Complete Works of Bram Stoker

by Bram Stoker

  Colonel Ogilvie was in that state of mind following a high pressure, which is a masculine reaction. He was very hard to please about anything. His wife always thought of this nervous and intellectual condition as “one of Lucius’s humours,” to others she said “the Colonel is worried about something.” Judy called it: “one of his tantrums.” This however did not affect his manner, outwardly. At such times he was perhaps even more precise than usual in his observance of the little etiquettes and courtesies of social life. It had perhaps been unfortunate that his household was exclusively female, for want of opposition rather encouraged the tendency. In his club or amongst men such irritation or ill feeling as he had found more outward expression; and the need to keep himself so that standard of personal hearing which his own self esteem had set, perpetually recalled him to himself. But at home, this, though it would not have been possible for a stranger to find fault with any part of his manner or bearing, still kept the rest of the family in a sort of hushed self-surrender. Even Judy the daring kept her natural exuberance in control at such times and was content to rest in unnoticed quiet. Joy knew well the storm signals and effaced herself as far as possible; she loved her father too well and respected him too much to do or say anything which might cause him disquiet or tend to lower him in his own eyes.

  Judy on this as on other occasions maintained a strictly neutral position. But her wits were keener and her eyes more observant even than usual on that very account. She did not know the cause of her brother-in-law’s disturbance, but she understood it all the same. Few things there are which lead so directly to the elucidation of truth as a clever, unselfish woman on the watch.

  Silence rather than speech was the order of the day, and the talking, such as it was, began with Colonel Ogilvie. Men when they are carrying out a settled intention or policy can be more silent than women; their nerves are stronger and their nature more fixed. But in the casual matters of life they are children in the hands of women. Here were three women, all of them clever, all of them attached to the man and all respecting him; but they had only to remain neutral, each in her individual way, and let him overcome the vis inertia as well as he could. He could not but be aware that the subject of the guest of last evening had been tacitly avoided. He had been conscious of such in his own case, and with the egotism which was so marked a part of his own character he took it for granted that the avoidance was with the others due to the same cause as with himself. It was therefore with something like complacency — if such a thing could be synchronous with irritability, even if one of the two be in a latent condition — that he began on the deferred subject; “I am afraid that our guest last night did not enjoy himself!” There was silence for a few seconds. Then each of the three listeners, feeling that some remark must be made by some one, spoke suddenly and simultaneously:

  “Why, Lucius, what do you mean?”

  “You surprise me, Colonel!”

  “Is that so, Daddy!”

  He waited deliberately before saying more; he had been thinking over the subject and knew what he wanted to say. Then he spoke with an air of settled conviction:

  “Yes, my dear!” He spoke to Joy alone, and thus, to all three, unconsciously gave away his purpose. I thought at the time, and to-day, whenever I have considered the matter, the conviction has increased.” Mrs. Ogilvie, seeing on her daughter’s face a certain hardening of the muscles, took it for granted that it was some form of chagrin; in a protective spirit she tried to make that matter right:

  “My dear Lucius, I really cannot see how you arrive at such a conclusion. It seemed to me that the young man was in rather an exalted condition of happiness. I could not help noticing the way he kept looking at Joy. And indeed no wonder after the gallant way he had saved her life.” She added the last sentence as a subtle way of reminding her husband that they were all under obligation to the young gentleman. Moreover there was in her heart as a mother — and all mothers are the same in this respect — that feeling of pride in her daughter which demands that all men shall be attracted by her charms. No matter how detrimental a man may be, nor how determined she is that his suit shall not be finally successful, a mother considers it the duty of the young man to love her daughter and desire her.

  Joy somehow felt humiliated. It was not merely that she should be the centre of such a discussion — for, after all, it was through rescuing her that he was there at all; but she was hurt and disappointed that this particular man should be discussed in any way. She had seen no fault in him; nothing to discuss in his conduct or his bearing or his words or his person. She herself had admired him immensely. He was somehow different from all the other men she had ever seen... Then pride came to her rescue. Not pride for herself, but for him. In her heart he was her man, and she had to protect his honour; and she would do so, if necessary. This idea at once schooled her to restraint, and steeled her to endure. With an unconscious shrug she remained silent.

  But Judy’s keen eyes had been on her, and both her natural sympathy and the experience of her own heart allowed her to interpret pretty well. She saw that for Joy’s sake — either now or hereafter — some opposition to the Colonel’s idea was necessary. She had noticed the settled look — it had not yet become a frown — which came over his face when his wife spoke of his looking at Joy. In just such moments and on subjects as this it is that a father’s and a mother’s ideas join issue. Whilst the mother expects the singling out of the daughter for devotion, the father’s first impulse is to resent it Colonel Ogilvie’s resentment had all his life been habitually expressed with force and rapidity; even in a tender matter of this kind the habit unconsciously worked.

  “All the more reason, Sarah, for his being candid about himself. For my own part I can understand one attitude or the other, but certainly not both at once!”

