KNOWLEDGE OF LAW
All three stood stone still. Not a sound was heard except faint
quick breathing. Athlyne tried to think; but his brain seemed numb. He
knew that now was a crisis if not _the_ crisis of the whole affair. It
chilled him with a deathly chill to think that Joy must have heard all
the conversation between her father and himself. What a remembrance
for her in all the empty years to come! What sorrow, what pain!
Presently he heard behind him as he stood facing her a sound which was
rather a groan than an ejaculation--a groan endowed with articulated
utterance:
“Good God!” Unconsciously he repeated the word under his breath:
“Good God!”
Joy, with a fixed high-strung look, stepped down into the room. She
stood beside Athlyne who, as she came close to him, turned with her so
that together they faced her father. Colonel Ogilvie said in a slow
whisper, the words dropping out one by one:
“Have--you--been--there--all--the--time?
Did--you--hear--all--we--said?” She answered boldly:
“Yes! I was there and heard everything!” Again a long pause of
silence, ended by Colonel Ogilvie’s next question:
“Why did you stay?” Joy answered at once; her quick speech following
the slow tension sounded almost voluble.
“I could not get away. I wanted to; but there is no other door to the
room. That is why I came out here when I woke. … I could not get my
boots which the maid had taken last night, and I wanted to get away as
quickly as possible. And, Father, being there, though I had to move
about dressing myself, I could not help hearing everything!” Her
father had evidently expected that she would say something more, for
as she stopped there he looked at her expectantly. There was a sort of
dry sob in his throat. Athlyne stood still and silent; he hardly dared
to breathe lest he should unintentionally thwart Joy’s purpose. For
with all his instincts he realised that she had a purpose. He knew
that she understood her father and that she was the most potent force
to deal with him; and knowing this he felt that the best thing he
could do would be to leave her quite free and unhampered to take her
own course. He kept his eyes on her face, gazing at her unwinkingly.
Her face was fixed--not stern but set to a purpose. Somehow at that
moment he began to realise how well he understood her. Without more
help than his eyes could give him, he seemed to follow the workings of
her mind. For her mind was changing. At the first her expression was
of flinty fixedness; but as she continued to look at the old man it
softened; and with the softening her intentioned silence gave way. Her
lover’s thoughts translated thus:
“I will protect my--him against my father. He has threatened him; he
is forcing him to death. I shall not help him by sparing him a pang,
an awkwardness. And yet--why that? He is an old man--and my father!
That white hair demands respect. He is angry--hard and untender now;
but his life has been a tender one to me--and he is my father! Though
I am determined to save my lover--my husband, I need not in the doing
cause that white head to sink in shame; I can spare him the pang of
what he may think ingratitude in me. And, after all, he has what must
seem to him just cause of offence. … He cannot--will not understand.
… He is brave and proud, and has a code of honour which is more than
a religion. And he my lover--my husband is brave too. And as
unyielding as my father. And he is willing to die--for me. To die for
me--_my_ honour _my_ happiness. Though his dying is worse--far worse
than death to me. … But he is dying bravely, and I--that was to have
been his wife--must die bravely, worthily too. If he can suffer and
die in silence, so too must I. …”
It seemed a natural sequence of thought when she said to her father:
“Daddy, do you know you have not said a word to me yet. What have I
ever done in my life that you should not trust me now? Have I ever
lied to you that you cannot trust me to answer truly when you ask
me--ask me anything. Why don’t you ask me now? I know that things do
not look well. I realise that you must have been shocked when you came
into the room. But, Daddy dear, there are few things in the world that
cannot be explained--at any rate in part. Don’t forget that I am a
woman now. I am no longer a child whose ignorance is her innocence.
Speak to me! Ask me what you will, and I will answer you truly! Hear
me, even as you would listen to one dying! For indeed it is so. If you
carry out your intention, as I have heard it expressed, I shall no
longer live; there will be nothing for me to live for.”
“Do you mean that you will commit suicide?” said her father.
“Oh, no! I hope I have pluck enough to live--if I can. Do not fear for
me, Daddy! I shall play the game full, as he will do.” As she spoke,
she pointed a finger at Athlyne. She felt now, and for the first time,
acutely that she did not know what to call him before a third
person--even her father. Athlyne looked relieved by her words. When
she spoke of dying he had grown sadly white; he shared her father’s
apprehension. Colonel Ogilvie saw the change in his look, and took it
ill. As may be surmised a part of his anger towards Athlyne arose from
jealousy. Until this man had appeared upon the scene his “little girl”
was his alone; no other man shared in her affection. As she was an
only child all his parental affection had been centred in her. Though
he might have been prepared to see her mate with a man of his own
choosing--or at any rate of his acceptance, he was jealous of the man
who had stepped in, unaccredited and wanting in deference to himself.
