Complete Works of Bram Stoker

by Bram Stoker

  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 Dairy. 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 a 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 role 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 a 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.

  CHAPTER 20

  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 centered 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 graci
ous 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: