“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 fightà 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 youmustunderstand, 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 fightingà 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.
Allthree 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 notthecrisis 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—myhonourmyhappiness. 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-habitationisthe 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 thearrière penséemade 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 evidentlydidsend 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.
Whilstthe servant was gone there was a great clatter of arrival of a motor at the hotel; but all in Athlyne’s room were too deeply concerned with their own affairs to notice it.
Presently there was a light tap at the door, and the Sheriff’s “May I come in?” was heard. Colonel Ogilvie went himself to the door and threw it open. Beside the Sheriff stood a lady, heavily clad and with a motor veil.
“Joy! Joy!” said the veiled figure, and Aunt Judy stepping forward took the girl in her arms. In the meantime the Sheriff was explaining the situation:
“I was just coming from my room in obedience to your summons, when this lady entered the hall. She was asking for you, Colonel, and for Miss Ogilvie, as who she had learned at the railway station, was stopping here. I ventured to offer my services, and as she was coming up here, undertook to pilot her.”
Joy was delighted to see Judy. She had so long been accustomed to look with fixed belief on her love and friending that she now expected she would be able to set matters right. Had she had any doubt of her Aunt’s affection such must have soon disappeared in the warmth of the embrace accorded by her. When this was concluded—which was soon for it was short, if strenuous—she turned to Colonel Ogilvie and held out her hand:
“Good morning, Lucius. I see you got here all right. I hope you had a good journey?” Then turning to Athlyne she said, as if in surprise:
“Why, Mr. Hardy, how are you? And how do you come to be here? We thought we were never going to see you again.” Then she rattled on; it was evident to Joy, and to Colonel Ogilvie also, that she was purposeful to baffle comment by flow of her own speech:
“Lucius, you must thank this gentleman who is, as the landlady whispered to me, the Sheriff of somewhere or other. He’s a nice man, but a funny sort of Sheriff. When I asked him where was his posse he didn’t know what I meant.” Here she was interrupted by the Sheriff who said with a low bow to her:
“It is enough for any man, dear lady, to be inessein such a charming presence!” Judy did not comprehend the joke; but she knew, being a woman, that some sort of compliment was intended; and, being a woman, beamed accordingly:
“Thank you, sir, both for your kindness in helping me and for your pretty talk. Joy, I have brought your dressing bag and a fresh rig out. You must need them, poor dear. Now you must tell me all your adventures. I told them to bring the things presently to your room. I shall then come with you whilst you are changing. Now, Mr. Sheriff, we must leave you for a little; but I suppose that as you have to talk business—you told me they had sent for you—you will doubtless prefer to be without us?”
“Your pardon,” said the Sheriff gracefully. “I hope the time will never come when I shall prefer to be without such charming company!” This was said with such a meaning look, and in such a meaning tone, that Judy coloured. Joy, unseen by the others, smiled at her, rejoicing. The Sheriff, thinking they were moving off, turned to the Colonel saying:
“Now, Colonel Ogilvie, I am at your disposal; likewise such knowledge of law and custom as I possess.” He purposely addressed himself to Colonel Ogilvie, evidently bearing in mind Athlyne’s look of warning to silence regarding himself.
Whilst he had been speaking, Joy stood still, holding Judy by the hand and keeping her close to her. Judy whispered, holding her mouth close to her ear and trying to avoid the observation of the others:
“Come away dear whilst they are talking. They will be freer alone!” Joy whispered in return:
“No, I must not go. I must stay here, I am wanted. Do not say anything, dear—not a word; but stay by me.” Judy in reply squeezed her hand and remained silent. Colonel Ogilvie, with manifest uneasiness and after clearing his throat, said to the Sheriff:
“As you have been so good sir, as to tell me some matters of law; and as you have very kindly offered us other services, may I trespass on your kindness in enlightening me as to some matters of fact.” The Sheriff bowed; he continued:
“I must crave your indulgence, for I am in some very deep distress, and possibly not altogether master of myself. But I need some advice, or at any rate enlightenment as to some matters of law. And as I am far from home and know no one here who is of legal authority—except yourself,” this with a bow, “I shall be deeply grateful if I may accept your kindness and speak to you as a friend.” Again the Sheriff bowed, his face beaming. Colonel Ogilvie, with a swift, meaning glance at each of the others in turn, went on:
“I must ask you all to keep silent. I am speaking with this gentleman for my own enlightenment, and require no comments from any of you. Indeed, I forbid interruption!” Unpromising as this warning sounded, both Joy and Athlyne took a certain comfort from it. The point they both attached importance to was that Athlyne was simply classed with the rest without differentiation. The Sheriff, who feared lest the father’s domineering tone might provoke hostilities, spoke quickly:
“Now, Colonel Ogilvie, I am at your disposal for whatever you may wish to ask me.”
“I suppose Mr. Sheriff, I need not say, that I trust you will observe honourable silence regarding this whole painful affair; as I expect that all present will.” This was said with a threatening smile. When the Sheriff bowed acceptance of the condition he went on:
“Since you spoke to us here a little while ago a strange enlightenment has come to me. Indeed a matter so strange and so little in accord with the experiences of my own life that I am in a quandary. I should really like to know exactly how I—how we all stand at present. From what you have said about the Scottish marriage laws I take it that you have an inkling of what has gone on. And so, as you are in our confidence, you will not perhaps mind if I confide further in you?”
“I shall be deeply honoured, Colonel Ogilvie.”
“Thank you again, sir. You are a true friend to a man in deep distress and in much doubt … We are, as you perhaps know, Americans. My daughter’s life was saved by a gentleman in New York. I think it right to say that it was on his part a very gallant act, and that we were all deeply grateful to him. He came to my house—at my own invitation; and my wife and her sister, Miss Judith Hayes”—the Sheriff turned to Judy and bowed as at an introduction; she curtsied in reply—“were very pleased with him. But we never saw him again. He returned very soon afterwards to England; and though we were coming to London he never came near us. Indeed his neglect was marked; for though I invited him to call, he ignored us.” As he said this he looked straight at Athlyne with hard eyes. “I have reason to know that my daughter was much interested in him. Ordinarily speaking I should not mention a matter of this kind. But as I have received from him—it has only been made known to me in the interval since our meeting—an assurance of his affection and a proffer of marriage, I feel that I may speak.” He turned away and began walking up and down the room as though trying to collect his thoughts.
As Joy heard him speak of her own interest in the man and of his proposal of marriage she blushed deeply, letting her eyes fall. But when, by some of the divine instinct of love, she knew that he was looking ardently at her she raised them, swimming, to his. And so once more they looked deep into each other’s souls. Judy felt the trembling of the girl’s hand and held it harder with a sympathetic clasp, palm to palm and with fingers interlaced. She felt that she understood; and her eyes, too, became sympathetically suffused. The Sheriff had now no eyes except for Judy. Whilst the Colonel had been speaking he had looked at him of course—he knew well that it would be a cause of offence if he did not. But the walking up and down gave him opportunity for his wishes. Judy could not but recognise the ardour of his glance, and she too blushed exceedingly. Somehow, she was glad of it; she knew that blushing became her, and she felt that she would like to look her best to the eyes of this fine, kindly old man.
When Colonel Ogilvie began to speak again there was a change in him. He seemed more thoughtful, more cautious, more self-controlled; altogether he was more like his old self. There was even a note of geniality in his voice.
“What I want to ask you in especial is this: How can we avoid any sort of scandal over this unhappy occurrence? My daughter has acted thoughtlessly in going out alone in a motor with a gentleman. Through a series of accidents it appears that that ride was unduly and unintentionally prolonged, and ended in her being caught in a fog and lost. By accident she came here, walking after the motor had broken down. She slept last night in that room; and the man, who had also found his way hither later, slept, unknowing of her proximity, in this. I need not tell you that such a state of things is apt to lead to a scandal. Now, and now only, is the time to prevent it” … He was interrupted by the Sheriff who spoke hurriedly, as one who had already considered the question and had his mind made up:
“There will be no scandal!” He spoke in so decided a way that the other was impressed.
“How do you know? What ground have you for speaking so decidedly?”
“It rests entirely on you—yourself, Colonel Ogilvie.”
“What!” His tone was laden with both anger and surprise. “Do you think I would spread any ill report of my own daughter? Sir, you must——” Once more the Sheriff cut into his speaking:
“You misapprehend me, Colonel Ogilvie. You misapprehend me entirely. Why should I—how could I think such a thing! No! I mean that if you accept the facts as they seem to me to be, no one—not you, nor any one else, can make scandal; if you do not!”
“Explain yourself,” he interrupted. “Nay, do not think me rude”—here he put up a deprecating hand—“but I am so deeply anxious about my daughter’s happiness—her future welfare and happiness,” he added as he remembered how his violent attitude had, only a few minutes ago imperilled—almost destroyed, that happiness. Joy had been, off and on, whispering a word to her aunt so that the latter was now fairly well posted in the late events.
“Quite so! quite so, my dear sir. Most natural thing in the world,” said the Sheriff soothingly. “Usual thing under the circumstances is to kill the man; or want to kill him!” As he spoke he looked at Athlyne meaningly. The other understood and checked the words which were rising to his lips. Then, having tided over the immediate danger of explosion, the Sheriff went on:
“The fact is Colonel Ogilvie, that the series of doings (and perhaps misdoings) and accidents, which have led to our all meeting here and now, has brought about a strange conclusion. So far as I can see”—here his manner grew grave and judicial—“these two young people are at the present moment man and wife. Lawfully married according to Scottish law!”
The reception of this dictum was varied. Colonel Ogilvie almost collapsed in overwhelming amazement. Joy, blushing divinely, looked at her husband adoringly. Athlyne seemed almost transfigured and glorified; the realisation of all his hopes in this sudden and unexpected way showed unmistakably how earnest they had been. Judy, alone of all the party, was able to express herself in conventional fashion. This she did by clapping her hands and, then by kissing the whole party—except the Sheriff who half stood forward as though in hope that some happy chance might include him in the benison. She began with Joy and went on to her brother-in-law, who accepted with a better grace than she feared would have been accorded. When she came to Athlyne she hesitated for a moment, but with a “now-or-never” rush completed the act, and fell back shyly with a belated timorousness.
The Sheriff, having paused for the completion of this little domestic ceremony, went on calmly:
“Since I left you a few minutes ago I have busied myself with making a few necessary inquiries from my old servant Jane McBean, now McPherson. I made them, I assure you Colonel Ogilvie, very discreetly. Even Jane, who is in her way a clever woman, has no suspicion that I was even making inquiry. The result has been to confirm me in my original conjecture, which was to the effect that there has been executed between these two people an ‘irregular’ marriage!” At the mention of the words the Colonel exploded:
“God’s death, sir, the women of the Ogilvies don’t make irregular marriages!” The Sheriff went calmly on, only noticing the protest for the sake of answering it.
By this time Joy and Judith were close together, holding hands. Insensibly the girl drew her Aunt over to where Athlyne was standing and took him by the arm. He raised his other hand and with it covered the hand that lay on his arm, pressing it closer as he listened attentively to the Sheriff’s expounding of the law:
“I gather that I did not express myself clearly when a short time ago I spoke of the Scottish marriage laws. Let me now be more precise. And as I am trying to put into words understandable by all a somewhat complex subject I shall ask that no one present will make any remark whatever till this part of my task has been completed. I shall then answer to the best of my power any question or questions which any of you may choose to ask me.
“Let me begin by assuring you all that what in Scottish law we call an ‘irregular’ marriage is equally binding in every way with a ‘regular’ marriage; the word only refers to form or method, and in no wise to the antecedents or to the result. In our law ‘Mutual Consent’ constitutes marriage. You will observe that I speak of marriage—not the proof of it. Proof is quite a different matter; and as it is formally to be certified by a Court it is naturally hedged in by formalities. This consent, whether proved or not, whether before witnesses or not, should of course be followed by co-habitation; but even this is not necessary. The dictum of Scots’ law is ‘Concensus non concubitus facit matrimonium.’ But I have a shrewd suspicion that the mind of the Court is helped to a declaration of validity whenconcensushas been followed byconcubitus.
“Now let us take the present case and examine it as though testing it in a Court of Law; for such is the true means to be exact. This man and woman—we don’t know ‘gentleman’ and ‘lady’ in the Law—declared in the presence of witnesses that they were man and wife. That is, the man declared to the police sergeant at Dalry that the woman was his wife; and the woman declared timeously to the police officer who made the arrest that the man was her husband. These two statements, properly set out, would in themselves be evidence not only of inferred consent by declarationde præsentibut of the same thing by ‘habit and repute.’ The law has been thus stated: