DECLARATION OF WAR
Joy Ogilvie was so tired out that her body lay like a log all night.
How her mind was occupied she only knew afterwards. For the memory of
dreams is an unconscious memory at the time; it is only when there is
opportunity of comparison with actualities that dreams can be
re-produced. Then, as at first, the dreams are real--as they are
forever whilst memory lasts. Indeed regarding dreams and actualities,
one might almost appeal to scientific analogy; and in comparing the
world of imagination--which is the kingdom of dreams--with the
material world, might adduce the utterance of Sir Oliver Lodge in
comparing the density of aether with that of matter in the modern
scientific view: “Matter is turning out to be a filmy thing in
comparison with aether.”
This might well serve as a scientific comparison. Nay more, it might
well be an induction. The analogies of nature are so marvellously
constant, as exemplified by the higher discoveries in physics, that we
might easily wander farther than in taking the inner world of Thought
as compared with the outer world of Physical Being, as an analogy to
the Seen and Unseen worlds.
In the meantime we may take it that Joy’s dreams that night were in
some way reflective of the events of the day. No girl of healthy
emotional power could fail to be influenced by such a sequence of
experiences of passion and fear as she had gone through. The realized
hoping of love, the quick-answering abandonment of expressed passion;
long, long minutes of the bliss of communion with that other
soul--minutes whose sweetness or whose length could not be computed
until the leisure of thought gave opportunity. Unconscious cerebration
goes on unceasingly; and be sure that with such data as she had in her
mind, the workings of imagination were quick and by no means cold.
Again she lived the moments of responsive passion; but so lived them
that she had advanced further on the road to completed passion when
the unconsciousness to physical surroundings began to disappear and on
the senses the actualities began to consciously impress themselves.
The dawn, stealing in between the chinks of the folded shutters, made
strange lines on the floor without piercing through the walls of
sleep. The myriad sounds of waking life from distant field and
surrounding street brought no message to the closed eyes of weariness.
The sun rose, and rose, and rose; and still she lay there unmoving.
At last that unaccountable impulse which moves all living things to
sentience at the ending of sleep, stirred her. The waking grew on her.
At first, when her eyes partially opened, she saw, but without
comprehending, the dim room with its low ceiling; the wide window,
masked in with shutters whose edges were brilliant with the early
light; the odd furniture and all the unfamiliar surroundings. Then
came the inevitable self-question: “where am I?”
The realization of waking from such dreaming as hers is a rude and
jarring process, and when it does come, comes with something of a
shock. For what seemed a long time Joy lay in a sort of languorous
ecstasy whilst memory brought back to her those moments of the
previous day which were sweeter even than her dreams. Again she heard
the footsteps of the man she loved coming up rapidly behind her. Again
she saw as she turned, in obedience to some new impulse which swayed
her to surrender, the face of the man looking radiant with love and
happiness. Again she felt the sweet satisfaction of living and loving
when his arms closed round her and her arms closed round him and they
strained each other strictly. Again there came to her the thrill which
seemed to lift her from her earthly being as his mouth touched hers
and they kissed each other in the absolute self-abandonment of
reciprocated passion--the very passing memory of which set her blood
tingling afresh; the thrill which set her soul floating in the expanse
of air and made all conventions of the artificial world seen far below
seem small and miserable and of neither power nor import. Again she
was swept by that tide of wild desires, vague and nebulous as yet,
inchoate, elusive, expansive, all-absorbing, which proclaimed her
womanhood to herself. That desire of wife to husband, of sex to sex,
of woman to man, which is the final expression of humanity--the love
song of the children of Adam. It was as though memory and dreaming had
become one. As if the day had merged in the night, and the night again
in the coming day; each getting as it came all the thoughts and wishes
and fancies and desires which follow in the train of the
all-conquering Love-God.
In such receptive mood Joy awoke to life. When she realized where she
was; and when the import of her new surroundings had broken in upon
her, all the forces of her youth and strength began at once to
manifest themselves. She slid softly from her bed--the instinct of
self protection forbade noise or else she would have jumped to the
floor. Doing must follow dreaming! The attitude of standing, once
again helped to recall the previous evening, and she remembered that
she had thought then that she must not open the windows in the morning
because they faced directly other windows across a narrow street.