  Joy began to get seriously alarmed. The mere use of her mother’s formal name was a danger-signal of rare use. By its light she could realise that her father had what he considered in his own mind to be a real cause of complaint. She did not like to speak herself; she feared that just at present it might complicate matters. So she looked over appealing at Judy, who understood and spoke:

  “What two attitudes? I’m afraid I for one, don’t understand. You are talking in riddles to-night!” She spoke in a gay debonair manner so like her usual self that her brother-in-law was unsuspicious of any underlying intent of opposition. This was just the opportunity for which he was waiting. With a sardonic smile he went on, singling out Joy, as before:

  ‘Your mother, my dear, has told us one of them. Perhaps the young man did look at you. There’s little wonder in that. Were I a young man and a stranger I should look at you myself; and I would also have looked at any other man who dared to look at you too. If this is a man’s attitude he should be more genial — more explicit-more open — less constrained to her relatives. That my dear Judy,” — he turned to her as he spoke “is the other attitude.” Mrs. Ogilvie answered — the conversation to-night was decidedly oblique:

  “Really, Colonel, I can’t agree with you. For my own part I thought his attitude towards her relatives was all that was courteous and respectful. Certainly to her mother!” She bridled, and Joy grew more serious. Her mother calling her husband “Colonel” was another danger signal; and she knew that if once her father and mother got to loggerheads over him — ”him” was her way of thinking of Mr. Hardy — it might keep him away from her. She summoned up her courage and said with all the affectionate raillery which was usually so effective with her father “Daddy dear do you remember Aesop’s fable about the Boy and the Frogs?” “I suppose I ought to, little girl; but I’m afraid I have forgotten. What was it about5”

  “The Boys were throwing stones at the Frogs, and when the Frogs remonstrated the Boys said they were doing it for fun. So the Frogs answered: It may be fun to you but it is death to us!’” Colonel Ogilvie puckered up his eyebrows:

  “I remember, now, my dear; but for the life of me don’t see its ap
plication here.” Joy said with a preternatural demureness:

  “It means Daddy, that you are the Boy and I am the Frog!” Her father’s gravity became intensified:

  “That does not help me much, daughter!”

  “Well, you see, Daddy, here are you and mother commenting on how a man looked at me — and — so forth. But you don’t take into consideration the sensitiveness of a woman’s heart — let alone her vanity. I think you’ve forgotten that I am not now ‘merely a child emerging into womanhood’ — don’t you remember on the Cryptic — but a staid woman to whose waning attractions everything relating to a man is sacred. One who looks on man, her possible rescuer from the terrors of old maidhood with the desperation of accomplished years.” As she had spoken unthinkingly the word “rescuer” a hot tide of blood had rushed to her face, but she went bravely on to the end of her sentence. There was not one of the three who did not understand the meaning. Her mother and aunt were concerned at the self-betrayal. Her father’s face grew fixed, now to sternness. With a faint heart Joy felt that she had made a terrible mistake, and inwardly condemned herself for its foolishness. Colonel Ogilvie now went on with grave deliberateness, he was determined that there should be no error regarding his disapprobation. All the time he was inwardly fuming against Mr. Hardy whom he held responsible:

  “As I was saying, that fellow’s attitude, as it appeared to me, was wanting in both openness and that confidence which underlies respect.” Here Joy quivered. Judy, watching her, noticed it and for a moment was scared. But the girl at once forced herself into calm, and Judy’s anxiety quite disappeared. She knew that Joy was now quite master of herself, and would remain so. The Colonel, accepting the dejected silence as a request to continue, went on:

  “Of course there is no need for me to say that he is a very gallant fellow and a superb horseman, and that his manners are those of a polished gentleman.

  Nor, further still, that I and mine are under a deep debt of gratitude to him. But there are some things which a man can do, or what is worse which he can leave undone, that show distrust.”

  “What things, for instance?” It was Judy who asked the question falteringly; but it was to Joy that the answer was directed:

  “Well, my dear, I shall illustrate. When I, wishing to show that we all took an interest in him and his surroundings, mentioned Airlville and spoke of clubs and such matters he did not proffer me any information. Still, thinking that his reserve might be that usually attributed to the stand-off-ness of the English as often accepted here — that it was due to habit rather than intent — I asked him where he lived in London. He wrote an address on one of his cards — which by the way has no address graven on it — and handed it to me, saying: That is only a lodging. I have not got a house yet.’ Then I asked what clubs he belonged to; and he simply said ‘Several’ and began to ask me questions about what sport we usually have in Kentucky. Now my dear, I am not usually inquisitive; and as this man was my guest I could not proceed in face of such a — a snub.” He winced at the word. “But as I was really anxious that we should see more of one who rendered us so signal a service, I expressed a hope that when we were in England in the summer we might have pleasure of seeing him. I am bound to say that he reciprocated the wish very eagerly. He asked me a host of questions as to our plans; and I told him what we had arranged about the Lake Country and the Border of which we have such traditions in our family. He certainly has a very winning way with him, and I quite forgot at the time want of trust about his residence and his clubs!”

