PURSUIT
Colonel Ogilvie found his wife in excellent health and spirits. The
cure had been effective, and the prospect of meeting Joy so filled her
with delight that her youth seemed to be renewed. He could see, when
the morning light was admitted to their bedroom, that her eyes were
bright and her cheeks rosy; and all her movements were alert and
springy. Judy too, when they went to breakfast, looked well and was in
good spirits; but there was something about her which he could not
understand. It was not that she was quick of intellect and speech, for
such had been always her habit; it was not that she was eager, for she
was not always so; it was not that she was exuberantly fond of
Joy--she had never been anything else. But there seemed now to be some
sort of elusive background to all her thoughts. He began to wonder in
a vague way if it were possible that she had fallen in love. She
asked, after her usual manner, a host of questions about Joy and about
the visit to the Lakes; where they had been and who they had seen; and
of all the little interests and happenings during the time of
separation. Colonel Ogilvie felt a little wearied of it all. He had
already covered the ground with the girl’s mother, for arriving in the
grey of the dawn, he had gone straight to his wife’s room where he had
rested till breakfast time. There he had told her all that he could
remember. With, however, the patient courtesy which had not as yet in
his life failed him with women he went over all the ground again with
Judy. He could not but be struck with Judy’s questioning on one
subject: whether they had met at Ambleside any special acquaintance.
He concluded that she meant Mr. Hardy, and asked her if such were the
case. She blushed so brightly when she admitted it that he conceived
the idea that the peccant Englishman was the object of her affection.
Then, as she dropped that subject of questioning, he, in order to draw
her out, went on:
“But my dear Judy it was not possible that we could have seen him. He
has not seemed particularly anxious to meet us; and even if he was
anxious he could not have done it as he did not know where we were.”
“Oh, yes he did!” The Colonel was surprised; the tone of her words
carried conviction of truthfulness. He answered quickly:
“He did! How on earth do you know that?” Judy in her emotional
interest answered without thinking.
“Because I told him so!”
“Oh, you saw him then?” Again she answered without thought:
“No, but I wrote to him.”
“How do you know that he got your letter?”
“Because he answered it!” She would have given all she possessed to
have been silent or to have answered more discreetly when she saw her
brother-in-law’s face wrinkle into a hard smile, and noted the cruel
keenness of his eyes and the cynical smile on his mouth. She answered
sharply; and, as is usual, began the instant after, to pay the penalty
for such sharpness. His voice seemed to rasp her very soul as he said:
“I am glad to hear that the gentleman has consideration for some
one--even a lady--who writes to him. But to my mind such but
emphasises his rudeness--if for the moment I may call it so--of his
conduct to others. As for myself when I meet the gentleman--should I
ever have the good fortune to do so--I shall require him to answer for
this insult--amongst others!”
“Insult?” murmured Judy in a panic of apprehension.
“Yes, my dear Judith. There is no stronger word; had there been I
should have used it. When the same man who does _not_ answer my
letters, or write even to accept or decline my proffered hospitality
carries on at the same time a clandestine correspondence with ladies
of my family he shall have to answer to me for it. By God he shall!”
Judy thought silence wiser than any form of words, and remained mute.
Colonel Ogilvie went on in the same cold, rasping voice:
“May I ask you, Miss Hayes,”--“Miss Hayes, my God!” thought poor Judy
trembling. He went on: “if my daughter has had any meeting or
correspondence with him?”
“No! No! No!” cried Judy. “I can answer for that.”
“Indeed! May I ask how you can speak with certainty on such a subject.
I thought you were in Italy and that my daughter had been with me.” In
despair she spoke impulsively:
“I don’t _know_, Lucius. How could I--I only think so.”
“Exactly! Then you are but giving your opinion! For that my dear
Judith I am much obliged; but it has been for so long my habit to
judge for myself in matters of those mutual relations between men
which we call ‘honour’ that I have somehow come to trust my own
opinion in preference to that of any one else--even you my dear
Judith--and to act upon it.” Then, seeing the red flush of anger and
humiliation in her cheeks whilst the tears seemed to leap into her
eyes, he felt that he had gone too far and added:
“I trust that you will forgive me, my dear sister, if I have caused
you unnecessary pain. Unhappily pain must follow such dereliction of
duty as has been shown by that young man, and by you too; but believe
me I would spare you if I could. But I can promise--and do so
now--that I shall not again forget myself and speak bitterly, out of
the bitterness of my heart as I have done. I pray your forgiveness,
and trust that it may be extended to me.” The cynical words and tone
of his apology, however it may have been meant, only added fuel to her
anger. Words were inadequate, so she sought refuge in flight. As she
went out of the door she heard Colonel Ogilvie say as if to himself:
“I may not know how to speak to women; but thank God, I do know how to
deal with that damned fellow!”