She remembered also that the next room, through which she had entered,
had windows on two sides. Those on one side opened as did her own; but
those on the other side looked out on an open space. And so, without
further thought, she opened the door between and passed into the outer
room. It too, like her own, was dark from the closed shutters.
Instinctively she went softly, her bare feet making no sound on the
carpet. With the same instinctive caution she had opened the door
noiselessly; when the self-protective instinct has once been awakened,
it does not easily relapse to sleep. She went over to one of the
windows and tried to look out through the chinks. The day was bright
outside and the sun was shining; the fog had entirely disappeared. In
the sudden desire to breathe the fresh morning air, and to free in the
sunlight her soul cramped by the long darkness of fog and night, she
threw open the heavy shutters.
Athlyne slept so soundly that he never stirred. He lay on the sofa on
his left side with his face out to the room. He too had been dreaming;
and to his dreams the happiness of the day had brought a vivifying
light. Through all his weariness of mind and body came to his spirit
the glow of those moments when he knew that his love was reciprocated;
when his call to his mate had been answered--answered in no uncertain
voice. And so he, too, had lain with bodily nature all quiescent,
whilst the emotional side of his mind ranged freely between memory and
expectation. And in due process the imaginative power of the mind had
worked on the nerves--and through them on the body--till he too lay in
a languorous semi-trance--the mind ranging free whilst the abnormally
receptive body quivered in unison. It was a dangerous condition of
being in which to face the situation which awaited him.
The sound of the opening shutter wakened him, fully and all at once.
The moment his eyes opened he saw a figure between him and the window;
and at the knowledge that some stranger was in his room the habit of
quick action which had prevailed in his years of campaigning
re-asserted itself. On the instant he flung aside his blanket and
sprang from his bed.
At the sound of a step on the floor Joy turned. The light streaming in
through the unshuttered window showed them in completeness each to the
other. The light struck Athlyne full in front. There was instant
recognition, even in the unaccustomed garb, of that tall lithe form;
of those fine aquiline features, of those dark flashing eyes. As to
Joy, who standing against the light made her own shadow, Athlyne could
have no doubt. He would have realized her presence in darkness and
silence. As she stood in her fine linen, the morning light making a
sort of nimbus round the opacity of the upper part of her body, she
looked to him like some fresh realization--some continuation in
semi-ethereal form--of the being of his dreams. There was no pause for
thought in either of the lovers. The instant of recognition was the
realization of presence--unquestioning and the most natural thing in
the world that the other should be there. Delight had sealed from
within the ears of Doubt. Unhesitatingly they ran to each other, and
before a second had passed were locked tightly in each other’s arms.
In the secret belief of the Conventional world--that belief which is
the official teaching of the churches of an artificial society, and
not merely the world of Adam and Eve (and some others)--the ceremony
of Marriage in itself changes the entire nature of the contracting
parties. Whatever may have been the idiosyncrasies of these
individuals such are forthwith changed, foregone, or otherwise altered
to suit that common denominator of Human Nature which alone is
officially catalogued in the records of the Just. It were as though
the recorded promise of two love-stricken sufferers, followed by the
formal blessings of the Church in any of its differentiations--or of
the Registrar--should change baser mortals to more angelic
counterpart; just as the “Philosopher’s Stone” which the mediaeval
alchemist dreamed of and sought for, was expected to change baser
metals to gold.
Perhaps it is because this transmutation is so complete that so many
of those marriages which the Church does sanctify turn out so
differently from the anticipations of the contractors and blessors!
But Dame Nature has her own church and her own ritual. In her case the
Blessing comes before the Service; and the Benediction is but the
official recognition that two souls--with their attendant bodies--have
found a perfect communion for themselves. Those who believe in Human
Nature--and many of them are seriously minded people too--realize and
are thankful for the goodness of God who showers the possibilities of
happiness with no stinting and no uncertain hand. “After all” they say
“what about Eden?” There was no church’s blessing there--not even a
Registrar; and yet we hold that Adam and Eve were united in Matrimony.
