This might well serve as a scientific comparison. Nay4 more, it might well be an induction5. 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 bliss6 of communion with that other soul—minutes whose sweetness or whose length could not be computed7 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 shutters8, made strange lines on the floor without piercing through the walls of sleep. The myriad10 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 sentience11 at the ending of sleep, stirred her. The waking grew on her. At first, when her eyes partially12 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 unfamiliar13 surroundings. Then came the inevitable14 self-question: “where am I?”
The realization15 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 languorous16 ecstasy17 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 obedience18 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 strictly19. 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 reciprocated20 passion—the very passing memory of which set her blood tingling21 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 miserable22 and of neither power nor import. Again she was swept by that tide of wild desires, vague and nebulous as yet, inchoate23, elusive24, 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 merged25 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 standing26, 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. Instinctively27 she went softly, her bare feet making no sound on the carpet. With the same instinctive28 caution she had opened the door noiselessly; when the self-protective instinct has once been awakened29, 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 entirely30 disappeared. In the sudden desire to breathe the fresh morning air, and to free in the sunlight her soul cramped31 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 quiescent32, 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 unison33. It was a dangerous condition of being in which to face the situation which awaited him.
The sound of the opening shutter9 wakened him, fully34 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 garb35, of that tall lithe36 form; of those fine aquiline37 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 linen38, the morning light making a sort of nimbus round the opacity39 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 blessings43 of the Church in any of its differentiations—or of the Registrar44—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 anticipations45 of the contractors47 and blessors!
But Dame48 Nature has her own church and her own ritual. In her case the Blessing42 comes before the Service; and the Benediction49 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 stinting50 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 mere40 “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 boundless51, 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 Anarchy52 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. Inter53 arma silent leges is a maxim54 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 accomplished55 serenity56 the mightiest57 law is puny58; 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 reigns59 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 intensified61 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 paucity63 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 commingled64 as they held mouth to mouth. In such delirious65 rapture66—for these two ardent67 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 anticipation46; and which is to be looked back on for evermore as a time when the very heavens opened and the singing of the Angelic choir68 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 hips69 and gazed at him languorously70; 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 primitive71 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 scrupulous72 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 judgment73 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 remains74 neutral, an onlooker75, until he is called on for immediate76 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 microscopic77 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 accurately78 considered herself as already his wife. It was, therefore, with something like chagrin79 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 acquiesce80 in them; nay more that he did not press them on his own account—press them relentlessly81, 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 animate82 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 motive83 and purpose—she opposed it on her part. As the strictness of his embrace lessened84, 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 rumbling85 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 clatter86 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 suspense87, his heart beating wildly. He had a sort of presage88 of disaster which seemed in a way to paralyse him.
There were quick steps on the stairs. A voice said: “There” and the door rattled89. 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 pallid91 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 spoke92 he pointed93 towards the open door through which in the darkened room the bed with clothing in disarray94 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 braced62 himself to endure. Still, the Colonel’s question had to be answered. The onus95 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 vindication96. Almost sick at heart with apprehension97 he began:
“There has been no fault on Joy’s part!” The instant he had spoken, the look of bitter haughtiness98 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 detriment99 it will be quite time for a stranger to interfere100 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 fiery101 test. Come what might, he must be calm, or at least be master of himself; or else bitter woe102 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 lethal103 quarrel. More than once when a foe104 had been marked down for vengeance105 had he led him on to force the duel106 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 entails107 a keen anguish108 to himself. Perhaps the very air of the “dark and bloody109 ground” of Kentucky was so impregnated with the passions of those who made it so that the dwelling110 of some generations had imbued111 the dwellers112 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 pang113. 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 conciliation114. 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 monstrous115 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 arrogate116 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 suave117 and deferential118 that Colonel Ogilvie began to have an idea that he was a poltroon119; and in this belief the bully120 that was in him began to manifest itself. He spoke harshly, intending to convey this idea, though as he did so his heart smote121 him. Even as he spoke there rose before his bloodshot eyes the vision of a river shimmering122 with gold as the sunset fell on it, and projected against it the figure of a frightened woman tugging123 at the reins124 of a run-away mare125; whilst close behind her rode a valiant126 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 chasm127. In the pause Athlyne took the opportunity of hurriedly putting on his outer clothing.