Judy threw herself on her bed in a storm of futile passion. She could
not but feel that she had been brutally treated; but she was powerless
to either resent or explain. But well she knew that she had helped to
leave matters worse for poor Joy than they had been. All the anger
that Colonel Ogilvie had been repressing had now blazed out. He had
expressed himself, and she had never known such expression of his to
fail in tragic consequences. He would now never forgive Mr. Hardy for
his double sins of omissions and commission. She was sorry for the
young man’s sake; but was in anguish for the sake of the poor girl who
had, she felt and knew, set her heart upon him. Joy’s romance in which
her heart--her whole being and her future happiness--had been embarked
was practically over, though she did not know it as yet. All the
life-long brightness that even her father had ever hoped for her was
gone. Henceforth she would be only a poor derelict, like Judy herself,
wrecked on a lee shore! Judy had always pitied herself, but she had
never realized the cause of that pity as she did now, seen as it was
through the eyes of loving sympathy.
“I pitied my own heart,
As if I held it in my hand,
Somewhat coldly,--with a sense
Of fulfilled benevolence,
And a ‘Poor thing’ negligence.”
Colonel Ogilvie went out in a very militant humour to interview the
motor-agent. He felt angry with himself for having lost his
temper--and to a lady; and his anger had to be visited on some one. In
any case he considered that the motor people had treated him scurvily
and should suffer accordingly. In reality he was in a reaction from
great happiness. He was an affectionate husband who had been deeply
concerned at his wife’s long illness, and lonely and distraught in her
long absence. Only that morning he had met her again and had found her
quite restored to health and as though she had regained her youth. He
had shared in her pleasure at the good account he had to give of Joy.
It was, after all, perhaps natural to a man of his peculiar
temperament to visit heavily his displeasure on the man who had, to
his mind, ill-used him, and on all concerned with him in the doing.
Mr. Hardy it was who had jarred the wheels of his chariot of pleasure;
and Mr. Hardy it was who must ultimately answer to him for so doing.
The expression of his opinions as to the moral and commercial worth of
the motor-agent and of the manufacturer with whom he dealt seemed to
relieve his feelings to some degree; he returned to Brown’s in a much
milder frame of mind than that in which he had gone out. He was kept
pretty busy till the time of departure, but in his secret heart--made
up to action during the time of his work--he determined to try to make
amends to Judy for the pain he had given her. He rejoiced now that his
wife had not been present at that scene which it already pained him to
look back upon.
He was somewhat incensed that as he could not leave by his intended
train he would have to postpone the journey by several hours. He could
not now arrive at Ambleside till nearly midnight.
In the train he took the first opportunity of making the _amende_ to
Judy. Mrs. Ogilvie had fallen asleep--she had been awake since very
early in the morning, so the Colonel said quietly to his
sister-in-law:
“Judy I want you to forgive me, if you can.” She thrilled with
pleasure as he spoke her name in the familiar form. It seemed some
sort of presage of a change for the better, a sort of lifting of the
ban which had all day lain so heavy on her. As he went on her hopes
grew; there were possibilities that, after all, Joy was not yet
finally doomed to unhappiness. At all times Colonel Ogilvie was
impressive in his manner; the old-fashioned courtesy on which he had
long ago founded himself was permeated with conscious self-esteem. Now
when the real earnestness of the moment was grafted upon this
pronounced manner he seemed to the last degree dignified--almost
pompous:
“I cannot tell you how sorry I am that I caused you pain this morning,
or how ashamed I am for having so lost my temper before you. For more
than twenty years I have honestly tried, my dear, to make you happy.”
Here she interrupted him: “And you succeeded Lucius!” He rose and
bowed gravely:
“Thank you, my dear. I am grateful to you for that kindly expression.
It does much, I assure you, to mitigate the poignancy of my present
concern. It was too bad of me to let my bitterness so wound you. It
shall not occur again. Moreover I feel that I owe you something; and I
promise you that if I should be so--so overcome again by anger I shall
try to obey you to the best of my power. You shall tell me what you
wish me to do; and if I can I shall try to do it.” Here a look of
caution, rare to him, overspread his face: “I won’t promise to give up
a purpose of my life or brook any interference with the course of
honour--that I can promise to no one, not even to you my dear. But if
I can grant any consideration--or--or favour I shall certainly try to
do so!”
Judy was not so well satisfied with the end of the promise as with the
beginning. But it was hopeful of better things for the future; so she
meekly and gratefully accepted it _en bloc_.
When they arrived at Ambleside it was dark and the lamps of the
station lent but a dim light. It became evident to Mrs. Ogilvie and
Judy that Colonel Ogilvie was disappointed at not finding Joy awaiting
them on the platform. He had, during the journey, explained to them
with some elaboration that they were not to expect her as he had said
there was no need of her coming; but, all the same, he had himself
expected her. As the train drew up he had leaned out of the window
looking carefully along the whole range of the platform. When,
however, he ascertained that she was not there, he turned his
attention to Judy whom he observed prolonging the search. His mind at
once went back to his original concern that there was something
between her and Mr. Hardy. She heard him say to himself fiercely under
his breath:
“That damned fellow again!” She did not of course understand that it
was with reference to herself, and took it that it presaged ill to
Joy. She knew from Colonel Ogilvie’s expression and bearing that the
man he had now grown to hate was in his mind, and with a heavy heart
she took her place in the waiting landau.
When the carriage arrived at the hotel Colonel Ogilvie jumped out and
ran up the steps. This was so unlike his usual courtesy that it not
only pained the two ladies but made them anxious. When Colonel Ogilvie
forgot his habitual deference to women something serious indeed must
have been in his mind! When they followed, which they did as quickly
as they could, they found him in the hall reading a telegram. A
railway envelope lay on the table, and beside it a little pile of
letters. When he had finished reading the first telegram he opened the
second and read it also. All the time his face was set in a grim
frown, the only relief from which was the wrinkling of his forehead
which betrayed an added anxiety. He handed the two transcripts to his
wife, saying as he did so:
“I have put them in order; one is a few hours earlier than the other!”
Mrs. Ogilvie read in silence and handed the forms to Judy, the Colonel
remaining grimly silent. Mrs. Ogilvie said nothing. When Judy had
turned over the last and looked at the back of it in that helpless
manner which betrays inadequate knowledge, Colonel Ogilvie said:
“Well?”
“I trust the poor child is not in any danger!” said the mother.
“How thoughtful of her to have sent twice. She knew you would be so
anxious about her!” said the aunt, wishing to propitiate the angry
father. For fully a minute no more was said. Then the Colonel spoke:
“She went motoring. In whose car? I have not yet got my own!” As he
was speaking the hotel proprietor came into the hall to pay his
respects, as he usually did with incoming guests. He heard the last
remark and said:
“Pardon me, Colonel Ogilvie. But your car has arrived. The chauffeur
who had charge of it and came in the same train with it to Kirkby
Stephen drove it here some time ago!” Colonel Ogilvie bowed a slight
acknowledgment and turning to Judy said:
“Then it could not be in that car she went. If not, whose car was it?
Whom did she go with? We know no one here who owns a car; and we did
not make any new acquaintances during our stay. Indeed none even of
our old acquaintances did us the honour of calling. But perhaps my
dear Judy,” he spoke with manifest and comforting self-restraint--“you
can enlighten us. Do you know if your friend Mr. Hardy whom you
informed of our being here has a motor car?” Judy feared to
precipitate disaster, and not knowing what to say answered feebly with
a query:
“Why Colonel?” The storm cloud of the father’s wrath instantly broke:
“Why, madam ‘why’!” he almost roared whilst the discreet proprietor
withdrew closing the inner door of the hall behind him--the luggage
was being taken in by the basement door:
“I’ll tell you why if you wish--though perhaps you know it already.
Because I want to know under what circumstances my daughter has gone
out motoring with some stranger--though indeed it may be that he is
not quite a stranger--the moment my back was turned. Let me tell you
that it is not usual for unmarried young ladies to go out motoring
into far away places with men, unchaperoned. My honour--_my_ honour
through my daughter--is here concerned. And it is like that damned
fellow to take her away in such an underhand manner. You need say
nothing of him. It’s no use trying to palliate his conduct. True
enough I don’t know for certain that it is he, or that she is alone
with any man; but I have a conviction that it is so; and I tell you I
shall lose no time in putting my convictions to the test. I mean to
take no chances with regard to that damned fellow. I don’t trust him!
He has already affronted me, and has been tampering with the women of
my family. I have borne even that with what temper I could because I
was under obligation to him. But if, as it would seem, he has run away
with my daughter, I shall brook his insolence no longer. He shall
render me a full account of his doings with me and mine!” He crammed
his letters into his pocket and strode upstairs. There he rang the
bell in such a violent manner that the proprietor himself attended to
it. Colonel Ogilvie asked him to have the chauffeur sent up to him,
and requested the proprietor to come also himself as he wished to ask
him some questions on local matters. He had by now his temper in hand,
and was all the more dangerous because cold. In a few minutes the
proprietor brought in the chauffeur, a stolid, hard-featured, silent
man; manifestly one to obey orders and to stand any amount of fatigue.
When Colonel Ogilvie had looked at his credentials and asked him some
questions, all of which he did with perfect self-control and courtesy,
he turned to the proprietor and asked:
“Can you tell me whereabout is a place called Castle Douglas?”
“In Scotland, Colonel. In Galloway--the part of Scotland just beyond
the Firth of Solway. It is I think in Kirkcudbrightshire.”
“How far from here?”
“Something over a hundred miles I should say.” The father started:
“Good God!” Judy’s heart sank at the exclamation and the tone; his
voice was laden with horror and despair. The new chauffeur’s mouth
opened. He spoke as if every word was grudgingly shot out:
“It is exactly ninety-one and a half miles.” Colonel Ogilvie turned to
him quickly:
“How do you know so accurately; have you driven it?”
“Never sir!”
“Then how do you know?”
“In the train coming down I spent my time looking over the maps and
the distance as given in the books of the Motorists’ Touring Club. I
noted that.”
“Had you any reason for examining that particular route?” asked the
Colonel suspiciously. He was obsessed by an idea that the “damned
fellow” was corrupting everybody so as to work against him, Colonel
Ogilvie.
“None special; I was only trying to do my business well. I thought it
likely that you might want me to stay with you a short time until you
and your permanent chauffeur should become acquainted with the
mechanism of your new car. You see, I was told you were an American,
and the American makes differ somewhat from our own. And as I am
myself looking out for a permanent situation where I should be well
paid, made comfortable, and treated with whatever consideration is due
to a first-rate _mechanicien_ and driver I thought that if I showed
zeal in your temporary service you might wish to retain me
permanently. In a certain sense I took, I may say, special note of at
least part of that particular route.”
“Why?” Colonel Ogilvie’s suspicions came up afresh at the admission.
“Simply because I took it that you might want to drive into Scotland,
and Galloway is perhaps the most promising region for motoring on this
side of that country. All the motor roads from this side of England
run through Carlisle. Then you cross the Border close to Gretna Green.
…”
“To where?” The Colonel’s voice was full of passion. The chauffeur
went on calmly and explicitly:
“Gretna Green. That is where run-away marriages used to be made. That
place was usually chosen because it was the first across the Border
where Scotch law ruled. The simplifying of our marriage laws and the
growth of sanity amongst parents of marriageable daughters generally
has done away with the necessity of elopement. Now we go by there
without stopping, as Galloway is the modern objective. Indeed in going
there you do not go into Gretna at all; you pass it by on the right
when you have crossed the bridge over the Sark and are making for
Annan. And as to my knowledge of mileages that is a part of my trade.
It is my business to arrange for the amount of petrol necessary for
the run I am ordered to make. I don’t think that you need disturb
yourself about that one small item of my knowledge. It may set you
more at ease if I tell you that it is one hundred and thirty-six and a
half miles to Glasgow; a hundred and one to Abbotsford; seventy-five
and a half to Dumfries; a hundred and thirty-five and a half to
Edinburgh; two hundred and seventy-four and a half to Aberdeen; one
hundred and fifty-eight and three quarters to. …”
“Stop! stop!” cried Colonel Ogilvie. “I am obliged to you for your
zeal in my service; and I think I can promise you that if in every way
you suit, you may look on the permanent post as your own. I shall want
you to begin your duties this very night. But this is a special job;
and with special reward, for it is difficult and arduous.”
“I am willing sir, whatever it may be.”
“That is well said. You are the sort of man I want.”
“My orders sir?”
“I want you to take me to Castle Douglas to-night--now--as soon as you
can get ready. I wish to get there as soon as I can. You will want to
have everything right, for we must have no break-down if we can help
it. And you must have good lamps.”
“’Twill be all right, sir. We shan’t, I expect, break down. But if we
do--the motor is a new one and I did not make it--_I_ shall put it
right. I am a first-rate _mechanicien_ and an accomplished driver.
…”
“All right; but don’t talk. Get the car ready, and we shall start at
once.”