Nor were their children or their children’s children made one with
organized formality. What was it then that on these occasions stood
between fornication and marriage? What could it be but the Blessing of
God! And if God could make marriage by His Blessing in Eden, when did
He forego that power. Or if indeed there be only a “Civil
Contract”--as so many hold to-day--what proofs or writings must there
be beyond that mere “parole” contract which is recognized in other
matters by the Law of the Land.
So, the believers in natural religion and natural law--those who do
not hold that personal licence, unchecked and boundless, is an
appanage or logical result of freedom. To these, freedom is in itself
a state bounded on all sides by restrictive laws--as must ever be,
unless Anarchy is held to be the ultimate and controlling force. And
in the end Anarchy is the denial of all Cosmic law--that systematised
congeries of natural forces working in harmony to a common end.
But law, Cosmic or Anarchic, (if there be such a thing, and it may be
that Hell--if there is one--has its own laws--) or any grade between
these opposites, is a matter for coolness and reflection. _Inter arma
silent leges_ is a maxim of co-ordinate rulings in the Court of Cosmic
law. And the principle holds whether the arms be opposed or locked
together in any form of passion. When Love lifts the souls, whose
bodies are already in earthly communion, Law ceases to be. From the
altitude of accomplished serenity the mightiest law is puny; just as
from a balloon the earth looks flat, and even steeples and towers have
no perspective.
So it was with the two young people clasped in each other’s arms. The
world they lived in at the moment was _their_ world, bounded only by
the compass of their arms. After all what more did they want--what
could they want. They were together and alone. Shame was not for them,
or to them, who loved with all their hearts--whose souls already felt
as one. For shame, which is a conventional ordering of the blood, has
no place--not even a servitor’s--in the House of Love: that palace
where reigns the love of husbandhood and wifehood, of fatherhood and
motherhood--that true, realized Cosmos--the aim, the objective, the
heaven of human life.
Their circumstances but intensified the pleasure of the embrace.
Athlyne and Joy had both felt the same communion of spirits when they
embraced at their first meeting out of Ambleside when their souls had
met. This had been intensified when they sat in close embrace after
lunch beyond Dalry, when heart consciously beat to heart. Now it was
completed in this meeting, unexpected and therefore more free and
unhampered by preparatory thoughts and intentions, when body met body
in a close if tentative communion. The mere paucity of raiment had
force and purpose. They could each feel as they hung together closely
strained, the beating of each other’s heart; the rising and falling of
each other’s lungs. Their breaths commingled as they held mouth to
mouth. In such delirious rapture--for these two ardent young people
loved each other with a love which both held to be but the very
beginning of an eternal bond and which took in every phase, actual and
possible, of human beings--there was no place for forethought or
afterthought. It was the hour of life which is under the guidance of
Nature; to be looked forward to with keen if ignorant anticipation;
and which is to be looked back on for evermore as a time when the very
heavens opened and the singing of the Angelic choir came through
unmuffled.
For seconds, in which Time seemed to stand still, they stood body to
body and mouth to mouth. The first to speak was the man:
“I thought you were in England by late in the evening--and you were
there all the time!” He indicated the direction by turning his eyes
towards her room. His words seemed to fire her afresh. Holding him
more closely to her, she leaned back from her hips and gazed at him
languorously; her words dropped slowly from her opened lips:
“Oh-h! If we had only known!” What exactly was in her mind she did not
know--did not think of knowing--did not want to know. Perhaps she did
not mean anything definite. It was only an expression of some feeling,
of some want, some emotion, some longing--some primitive utterance
couched in words of educated thought, as sweet and spontaneous as the
singing of a bird in its native woods at springtime.
Somehow, it moved Athlyne strangely. Moved the manhood of him in many
ways, chiefest among them his duty of protection. It is not a
commonly-received idea that man--not primitive man but the
partially-completed article of a partially-completed cosmic age--is
scrupulous with regard to woman. The general idea to the contrary
effect is true _en gros_ but not _en detaille_. True of women; not
true of a woman. An educated man, accustomed to judgment and action in
matters requiring thought, thinks, perhaps unconsciously, all round
him, backward as well as forward; but mainly forward. Present
surroundings form his data; consequences represent the conclusion.