It must have been a tinge of this jealousy which prompted his next
question. Turning with a bitter formality to Athlyne he said:
“I suppose you are satisfied, now, sir. Whatever may come, my daughter
is estranged from me; and it is your doing!” In answer Joy and Athlyne
spoke together. Said the latter:
“Oh sir!” There he stopped; he feared to say more lest his anger
should master him. But the protest was effective; the old man
flushed--over forehead and ears and neck. Joy spoke in a different
vein:
“There is no estrangement, Daddy dear; and therefore it can be no
one’s doing. Least of all could such a thing come from this man who
loves me, and … and whom I love.” As she spoke she blushed divinely,
and taking her lover’s right hand between both her hands held it
tight. This seemed for some reason to infuriate her father afresh. He
strode forward towards Athlyne as though about to strike him. But at
the instant there came a quick rap on the door. Instinctively he drew
away, and, having called out “Come!” stood expectingly and seemingly
calm. The door opened slightly and the voice of the Sheriff was heard:
“May I come in? I am Alexander Fenwick, Sheriff of Galloway!” As he
was speaking he entered the room with a formal bow to each in turn. He
continued to speak to Colonel Ogilvie:
“You will pardon this intrusion I hope, sir. Indeed I trust you will
not look upon it as an intrusion at all when you know the reason of my
coming.” Colonel Ogilvie’s habit of old-fashioned courtesy came at
once to the fore with the coming of a stranger. With a bow which to
those reared in a newer and less formal school of manners seemed
almost grandiloquent he spoke:
“I came here on some business, and on my arrival a few minutes ago was
asked by our landlady--an old servant of my own--who on that account
thought that she might ask what she thought a favour--to come up here.
She thought, poor anxious soul, that some unpleasantness might be
afoot as she heard high words, and feared a quarrel. All the more on
account of a sudden arrival of a gentleman who seemed somewhat
incensed. This I took from her description of the personality, to be
you sir. Indeed, I recognise all the points, except that of the
anger!” As he spoke he bowed with pleasant courtesy. The other bowed
too, partly in answer to the implied question and partly in
recognition of the expressed courtesy of the words and manner.
Whilst he had been speaking, the Sheriff had been watching keenly
those around him. He had been for so long a time in the habit of
forming his opinion rather by looks than words that the situation
seemed to explain itself; young lovers, angry father. This opinion was
justified and sustained by the confidence which had been given to him
by Athlyne on the previous afternoon. He had been, on entering the
room, rather anxious at the state of affairs; but now he began to
breathe more freely. He felt that his experience of life and of law
might really be here of some service. But his profession had also
taught him wariness and caution; also not to speak on side issues till
he knew the ground thoroughly. Joy he read like an open book. There
was no mistaking her love, her anxiety, her apprehension. Athlyne he
knew something of already, but he now saw in his face a warning look
which bade him be silent regarding him. He diagnosed Colonel Ogilvie
as a proud, masterful, vain, passionate man; something of a prig;
tender, in a way he understood himself; faithful to his word;
relentless to an expressed intention; just--according to his own ideas
of right and wrong. Weighing these attributes for his own pacific
purposes he came to the conclusion that his first effort at
conciliation should be made with regard to the last-mentioned. So he
began, speaking in a manner of courtly and deferential grace:
“I trust sir, you will yield to me the consideration often asked by,
and sometimes granted to a well-intentioned man, however bungling the
same might be in thought or method or manner.” Colonel Ogilvie
conceded the favour with a gracious bow. Thus emboldened, if not
justified, he went on:
“I fain would ask that I might be allowed to make something in the
nature of a short statement, and to make it without interruption or
expostulation. You will understand why presently.” Again the gracious
acquiescence; he continued:
“You are, I take it, a stranger to this country; though, if I am not
misled by name and lineament, claiming Scottish forbears?” Colonel
Ogilvie’s bow came more naturally this time. His in-lying pride was
coming to the rescue of common sense. The Sheriff understood, and went
on with better heart:
“The experience which I have had in the performance of my duties as
sheriff has shewn me that such a group as I see before me--father,
daughter and lover, if I mistake not--is not uncommon in this part of
Scotland.” No one answered his bow this time. All were grimly silent
in expectancy. He felt that it was a dangerous topic; but the fact had
been stated without being denied. He hurried on:
“Just across the Border, as we are, we have had very many occasions of