“We can start at once, so far as the car and I are concerned. But we
lack something as yet. We must have a pilot.”
“A pilot! I thought you knew the way.”
“On paper, yes; and I doubt not I could get there all right--in time.
But you want to go quick; and we would lose time finding out the way.
Remember we are going in the dark.” Then turning to the proprietor he
said:
“Perhaps you can help us here, sir. Have you any one who can pilot?”
“Not a chauffeur; but I have a coachman who knows all round here for a
couple of days’ journey. I have no doubt that he knows that road
amongst the others. He could sit beside you and direct you how to go!”
“Right! Can you get him soon?”
“At once. He lives over the stables. I shall send for him now.” He
rang the bell and when the servant came gave his message. And so that
matter was settled and the journey arranged. The chauffeur went to
have a last look over the motor car, and to bring it round to the
door.
All the time of the interview Colonel Ogilvie stood silent, keeping
erect and rigid. He was so stern and so master of himself that Judy
wished now that he had less self-control. She feared the new phase
even more than the old. Then care for what had still to be done took
hold of her. She took her sister away to prepare a little basket of
food and wine for Colonel Ogilvie and the men with him; they would
need some sustenance on their long, arduous journey. Those kindly
offices kept both women busy whilst Colonel Ogilvie was putting on
warm clothes for the night travelling. Presently Mrs. Ogilvie joined
him. When they were alone she said to him somewhat timidly:
“You will be tender, dear, with Joy? The child is young, and a harsh
word spoken in anger at a time when she is high-strung and nervous and
tired and frightened might be a lasting sorrow to her!” She half
expected that he would resent her speaking at all. She was surprised
as well as pleased when, putting his hands kindly on her shoulders, he
said:
“Be quite easy in your mind on that subject, wife. Joy has all my
love; and, whatever comes, I shall use no harsh word to her. I love
her too well to give her pain, at the moment or to think of
afterwards. She shall have nothing but care and tenderness and such
words as you would yourself wish spoken!” The mother was comforted for
the moment. But then came a thought, born of her womanhood, that the
keenest pain which could be for the woman would be through her concern
for the man. She had little doubt as to what her husband’s action
would be if his surmises as to Mr. Hardy should prove to be correct.
And such would mean the blighting of poor Joy’s life. She would dearly
have loved to remonstrate with her husband on the subject; and she
would have done so, whatever might have been the consequences to
herself, but that she feared that any ill-timed expostulation might be
harmful to her daughter. All the motherhood in her was awake, and
nerved her to endure in silence. The only other words she said as she
kissed her husband were:
“Good-bye for a while, dear. God keep you in all dangers of the
road--and--and in all the far greater dangers that may come to you at
the end of it. My love to Joy! Be good to her, and never forget that
she can suffer most through any one dear to her. Bring her home to me,
safe and--and happy! I …” Her voice broke and she wept on his
shoulder. Colonel Ogilvie was a determined man, and in some ways a
harsh and cruel one; but he was a man, and understood. He took his
wife in his arms and kissed her fondly, stroking her dark hair wherein
the silver threads were showing. Then he passed out in silence.
By the door of the car he found Judy who said:
“I have put in your supper--you will want it dear--and also supper for
the men. And oh! Lucius, don’t forget, for poor Joy’s sake, that this
day you hold her heart--which is her life--in your hand!”
This added responsibility filled the cup of Colonel Ogilvie’s
indignation. Already his conscience was quickening and his
troubles--the agitation to his feelings--were almost more than he
could bear. He would have liked to make some cynical remark to Judy;
but before he could think of anything sufficiently biting, the motor
which had been throbbing violently started.
Before the angry man could attempt to get back his self-possession he
was gazing past the two shrouded figures before him and across the
luminous arc of the lamps out into the night. The darkness seemed to
sweep by him as he rushed on his way to Scotland.
When he had gone Judy turned to her sister and said: “I was going to
give him Joy’s dressing bag and a change of dress to take with him.
She will want them, poor dear, after a long day of travel and a night
in a strange place. But I have thought of a better plan.”
“And that?” asked the anxious mother.
“To take them myself! Moreover it won’t be any harm my being present
in case the Colonel gets on the rampage. It will restrain him some.
Now you go and lie down, dear. Don’t say anything--except your
prayers--in case you feel you must say something. But sleep will be
your best help in this pretty tough proposition. I’ll go and get a
hustle on that Dutch landlord. He’s got to find an automobile and a
chauffeur, and a pilot if necessary, for me too!”