Himself remains neutral, an onlooker, until he is called on for
immediate decision and consequent action.
So it was with Athlyne. His instant ejaculation:
“Thank God we didn’t know!” would perhaps have been understood by a
man. To a woman it was incomprehensible. Woman is, after all, more
primitive than man. Her instincts are more self-centred than his. As
her life moves in a narrower circle, her view is rather microscopic
than telescopic; whilst his is the reverse. Inasmuch then as he
naturally surveys a larger field, so his introspective view is wider.
Joy loved the man; and so, since he had already expressed himself,
considered him as already her husband; or to speak more accurately
considered herself as already his wife. It was, therefore, with
something like chagrin that she heard his disavowal of her views. She
did not herself quite understand what those views were, but all the
same it was a disappointment that he did not really acquiesce in them;
nay more that he did not press them on his own account--press them
relentlessly, as a woman loves a man to do, even when his wishes are
opposed to her own.
A woman’s answer to chagrin is ultimate victory of her purpose; and
the chagrin of love is perhaps the strongest passion with a purpose
that can animate her.
When Joy became conscious, as she did in a few seconds, that her lover
following out his protective purpose was about to separate himself
from her--she quite understood without any telling or any experience
both motive and purpose--she opposed it on her part. As the strictness
of his embrace lessened, so in proportion did hers increase. Then came
to the man the reaction--he was only a man, after all. His ardour
redoubled, and her heart beat harder with new love as well as triumph
as he drew her closer to him in a pythonic embrace. Then she, too,
clung to him even closer than before. That embrace was all
lover-like--an agony of rapture.
In its midst they were startled somewhat by the rumbling of a motor
driven fast which seemed to stop close to them. Instinctively Joy
tried to draw away from her lover; such is woman’s impulse. But
Athlyne held her all the tighter--his embrace was not all love now,
but the protection which comes from love. She understood, and resigned
herself to him. And so they stood, heart to heart, and mouth to mouth,
listening.
There was a clatter of tongues in the hall. Joy thought she recognised
one voice--she could not be sure in the distance and through the
closed door--and her heart sank. She would again have tried to draw
away violently but that she was powerless. Her will was gone, like a
bird’s under the stare of the snake. Athlyne, too, was in suspense,
his heart beating wildly. He had a sort of presage of disaster which
seemed in a way to paralyse him.
There were quick steps on the stairs. A voice said: “There” and the
door rattled. At this moment both the lovers were willing to separate.
But before they could do so, the door opened and the figure of Colonel
Ogilvie blocked the entrance.
“Good God!” The old man’s face had grown white as though the sight had
on the instant frozen him. So pallid was he, all in that second, that
Joy and Athlyne received at once the same idea: that his moustache,
which they had thought of snowy whiteness, was but grey against the
marble face.
The father’s instinct was protective too, and his action was quick. In
the instant, without turning his face, he shut the door behind him and
put his heel against it.
“Quick, daughter, quick!” he said in a whisper, low but so fierce that
it cut the air like a knife, “Get into that room and dress yourself.
And, get out if you can, by another way without being noticed!” As he
spoke he pointed towards the open door through which in the darkened
room the bed with clothing in disarray could be dimly seen. Joy fled
incontinently. The movements of a young woman can be of extraordinary
quickness, but never quicker than when fear lends her wings. It seemed
to Athlyne that she made but one jump from where she stood through the
door-way. He could remember afterwards the flash of her bare heels as
she turned in closing the door behind her.
“Now Sir!” Colonel Ogilvie’s voice was stern to deadliness as he
spoke. Athlyne realised its import. He felt that he was bound hand and
foot, and knew that his part of the coming struggle would have to be
passive. He braced himself to endure. Still, the Colonel’s question
had to be answered. The onus of beginning the explanation had been
thrust upon him. It was due to Joy that there should be no delay on
his part in her vindication. Almost sick at heart with apprehension he
began:
“There has been no fault on Joy’s part!” The instant he had spoken,
the look of bitter haughtiness which came on Colonel Ogilvie’s face
warned him that he had made a mistake. To set the error right he must
know what he had to meet; and so he waited.