run-away marriages; I have had myself in earlier days to explain for
the good of all parties how the law stands in such matters. More than
once the knowledge enabled those interested in it to spare much pain
to others; generally to those whom they loved best. I trust that now
I may use that knowledge in your behalf--as a friend. I am not here in
my official capacity--or perhaps I might not be so free to advise as I
am now without, I trust, offence to any one.” Colonel Ogilvie’s
gracious bow here answered for all the party. The Sheriff felt more at
ease. He was now well into his subject; and the most difficult part of
his duty had been, he thought, passed. All three of his hearers
listened eagerly as he went on:
“A knowledge of the law can hurt no one; though it may now and again
disappoint some one--when expounded too late. Well, there is a common
belief in South Britain--and elsewhere that the marriage law in
Scotland is a very filmy thing, with bounds of demarcation which are
actually nebulous. This doubtless arises from the fact that all such
laws are based on the theory that it is good to help such contracting
parties to the secure and speedy fulfilment of their wishes. But
anyone who thinks that they are loose in either purpose or action is
apt to be rudely enlightened. The Scots’ Marriage laws demand that
there be a manifest and honest intention of marriage on the part of
the contractors. This intention can be proved in many ways. Indeed the
law in certain cases is willing to infer it, when direct proof is not
attainable, from subsequent acts of the parties. I may fairly say that
in all such cases courts of law will hold that mutuality of intention
is of the essence of marriage rite. This followed by co-habitation
_is_ the marriage; though the latter to follow close on the
declaration is not always deemed necessary. In our law the marriage
may be either of two kinds. The most formal is that effected by a
minister or proper official after due calling of banns, or by notice
given to sheriff or registrar. The other form is by what is known in
the law as ‘Irregular marriage.’ This is in legal parlance--for which
I make no apology as it is necessary that all married folk, or those
intending to enter that honourable condition should understand it--is
known as ‘intention followed by copula.’ Now you must know that either
form of marriage is equally binding--equal in law and honour; and when
the conditions attached to each form have been duly fulfilled such
marriage is irrefragable. In old days this facility of marriage made
Gretna Green, which is the first place across the Border, the
objective for eloping lovers matrimonially inclined; and as till 1856
no previous residence in Scotland was required, romance was supposed
to stop at the Border. That is, the marriage could be effected and
parental objections--did such exist--were overborne. There were many
cynical souls who held that repentance for the hasty marriage could
then begin. I feel bound to say that this is an opinion in which I do
not myself share.
“In 1856 an Act of Parliament, 20th Vict. Cap. 96, was passed, by
which it became necessary for the validity of irregular marriage that
at least one of the two contractors should have his or her usual
residence in Scotland, or have been resident in Scotland for three
full weeks next preceding the marriage.
“I thank you, Colonel Ogilvie, for having listened to me so patiently.
But as I have no doubt that you three have much to say to each other I
shall withdraw for the present. This will leave you free to discuss
matters. And perhaps I may say, as an old man as well as a responsible
officer of the Law, that I trust the effect will be to make for peace
and amity. I am staying here in the hotel and I shall take it as a
great pleasure and a great honour if you will breakfast with me in say
an hour’s time. All your family will be most welcome.” With a bow, in
which deference and geniality were mingled, he withdrew.
Each of the three left kept looking at each other in silence. Joy drew
closer to Athlyne and took his hand. Colonel Ogilvie pretended not to
notice the act--an effort on his part which made his daughter radiant
with hope. The first words spoken were by the Colonel:
“That man is a gentleman!” The two others felt that silence was
present discretion; to agree with Colonel Ogilvie in his present mood
was almost as dangerous as to disagree with him. His next words were
in no way conciliatory though the _arrière pensée_ made for hope.
“Now sir, what have you to say for yourself in this unhappy matter?
Remember I in no way relax my intention of--of punishment; but I am
willing to hear what you have to say.” Athlyne winced at the word
“punishment,” which was not one which he was accustomed to hear
applied to himself. But for Joy’s sake he made no comment. He even
kept his face fixed so as not to betray his anger. He felt that any
change of subject, or drifting off that before them, must be for the
better; things could, he felt, hardly be worse than at present.