But even that touching128 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 crooked129 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 undo130 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 cavil131. 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 implicitly132 on the dignity of the man before him, he allowed himself a further latitude133. He could afford, he felt, to be unrestrained in such a presence; and so proceeded to behave as though he was stark134, staring raving135 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 wrath136 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 malevolence137. 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 antagonist138 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 condemns140 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 submission141 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 irony142 with scorn:
“No sir! No law! Not any more appeal to law in my defence than there has been justice in your outrageous143 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 determined144 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 withheld145 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 atoned147 for in the only way by which an honourable148 man can atone146. … 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 condemn139 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 underlay149 all the dignity of the other. But he was in no way diverted by it from his purpose. His anger was in no way mitigated150; his intention of revenge lessened by no whit90. 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 evade151 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 zeal152 as is, or should be, attendant on the expression of a passion which he feels very deeply!” Even whilst he was speaking, his subconsciousness153 was struck by his own coolness. He marvelled154 that he could, synchronously155 with the fearful effort necessary to his self-control and with despair gnawing156 at his heart, speak with such cold blooded preciseness. As is usual in such psychical157 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 inflamed158 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 rue60 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 publicity159, 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 plight160 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 narration161 was dangerous, he went on quickly:
“I trust that you understand, Colonel Ogilvie, that this explanation in no way infringes162 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 ruffled163:
“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 accusation164 on your part—either to me or of me—of a charge of poltroonery165; 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 juxtaposition166 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 reluctance167, 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 scowl168 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 explicitly169 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 reassure170 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 acting41 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 chivalry171 of another, and his appreciation172 of it.
Athlyne could not but be glad of even so slight a relaxation173 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 unwilling174 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 fixed175 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 horrified176 himself.
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1
utterance
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| n.用言语表达，话语，言语 | |
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lodge
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| v.临时住宿，寄宿，寄存，容纳；n.传达室，小旅馆 | |
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density
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| n.密集，密度，浓度 | |
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4
nay
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| adv.不；n.反对票，投反对票者 | |
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induction
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| n.感应，感应现象 | |
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6
bliss
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| n.狂喜，福佑，天赐的福 | |
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7
computed
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| adj.[医]计算的，使用计算机的v.计算，估算( compute的过去式和过去分词 ) | |
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8
shutters
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| 百叶窗( shutter的名词复数 )； （照相机的）快门 | |
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shutter
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| n.百叶窗；(照相机)快门；关闭装置 | |
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10
myriad
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| adj.无数的；n.无数，极大数量 | |
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11
sentience
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| n.感觉性；感觉能力；知觉 | |
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12
partially
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| adv.部分地，从某些方面讲 | |
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13
unfamiliar
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| adj.陌生的，不熟悉的 | |
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14
inevitable
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| adj.不可避免的，必然发生的 | |
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15
realization
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| n.实现；认识到，深刻了解 | |
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16
languorous
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| adj.怠惰的，没精打采的 | |
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17
ecstasy
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| n.狂喜，心醉神怡，入迷 | |
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18
obedience
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| n.服从，顺从 | |
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19
strictly
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| adv.严厉地，严格地；严密地 | |
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20
reciprocated
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| v.报答，酬答( reciprocate的过去式和过去分词 )；（机器的部件）直线往复运动 | |
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21
tingling
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| v.有刺痛感( tingle的现在分词 ) | |
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22
miserable
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| adj.悲惨的，痛苦的；可怜的，糟糕的 | |
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23
inchoate
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| adj.才开始的，初期的 | |
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24
elusive
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| adj.难以表达(捉摸)的；令人困惑的；逃避的 | |
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25
merged
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| （使）混合( merge的过去式和过去分词 )； 相融； 融入； 渐渐消失在某物中 | |
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26
standing
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| n.持续，地位；adj.永久的，不动的，直立的，不流动的 | |