“We had better, I think, leave Miss Ogilvie’s name out of our
conversation. … And I may perhaps remind you, sir, that I am the
best judge of my daughter’s conduct. When I have said anything to my
daughter’s detriment it will be quite time for a stranger to interfere
on her behalf. … It is of _your_ conduct, sir, that I ask--demand
explanation!”
Athlyne would have liked to meet a speech of this kind with a blow. In
the case of any other man he would have done so: but this man was
Joy’s father, and in all circumstances must be treated as such. He
felt in a vague sort of way--a background of thought rather than
thought itself--that his manhood was being tested, and by a fiery
test. Come what might, he must be calm, or at least be master of
himself; or else bitter woe would come to Joy. Of course it would
come--perhaps had come already to himself; but to that he was already
braced.
Colonel Ogilvie was skilled in the deadly preliminaries to lethal
quarrel. More than once when a foe had been marked down for vengeance
had he led him on to force the duel himself. In no previous quarrel of
his life had he ever had the good cause that he had now, and be sure
that he used that knowledge to the full. There was in his nature
something of that stoical quality of the Red Indian which enables him
to enjoy the torture of his foe, though the doing so entails a keen
anguish to himself. Perhaps the very air of the “dark and bloody
ground” of Kentucky was so impregnated with the passions of those who
made it so that the dwelling of some generations had imbued the
dwellers with some of the old Indian spirit. As Athlyne stood face to
face with him, watching for every sign of intention as a fencer
watches his opponent, he realised that there would be for him no pity,
no mercy, not even understanding. He would have to fight an uphill
contest--if Joy was to be saved even a single pang. What he could do
he would: sacrifice himself in any way that a man can accomplish it.
Life and happiness had for him passed by! One of his greatest
difficulties would be, he felt, that of so controlling himself that he
would not of necessity shut behind him, by anything which he might say
or do, the door of conciliation. He began at once, therefore, to
practice soft answering:
“My conduct, sir, has been bad--so far as doing an indiscreet thing,
and in not showing to you that respect which is your due in any matter
in which Miss Ogilvie may be concerned.” For some reason which he
could not at the moment understand this seemed to infuriate the
Colonel more than ever. In quite a violent way he burst out:
“So I am to take it that no respect is due to me in my own person!
Such, I gather from your words. You hint if you do not say that
respect is only my due on my daughter’s account!” At the risk of
further offence Athlyne interrupted him. It would not do for him to
accept this monstrous reading of what he meant for courtesy:
“Not so, sir. My respect is to you always and for all causes. I did
but put it in that way as it is only in connection with your daughter
that I dared to speak at all.” Even this pacific explanation seemed to
add fuel to the old man’s choler:
“Let me tell you, sir, that this has nothing whatever to do with my
daughter. Miss Ogilvie is my care. Her defence, if any be required, is
my duty--my privilege. And I quite know how to exercise--and to
defend--both.”
“Quite so, sir. I realise that, and I have no wish to arrogate to
myself your right or your duty; for either of which I myself should be
proud to die!” Athlyne’s voice and manner were so suave and
deferential that Colonel Ogilvie began to have an idea that he was a
poltroon; and in this belief the bully that was in him began to
manifest itself. He spoke harshly, intending to convey this idea,
though as he did so his heart smote him. Even as he spoke there rose
before his bloodshot eyes the vision of a river shimmering with gold
as the sunset fell on it, and projected against it the figure of a
frightened woman tugging at the reins of a run-away mare; whilst close
behind her rode a valiant man guiding with left hand a splendid black
horse to her side, his right hand stretched out to drag her to his
saddle. Before them both lay a deadly chasm. In the pause Athlyne took
the opportunity of hurriedly putting on his outer clothing.