Moreover, it might smooth matters somewhat if Colonel Ogilvie could be
brought to recollect that he was not himself an undesirable person for
alliance, and that his intention of matrimony had been already brought
before Joy’s father. In this conviction he spoke:
“As in this country, sir, intention counts for so much, may I crave
your indulgence for a moment and refer you back to my letter to you on
the subject of a very dear wish of mine--a wish put before you with a
very decided intention.” Colonel Ogilvie’s answer, given in manner of
equal suavity, was disconcerting; the bitterness behind it was
manifest.
“I think sir, there must be some error--which is not mine. I never
received any letter from you! Your epistolary efforts seem to have
been confined to the ladies of my family.” With an effort Athlyne
restrained himself. When he felt equal to the task he spoke, still
with a manner of utmost deference:
“An error there surely is; but it is not mine either. I posted
yesterday at the Ambleside post office a letter to you. …” He was
interrupted by Colonel Ogilvie who said bluntly:
“I am not so sure, sir, that the fault of my not reading such a letter
was not yours; though perhaps not in the direct manner you mean. When
I arrived home last night and found the horrible state of things with
regard to my daughter’s rash act--due to you” this with a look of
actual malevolence “I was so upset that I did not look at the pile of
letters awaiting me. I only read Joy’s messages.” As he said this
Athlyne’s eyes flashed and there was an answering flash in the eyes of
the woman who looked so keenly at him; this was the first time since
his arrival that the father had condescended to even mention his
daughter’s name. There might be some softening of that hard nature
after all. Then the old man continued:
“I put them in my pocket; here they are!”--Whilst he looked at the
envelopes in that futile way that some people unused to large
correspondence love, Joy said with an easy calmness which made her
lover glance at her in surprise:
“Daddy, hadn’t you better read your letters now; we shall wait.” The
tone was so much that to which he was accustomed from her that he did
not notice the compromising “we” which would otherwise have inflamed
him afresh. Drawing a chair close to one of the windows he opened the
letters and began to read. Athlyne and Joy, instinctively and with
unity of thought, moved towards the other window which was behind him.
There they stood hand in hand, their eyes following every movement of
the old man. Joy did not know, of course, what was in the letter; but
she had seen it before in the garden at Ambleside and when he had
posted it before setting out on their motor ride. And so, piecing her
information with the idea conveyed by her lover’s recent words, she
was able to form some sort of idea of its general import. A soft,
beautiful blush suffused her face, and her eyes glistened as she stood
thinking; in the effort of thought she recalled many sweet passages.
She now understood in a vague way what was the restraining influence
which had moved her lover to reticence during all those hours when he
had tried to tell her of his love and his hopes without actually
speaking words, the knowledge of which given without his consent would
have incensed her father against him, and so wrought further havoc. So
moved was she that Athlyne, whose eyes were instinctively drawn to her
from the observation of her father, was amazed and not a little
disconcerted. There must be some strange undercurrent of feeling in
her which he could not understand. Joy saw the look on his face and
seemed to understand. She raised to her lips the hand that she so
strongly clasped in hers and kissed it. Then she raised a finger of
her other hand and touched her lips. Thus reassured of her love and
understanding, Athlyne followed with his eyes the trend of hers; and
so together they continued to watch her father, trying to gather from
his bearing some indication of his thoughts. Indeed this was not a
difficult matter. Colonel Ogilvie seemed to have lost himself in his
task, and expressed his comments on what he read by a series of
childlike movements and ejaculations. Athlyne who knew what the letter
contained could apply these enlightening comments, and even Joy in her
ignorance of detail could inferentially follow the text. Colonel
Ogilvie did say a word of definite speech, but the general tendency of
his comment was that of surprise--astonishment. When he had finished
reading Athlyne’s letter--it was the last of the batch--he sat for
quite half a minute quite still and silent, holding the paper between
finger and thumb of his dropped left hand. Then with a deep frown on
his forehead he began to read it again. He was evidently looking for
some passage, for when he had found it he stood up at once and turned
to them. By this time Joy, warned by the movement, had dropped her
lover’s hand and now stood some distance away from him. The old man
began:
“Sir … There is a passage in a letter here which I understand to be
yours. So far I must acknowledge that I have been wrong. You evidently
_did_ send the letter, and I evidently received it. Listen to this:
‘Having heard in a roundabout way that there was a woman in New York
who was passing herself off as my wife I undertook a journey to that
City to make investigation into the matter; and in order to secure the
necessary secrecy as to my movements took for the time an assumed
name--or rather used as Christian and surname two of those names in
the middle of my full equipment which I do not commonly use.’ What
does all that mean? No, do not speak. Wait and I shall tell you. You
say the lady--woman you call her--took your name. For saying such a
thing, and for the disrespect in her description as a woman, you will
have to answer me. Either of them will cost you your life.” Athlyne
answered with a quiet, impressive dignity which helped in some degree
to reassure Joy who stood motionless in open-eyed wonder--her heart
seeming to her as cold as ice at the horror of this new phase of
danger. It was a veritable “bolt from the blue,” incomprehensible to
her in every way:
“Colonel Ogilvie, I regret I shall be unable to meet your wishes in
this respect!” As the old man looked astonished in his turn, he
proceeded:
“I already owe you a life on another count; and I have but one. But if
I had ten you should have them all, could they in any way assuage the
sorrow which it seems must follow from my thoughtless act. I have told
you already that I shall freely give my life in expiation of the wrong
I have--all unintentionally--done to your daughter and yourself. And
if any means could be found by which it could add to Joy’s happiness
or lessen her sorrow I should in addition and as freely give my soul!”
Colonel Ogilvie’s reception of these words was characteristic of the
man, as he took himself to be. He drew himself up to his full height
and stood at attention. Then he saluted, and followed his salute with
a grave bow. The soldier in him spoke first, the man after. Both Joy
and Athlyne noticed with new hope that he allowed the speaking of her
name to pass unchallenged as a further cause of offence. Presently,
and in a new tone, he said:
“I have taken it for granted from the allusions in your letter that
you are the writer; and from your mentioning an alias have not been
surprised at seeing a strange name in the signature. But I have been
and am surprised at the familiarity from a man of your years to a man
of mine of a mere Christian name.”
It was now Athlyne’s turn to be surprised.
“A Christian name!” he said with a puzzled pucker of his brows. “I am
afraid I don’t understand.” Then a light dawning on him he said with a
slight laugh: “But that is not my Christian name.”
“Then your surname?” queried the Colonel.
“Nor my surname either.” His laugh was now more pronounced, more
boyish.
“Oh I see; still another alias!” The words were bitter; the tone of
manifest offence.
Athlyne laughed again; it was not intentional but purely spontaneous.
He was recalled to seriousness by the look of pain and apprehension on
Joy’s face and by the Colonel’s angry words, given with a look of
fury:
“I am not accustomed to be laughed at--and to my face Mr.--Mr.--Mr.
Richard Hardy Athlyne et cetera.”
His apology for inopportune mirth was given with contrition--even
humbly:
“I ask your pardon, Colonel Ogilvie, very deeply, very truly. But the
fact is that Athlyne is my proper signature, though it is neither
Christian name nor surname. I do hope you will attribute my rudeness
rather to national habit than to any personal wish to wound. Surely
you will see that I would at least be foolish to transgress in such a
direction, if it be only that I aim at so much that it is in your
power to grant.” There was reason in this which there was no
resisting. Colonel Ogilvie bowed--he felt that he could do no less.
Athlyne wisely said no more; both men regarded the incident as closed.
With Joy it was different. The incident gave her the information she
lacked for the completion of the circle of her knowledge. As with a
flash she realised the whole secret: that this man who had saved her
life and whom now her father wanted to kill was none other than the
man whose name she had taken--at first in sport and only lately in
order to protect herself from troubles of inquisitiveness and scandal.
At the moment she was in reality the only one of the three--the only
one at all--who had in her hand all the clues. Neither her father nor
Athlyne knew that she had given to the maid at the hotel a name other
than her own.
She began to have also an unconscious knowledge of something else.
Something which she could not define, some intuition of some coming
change; something which hinged on her giving of the name. Now, for the
first time she realised how dangerous it may be for any one to take
the name of any other person--for any purpose whatever, or from any
cause. She could not see the end.
But though her brain did not classify the idea her blood did. She
blushed so furiously that she had serious thoughts of escaping from
the room. Nothing but the danger which might arise from such a step
kept her in her place. But something must, she felt, be done. Things
were so shaping towards reconciliation that it would be wise to
prevent matters slipping back. For an instant she was puzzled as to
what to do; then an inspiration came to her. Turning to her father she
said:
“Daddy, let us ask the old Sheriff to come in again!” She felt that
she could rely on his discretion, and that in his hands things might
slide into calmer waters. Her father acquiesced willingly, and a
courteous message was sent through a servant.