He might miss
them. When, however, before going downstairs she looked out of the
window she saw that he was still at his post. Athlyne’s campaigning
experience had had its own psychology. Seeing that there was some
change in the Ogilvie day he had arranged his own plans to meet it.
Whilst they had been taking their morning drive he had provided
himself with some sandwiches; he had determined not to leave his post
until he knew more. Joy’s words had all day rung in his ears, and he
was now and again distracted with doubts. Was it possible that there
had been any meaning or intention in her words more than was apparent?
Was the spontaneity consequent on some deep feeling which evoked
memory? Could he believe that she really. … He would wait now before
sending the letter, whatever came. In that he was adamant.
During the drive Joy was mainly silent. It was not the silence of
thought; it was simply spiritual quiescence. She knew that the rest of
the day was so laid out that it was unlikely it could be marred by an
untoward accident. There was this in His persistent waiting that she
had come to trust it. There was some intention, so manifest, though
what it was was unknown to her, that it was hardly to be disturbed by
any sudden exigency. She lived at the moment in a world of calm, a
dream-world of infinite happiness. Now and again she woke to the
presence of her father and then poured on him in every way in which a
young woman can all the treasures of her thought and affection. This
made the old man so happy that he too was content to remain silent
when she ceased to speak.
When they got back to the hotel, she spoke to the driver:
“You will be here at eight o’clock please, as you will have to drive
Colonel Ogilvie to the station at Windermere in good time to catch the
nine o’clock train. I shall not want you in the morning as I intend to
take a walk; but you must be at Windermere to meet my father at five
o’clock. If to-morrow afternoon there is any change in his plans he
will wire the hotel people and they will let you know. Perhaps you had
better call here on your way to Windermere as I may go over in the
carriage. But if I am not here do not wait for me; I may possibly walk
over. When you have left Colonel Ogilvie at Windermere to-night you
will have to leave me back here. I am going to the depot with him.”
Then she went into the doorway, and hurried to the sitting-room where
she looked out into the garden--where the lilacs grew.