But even that touching vision did not check the father’s rage. His
eyes were bloodshot and even such vision--any vision--could not linger
in them. It passed, leaving in its place only a red splotch--as of
blood; the emotion which the thought had quickened had become
divergent in its own crooked way. But in the pause Athlyne had time to
get in a word:
“Sir, whatever fault there has been was mine entirely. I acted
foolishly perhaps, and unthinkingly. It placed us--placed me in such a
position that every accident multiplied possibilities of
misunderstanding. I cannot undo that now--I don’t even say that I
would if I could. But whatever may be my fate--in the result that may
follow my acts--I shall accept it without cavil. And may I say in
continuance and development of your own suggestion, that no other name
should be mentioned in whatever has to be spoken of between us.” As he
finished he unconsciously stood upon his dignity, drawing himself up
to his full height and standing in soldierly attitude. This had a
strange effect on Colonel Ogilvie. Realising that he could rely
implicitly on the dignity of the man before him, he allowed himself a
further latitude. He could afford, he felt, to be unrestrained in such
a presence; and so proceeded to behave as though he was stark, staring
raving mad. Athlyne saw the change and, with some instinct more
enlightening than his reason, realised that the change might later,
have some beneficent effect. More than ever did he feel now the need
for his own absolute self-control. It was well that he had made up his
mind to this, for it was bitterly tested in Colonel Ogilvie’s mad
outpour:
“Do you dare, sir, to lecture me as to what I shall not say or shall
say about my own daughter. What shall I say to you who though you had
not the courtesy to even acknowledge the kindness shown you by her
parents, came behind my back when I was far away, and stole her from
my keeping. Who took her far away, to the risk even of her reputation.
Risk! Risk! When I find you here together, alone and almost naked in
each other’s arms! God’s Death! that I should have seen such a
thing--that such a thing should be. …” Here his hot wrath changed to
ice-cold deadly purpose, and he went on:
“You shall answer me with your life for that!” He paused, still
glaring at the other with cold, deadly malevolence. Athlyne felt that
the hour of the Forlorn Hope had come to him at last--he had been hot
through all his seeming coolness at de Hooge’s Spruit. His
self-control, could, he felt never be more deeply tested than now; and
he braced himself to it. He had now to so bear himself that Joy would
suffer the minimum of pain. Pain she would have to endure--much pain;
he could not save her from it. He would do what he could; that was all
that remained. With real coolness he met the icy look of his
antagonist as he said with all the grace and courtesy of which he was
naturally master:
“Sir, I answer for my deeds with my life. That life is yours now. Take
it, how and when you will! As to answering in words, such cannot be
whilst you maintain your present attitude. I have tried already to
answer--to explain.”
“Explain sir! There is no explanation.”
“Pardon me!” Athlyne’s voice was calm as ever; his dignity so superb
that the other checked the words on his lips as he went on:
“There is an explanation to be made--and made it must be, for the sake
of … of another. I deny in no way your right of revenge. I think I
have already told you that my life is yours to take as you will. But a
dying man has, in all civilised places, a right to speak to the Court
which condemns him. Such privilege is mine. I claim it--if you will
force me to say so. And let me add, Colonel Ogilvie, that I hold it as
a part of my submission to your will. We are alone now and can speak
freely; but there must be a time--it will be for your own protection
from the legal consequences of my death--when others, or at least one
other, will know of your intention to kill. I shall speak then if I
may not now!” Here the Colonel, whose anger was rising at being so
successfully baffled, interrupted him with hard cynicism.
“Conditions in an affair of honour! To be enforced in a court of law I
suppose.” He felt ashamed of himself as he made the remark which he
felt to be both ungenerous and untrue. He was not surprised when the
other answered his indignant irony with scorn:
“No sir! No law! Not any more appeal to law in my defence than there
has been justice in your outrageous attack on me. But about that I
shall answer you presently. In the meantime I adhere to my conditions.
Aye, conditions; I do not hesitate to use the word.”
Colonel Ogilvie, through all the madness of his anger, realised at
that moment that the man before him was a strong man, as fearless and
determined as he was himself. This brought back his duty of good
manners as a first instalment of his self-possession. For a few
seconds he actually withheld his speech. He even bowed slightly as the
other proceeded:
“I have tried to explain. … My fault was in venturing to ask … a
lady to come for a ride in my car. I had no intention of evil. Nothing
more than a mere desire to renew and further an--a friendship which
had, from the first moment of my knowing her--or rather from the first
moment I set eyes on her, become very dear to me. It was a selfish
wish I know; and in my own happiness at her consent I
overlooked,--neglected--forgot the duty I owed to her father. For that
I am bitterly sorry, and I feel that I owe to him a debt which I can
never, never repay. But enough of that. … That belongs to a
different category, and it has to be atoned for in the only way by
which an honourable man can atone. … As I have already conceded my
life to him I need … can say no more. But from the moment when that
lady stepped into my car my respect has been for her that which I have
always intended to be given to whatever lady should honour me by
becoming my wife. Surely you, sir, as yourself an honourable man--a
husband and a father, cannot condemn a man for speaking an honourable
love to the woman to whom it has been given. When I have admitted that
the making of the occasion was a fault I have said all that I accept
as misdoing. …” He folded his arms and stood on his dignity. For a
few seconds, Colonel Ogilvie stood motionless, silent. He could not
but recognise the truth that underlay all the dignity of the other.
But he was in no way diverted by it from his purpose. His anger was in
no way mitigated; his intention of revenge lessened by no whit. He was
merely waiting to collect his thoughts so as to be in a position to
attack with most deadly effect. He was opening his lips to speak when
the other went on as though he had but concluded one section or
division of what he had to say:
“And now sir as to the manifest doubt you expressed as to my _bona
fides_ in placing my life in your hands--your apprehension lest I
should try to evade my responsibility to the laws of honour by an
appeal in some way to a court of law. Let me set your mind at ease by
placing before you my views; and my views, let me tell you, are
ultimately my intentions. I have tried to assure you that with the
exception of waiting to ask your consent to taking … a certain
passenger for a drive, my conduct has from that moment been such as
you could not find fault with. I take it for granted that you--nor no
man--could honestly resent such familiarities as are customary to, and
consequent on, a man offering marriage to a lady, and pressing his
suit with such zeal as is, or should be, attendant on the expression
of a passion which he feels very deeply!” Even whilst he was speaking,
his subconsciousness was struck by his own coolness. He marvelled that
he could, synchronously with the fearful effort necessary to his
self-control and with despair gnawing at his heart, speak with such
cold blooded preciseness. As is usual in such psychical stresses his
memory took note for future reference of every detail.
His opponent on the contrary burst all at once into another fit of
flaming passion. Athlyne’s very preciseness seemed to have inflamed
him afresh. He thundered out:
“Familiarities sir, on offering marriage! Do you dare to trifle with
me at a time like this. When but a few minutes ago I saw you here in
this lonely place, at this hour of the morning after a night of
absence, undressed as you were, holding in your arms my daughter
undressed also… God’s death! sir, be careful or you shall rue it!”
He stopped almost choking with passion. Athlyne felt himself once more
overwhelmed with the cold wave of responsibility. “Joy! Joy! Joy!” he
kept repeating to himself as a sort of charm to keep off evil. To let
go his anger now might--would be fatal to her happiness. He marvelled
to himself as he went on in equal voice, seemingly calm:
“That sir was with no intent of evil. ’Twas but a natural consequence
of the series of disasters which fell on the enterprise which had so
crowned my happiness. When I turned to come home so that … so that
the lady might be in time to meet her parents who were expected to
arrive at--at her destination, I forgot, in my eagerness to meet her
wishes, the regulations as to speed; and I was arrested for furious
driving. In my anxiety to save her from any form of exposal to
publicity, and in my perplexity as to how to manage it, I advised her
returning by herself in my motor, I remaining at Dalry. When she had
gone, and I had arranged for attending the summons served on me, I
wired over to this hotel to keep me rooms. I thought it better that as
J … that as the lady had gone to England I should remain in
Scotland. I started to walk here; but I was overtaken by a fog and
delayed for hours behind my time. The house was locked up--every one
asleep. The night porter who let me in told me that as I had not
arrived, as by my telegram, the bedroom I had ordered was let to some
one else who had arrived in a plight similar to my own. ‘Another
party’ were his words; I had no clue to whom or what the other visitor
was. The only place left in the house unoccupied--for there were many
unexpected guests through the fog--was that sofa. There I slept. Only
a few minutes ago I was waked by some one coming into the room. When
I saw that it was … when I saw who it was--the woman whom I loved
and whom I intended to marry--I naturally took her in my arms without
thinking.” Then without pausing, for he saw the anger in the Colonel’s
face and felt that to prolong this part of the narration was
dangerous, he went on quickly:
“I trust that you understand, Colonel Ogilvie, that this explanation
in no way infringes your right of punishing me as you suggest. Please
understand--and this is my answer to your suggestion as to my
appealing to law--that I accept your wish to go through the form of a
duel!” He was hotly interrupted by the Colonel:
“Form of a duel! Is this another insult? When I say fight I mean
fight--understand that. I fight _à l’outrance_; and that way only.”