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27
instinctively
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| adv.本能地 | |
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28
instinctive
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| adj.(出于)本能的；直觉的；(出于)天性的 | |
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29
awakened
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| v.（使）醒( awaken的过去式和过去分词 )；（使）觉醒；弄醒；（使）意识到 | |
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30
entirely
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| ad.全部地，完整地；完全地，彻底地 | |
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31
cramped
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| a.狭窄的 | |
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32
quiescent
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| adj.静止的，不活动的，寂静的 | |
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33
unison
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| n.步调一致，行动一致 | |
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34
fully
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| adv.完全地，全部地，彻底地；充分地 | |
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35
garb
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| n.服装，装束 | |
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36
lithe
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| adj.(指人、身体)柔软的，易弯的 | |
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37
aquiline
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| adj.钩状的，鹰的 | |
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38
linen
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| n.亚麻布，亚麻线，亚麻制品；adj.亚麻布制的，亚麻的 | |
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39
opacity
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| n.不透明；难懂 | |
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40
mere
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| adj.纯粹的；仅仅，只不过 | |
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41
acting
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| n.演戏，行为，假装；adj.代理的，临时的，演出用的 | |
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42
blessing
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| n.祈神赐福；祷告；祝福，祝愿 | |
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43
blessings
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| n.（上帝的）祝福( blessing的名词复数 )；好事；福分；因祸得福 | |
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44
registrar
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| n.记录员，登记员；(大学的)注册主任 | |
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45
anticipations
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| 预期( anticipation的名词复数 )； 预测； （信托财产收益的）预支； 预期的事物 | |
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46
anticipation
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| n.预期，预料，期望 | |
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47
contractors
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| n.（建筑、监造中的）承包人( contractor的名词复数 ) | |
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48
dame
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| n.女士 | |
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49
benediction
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| n.祝福；恩赐 | |
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50
stinting
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| v.限制，节省（stint的现在分词形式） | |
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51
boundless
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| adj.无限的；无边无际的；巨大的 | |
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52
anarchy
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| n.无政府状态；社会秩序混乱，无秩序 | |
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53
inter
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| v.埋葬 | |
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54
maxim
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| n.格言，箴言 | |
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55
accomplished
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| adj.有才艺的；有造诣的；达到了的 | |
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56
serenity
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| n.宁静，沉着，晴朗 | |
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57
mightiest
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| adj.趾高气扬( mighty的最高级 )；巨大的；强有力的；浩瀚的 | |
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58
puny
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| adj.微不足道的，弱小的 | |
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59
reigns
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| n.君主的统治( reign的名词复数 )；君主统治时期；任期；当政期 | |
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60
rue
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| n.懊悔，芸香，后悔；v.后悔，悲伤，懊悔 | |
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61
intensified
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| v.（使）增强， （使）加剧( intensify的过去式和过去分词 ) | |
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62
braced
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| adj.拉牢的v.支住( brace的过去式和过去分词 )；撑牢；使自己站稳；振作起来 | |
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63
paucity
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| n.小量，缺乏 | |
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64
commingled
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| v.混合，掺和，合并( commingle的过去式和过去分词 ) | |
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65
delirious
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| adj.不省人事的，神智昏迷的 | |
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66
rapture
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| n.狂喜；全神贯注；着迷；v.使狂喜 | |
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67
ardent
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| adj.热情的，热烈的，强烈的，烈性的 | |
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68
choir
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| n.唱诗班，唱诗班的席位，合唱团，舞蹈团；v.合唱 | |
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69
hips
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| abbr.high impact polystyrene 高冲击强度聚苯乙烯，耐冲性聚苯乙烯n.臀部( hip的名词复数 )；[建筑学]屋脊；臀围（尺寸）；臀部…的 | |
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70
languorously
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| adv.疲倦地，郁闷地 | |
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71
primitive
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| adj.原始的；简单的；n.原(始)人，原始事物 | |
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72
scrupulous
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| adj.审慎的，小心翼翼的，完全的，纯粹的 | |
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73
judgment
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| n.审判；判断力，识别力，看法，意见 | |
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74
remains
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| n.剩余物，残留物；遗体，遗迹 | |
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75
onlooker
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| n.旁观者，观众 | |
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76
immediate
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| adj.立即的；直接的，最接近的；紧靠的 | |
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77
microscopic
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| adj.微小的，细微的，极小的，显微的 | |
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78
accurately
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| adv.准确地，精确地 | |
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79
chagrin
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| n.懊恼；气愤；委屈 | |
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80
acquiesce
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| vi.默许，顺从，同意 | |
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81
relentlessly
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| adv.不屈不挠地；残酷地；不间断 | |
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82
animate
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| v.赋于生命，鼓励；adj.有生命的，有生气的 | |
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83
motive
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| n.动机，目的；adv.发动的，运动的 | |
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84
lessened
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| 减少的，减弱的 | |
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85
rumbling
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| n. 隆隆声, 辘辘声 adj. 隆隆响的 动词rumble的现在分词 | |
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86
clatter
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| v./n.(使)发出连续而清脆的撞击声 | |
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87
suspense
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| n.（对可能发生的事）紧张感，担心，挂虑 | |
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88
presage
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| n.预感，不祥感；v.预示 | |
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89
rattled
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| 慌乱的，恼火的 | |
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90
whit
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| n.一点，丝毫 | |
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91
pallid
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| adj.苍白的，呆板的 | |
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92
spoke
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| n.（车轮的）辐条；轮辐；破坏某人的计划；阻挠某人的行动 v.讲，谈（speak的过去式）；说；演说；从某种观点来说 | |
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93
pointed
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| adj.尖的，直截了当的 | |
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94
disarray
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| n.混乱，紊乱，凌乱 | |
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95
onus
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| n.负担；责任 | |
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96
vindication
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| n.洗冤，证实 | |
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97
apprehension
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| n.理解，领悟；逮捕，拘捕；忧虑 | |
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98
haughtiness
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| n.傲慢；傲气 | |
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99
detriment
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| n.损害；损害物，造成损害的根源 | |
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100
interfere
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| v.(in)干涉，干预；(with)妨碍，打扰 | |
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101
fiery
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| adj.燃烧着的，火红的；暴躁的；激烈的 | |
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102
woe
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| n.悲哀，苦痛，不幸，困难；int.用来表达悲伤或惊慌 | |
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103
lethal
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| adj.致死的；毁灭性的 | |
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104
foe
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| n.敌人，仇敌 | |
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105
vengeance
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| n.报复，报仇，复仇 | |
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106
duel
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| n./v.决斗；(双方的)斗争 | |
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107
entails
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| 使…成为必要( entail的第三人称单数 )； 需要； 限定继承； 使必需 | |
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108
anguish
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| n.(尤指心灵上的)极度痛苦，烦恼 | |
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109
bloody
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| adj.非常的的；流血的；残忍的；adv.很；vt.血染 | |
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110
dwelling
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| n.住宅，住所，寓所 | |
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111
imbued
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| v.使（某人/某事）充满或激起（感情等）( imbue的过去式和过去分词 )；使充满；灌输；激发（强烈感情或品质等） | |
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112
dwellers
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| n.居民，居住者( dweller的名词复数 ) | |
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113
pang
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| n.剧痛，悲痛，苦闷 | |
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114
conciliation
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| n.调解，调停 | |
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115
monstrous
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| adj.巨大的；恐怖的；可耻的，丢脸的 | |
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arrogate
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| v.冒称具有...权利，霸占 | |
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117
suave
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| adj.温和的；柔和的；文雅的 | |
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118
deferential
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| adj. 敬意的，恭敬的 | |
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119
poltroon
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| n.胆怯者；懦夫 | |
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bully
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| n.恃强欺弱者，小流氓；vt.威胁，欺侮 | |
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121
smote
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| v.猛打，重击，打击( smite的过去式 ) | |
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shimmering
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| v.闪闪发光，发微光( shimmer的现在分词 ) | |
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123
tugging
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| n.牵引感v.用力拉，使劲拉，猛扯( tug的现在分词 ) | |
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reins
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| 感情，激情； 缰( rein的名词复数 )； 控制手段； 掌管； （成人带着幼儿走路以防其走失时用的）保护带 | |
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mare
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| n.母马，母驴 | |
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valiant
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| adj.勇敢的，英勇的；n.勇士，勇敢的人 | |
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chasm
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| n.深坑，断层，裂口，大分岐，利害冲突 | |
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touching
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| adj.动人的，使人感伤的 | |
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129
crooked
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| adj.弯曲的；不诚实的，狡猾的，不正当的 | |
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undo
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| vt.解开，松开；取消，撤销 | |
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cavil
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| v.挑毛病，吹毛求疵 | |
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implicitly
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| adv. 含蓄地, 暗中地, 毫不保留地 | |
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latitude
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| n.纬度，行动或言论的自由(范围)，(pl.)地区 | |
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134
stark
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| adj.荒凉的；严酷的；完全的；adv.完全地 | |
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raving
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| adj.说胡话的；疯狂的，怒吼的；非常漂亮的；令人醉心[痴心]的v.胡言乱语(rave的现在分词)n.胡话；疯话adv.胡言乱语地；疯狂地 | |
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136
wrath
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| n.愤怒，愤慨，暴怒 | |
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malevolence
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| n.恶意，狠毒 | |
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138
antagonist
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| n.敌人，对抗者，对手 | |
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139
condemn
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| vt.谴责，指责；宣判(罪犯)，判刑 | |
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condemns
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| v.（通常因道义上的原因而）谴责( condemn的第三人称单数 )；宣判；宣布…不能使用；迫使…陷于不幸的境地 | |
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141
submission
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| n.服从，投降；温顺，谦虚；提出 | |
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irony
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| n.反语，冷嘲；具有讽刺意味的事，嘲弄 | |
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outrageous
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| adj.无理的，令人不能容忍的 | |
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determined
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| adj.坚定的；有决心的 | |
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145
withheld
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| withhold过去式及过去分词 | |
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atone
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| v.赎罪，补偿 | |
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atoned
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| v.补偿，赎（罪）( atone的过去式和过去分词 )；补偿，弥补，赎回 | |
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honourable
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| adj.可敬的；荣誉的，光荣的 | |
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underlay
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| v.位于或存在于（某物）之下( underlie的过去式 )；构成…的基础（或起因），引起n.衬垫物 | |
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mitigated
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| v.减轻，缓和( mitigate的过去式和过去分词 ) | |
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evade
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| vt.逃避，回避；避开，躲避 | |
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zeal
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| n.热心，热情，热忱 | |
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153
subconsciousness
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| 潜意识；下意识 | |
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marvelled
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| v.惊奇，对…感到惊奇( marvel的过去式和过去分词 ) | |
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synchronously
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| ad.同时地 | |
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156
gnawing
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| a.痛苦的，折磨人的 | |
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psychical
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| adj.有关特异功能现象的；有关特异功能官能的；灵魂的；心灵的 | |
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inflamed
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| adj.发炎的，红肿的v.（使）变红，发怒，过热( inflame的过去式和过去分词 ) | |
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publicity
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| n.众所周知，闻名；宣传，广告 | |
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160
plight
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| n.困境，境况，誓约，艰难；vt.宣誓，保证，约定 | |
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narration
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| n.讲述，叙述；故事；记叙体 | |
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162
infringes
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| v.违反（规章等）( infringe的第三人称单数 )；侵犯（某人的权利）；侵害（某人的自由、权益等） | |
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ruffled
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| adj. 有褶饰边的, 起皱的 动词ruffle的过去式和过去分词 | |
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164
accusation
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| n.控告，指责，谴责 | |
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165
poltroonery
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| n.怯懦，胆小 | |
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166
juxtaposition
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| n.毗邻，并置，并列 | |
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167
reluctance
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| n.厌恶，讨厌，勉强，不情愿 | |
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168
scowl
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| vi.(at)生气地皱眉，沉下脸，怒视；n.怒容 | |
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169
explicitly
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| ad.明确地，显然地 | |
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170
reassure
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| v.使放心，使消除疑虑 | |
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171
chivalry
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| n.骑士气概，侠义；（男人）对女人彬彬有礼，献殷勤 | |
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172
appreciation
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| n.评价；欣赏；感谢；领会，理解；价格上涨 | |
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173
relaxation
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| n.松弛，放松；休息；消遣；娱乐 | |
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174
unwilling
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| adj.不情愿的 | |
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175
fixed
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| adj.固定的，不变的，准备好的；(计算机)固定的 | |
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176
horrified
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| a.(表现出)恐惧的 | |
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