Athlyne’s composure did not seem even ruffled:
“Exactly! I took no other meaning. But surely I am entitled to take it
that even a real duel has the form of a duel!”
“Then what do you mean sir by introducing the matter that way?”
“Simply, Colonel Ogilvie, to protect myself from a later accusation on
your part--either to me or of me--of a charge of poltroonery; or even
a silent suspicion of it in your own mind!”
“How do you mean?”
“Sir, I only speak for myself. I have already said more than once that
I hold my life at your disposal. From that I do not shrink; I accept
the form of a duel for my execution.”
“Your execution! Explain yourself, sir?” In a calm even voice came the
answer.
“Colonel Ogilvie, I put it to you as man to man--if you will honour me
with so simple a comparison, or juxtaposition whichever you like to
consider it--how can I fight freely against the father of the woman
whom I love. Pray, sir,” for the Colonel made an angry gesture “be
patient for a moment. I intend no kind of plea or appeal. I feel
myself forced to let you know my position from my point of view. You
need bear no new anger towards me for this expression of my feelings.
I do so with reluctance, and only because you _must_ understand, here
and now, or it may make, later on, further unhappiness for some one
else--some one whom we both hold in our hearts.” Colonel Ogilvie
hesitated before replying. The bitter scowl was once again on his face
as he spoke:
“Then I suppose I am to take it, sir, that you will begin our meeting
on the field of honour by putting me publicly--through the expression
of your intention--in the position of a murderer.”
“Not so! Surely you know better than that. I did not think that any
honourable man could have so mistaken another. If I have to speak
explicitly on this point--on which for your own sake and the sake of
… of one dear to you, I would fain be reticent--let me reassure you
on one point: I shall play the game fairly. For this duel is a game,
and, so far as I am concerned at all events, one for a pretty large
stake. If indeed that can be called a ‘game’ which can only end in one
way. You need not, I assure you, feel the least uneasy as to my not
going through with it properly. I am telling you this now so that you
may not distort my intention yourself by some injudicious comment on
my conduct, or speech, or action, made under a misapprehension or from
distrust of me. Sir, your own honour shall be protected all along, so
far as the doing so possibly rests with me.” Here, seeing some new
misunderstanding in the Colonel’s eye he went on quickly:
“I venture to say this because I am aware that you doubt my being able
to carry out my intention. When I say ‘rests with me,’ I mean the
responsibility of acting properly the rôle I have undertaken. I shall
conduct my part of the duel in all seriousness. It must be in some
other country; this for your sake. For mine it will not have mattered.
We have only to bear ourselves properly and none will suspect. I shall
go through all the forms--with your permission--of fighting _à
l’outrance_, so that no one can suspect. No one will be able
afterwards to say that you could have been aware of my intention. I
shall fire at you all right; but I shall not hit!”
Instinctively Colonel Ogilvie bowed. He did not intend to do so. He
said no word. The rancour of his heart was not mitigated; his
intention to kill in no way lessened. His action was simply a
spontaneous recognition of the chivalry of another, and his
appreciation of it.
Athlyne could not but be glad of even so slight a relaxation of the
horrible tension. He stood quite still. He felt that in some way he
had scored with his antagonist; and as he was fighting for Joy he was
unwilling to do anything which might not be good for her. He was
standing well out in the room with his back to the door of the
bedroom. As they stood he saw a look of surprise flash in Colonel
Ogilvie’s face. This changed instantly to a fixed one of horror. His
eyes seemed to look right through his antagonist to something beyond.
Instinctively he turned to see what it might be that caused that
strange look. And then he looked horrified himself.
In the open door-way of the bedroom stood Joy.