  “Perhaps he may have no home; he may be a poor man,” suggested Aunt Judy. The Colonel answered her, this time directly:

  “He may not be a rich man, but he is certainly not a poor one. You and I” this to Joy “saw him pay three thousand for that horse. And he is free with his money in other ways. That police sergeant who was with me this morning — and who, my dear, asked me to convey his gratitude to you; I gave it for you — told me that the gentleman had given him on the Viaduct a hundred dollars for himself, and then another hundred for the officer who was run down.”

  “How generous” said Judy. Joy said nothing; but she leaned forward, gladness in her eyes. There is some chord in a woman’s heart which sounds to any touch of generosity or even of liberality. It is some survival of conditions of primitive life, and a permanent female attribute. Judy, anxious to propitiate her brother-in-law, and to preserve the absent man’s character, said as though it were the conclusion of some process of reasoning:

  “He must be some important person who is here on private business.” Ogilvie smiled genially:

  “Our dear Judy will find a romance in everything — even in a man’s distrust!” Judy, somewhat nettled, felt like defending her own position. This had nothing to do with Joy so she felt she could argue freely about it:

  “It needn’t be a romance, Lucius, only fact!”

  “My dear Judy, I don’t see why a man should give so extravagantly merely because he is on private business. Why, it is the very way to attract attention.” Judy was made more obstinate by the apparent appositeness of the remark and by the tolerant tone of the speaker.

  “I don’t mean that he gives because he is on private business, surely you know that; but that he may be an important man who gives handsomely as a habit. He may be keeping his identity concealed.”

  “How do you mean exactly. How keep his identity concealed? He never told me; and he has been my guest!” Colonel Ogilvie had a puzzled look on his face.

  “Well, for instance by taking another name for the occasion. Perhaps — ” Here she caught sight of the look of positive horror on Joy’s face and stopped short. Joy had seen in what direction the conversation was drifting, but was afraid to interfere lest she should bring on the very catastrophe which she dreaded. She had never forgotten her father’s expressions regarding an alias; and she had reason to fear that should his suspicions be in any way directed towards the new friend whose accidental acquaintanceship already promised so much, some evil or hindrance must ensue. But her hypothetical concern was lost in a real one. As Judy spoke, the Colonel started to his feet, his manner full of suppressed fury. He was bristling all over, preliminary of his most dangerous mood.

  Joy rose to the occasion. It was now or never. It was apparent that her father had taken that form of offense which is generally expressed in idiom or slang. Cornishmen call it a “scunner,” Cockneys “the hump,” Irishman “an edge,” Americans “shirty.” It is a condition antecedent to active offence; a habitat of the germ of misunderstanding; a searchlight for cause of quarrel. Joy felt cold, into the very marrow of her bones; well she knew that her father would never forgive any such offence to him as was implied in an assumed name. His remarks on the subject flamed before her like fiery handwriting on the walls of her memory. Moreover Judy’s incautious remark had but echoed her own thought. All day she had been dreaming of this man who had plunged so gallantly into her life. Naturally enough to a young woman, she had been weaving romances in various forms round that very identity which, even to her, had been unexpressed if not hidden. Naturally her dreams had in them some element of concealment; romances always have. She had in her secret heart taken it for granted that this man must be distinguished — how could he be otherwise; and now her father’s suspicion might result in some breach which might result in her never seeing him again... It was a possible tragedy! To her, grim and real from her knowledge of her own heart; and none the less a real tragedy or less potent because its bounds were lost in the vagueness of mist and fear... She was pale and inwardly trembling but, all the same, her light laugh rang true; she was desperate and fighting for her man, and so was strung up to nature’s pitch:

  “Why, Daddy, if you’re going to kill anyone it will have to be dear Aunt Judy. She’s the one who has made the alias. The poor man himself — who by the way is not here to answer for himself and explain — hasn’t done any conceivable thing wrong that we know of — even you Daddy know that; except not
having a house and not bragging of his clubs!”

  This seemed to strike her father; it touched him on the point of justice. The lightness of his daughter’s laugh reassured him.

  ‘True!” he said. “That is quite true. I was too hasty. And he saved my little girl’s life!” He rose from the table and putting his arm round her shoulders kissed her. Then they went into the drawing-room.

  Joy bore up bravely for the rest of the evening. But when she was in bed and assured that she was alone, the reaction came. She was as cold as a stone and trembled all over. Putting her face down into her pillow she pulled the sheet over her head and wept her very heart out.

  “Oh what it might have been if all went well. But what might be if Daddy took some queer idea... and quarrelled...!”

  CHAPTER 8

  “LOOK AT ME!”

  When on Tuesday afternoon “Mr. Hardy” visited at the Holland House he found only the single ladies at home. Colonel Ogilvie had gone out in the morning to see after several matters of business, both in connection with Air and relating to the forthcoming visit to Europe. He had said he would probably not be back till dinner time. Mrs. Ogilvie had gone out after lunch for a drive and would pay some visits before returning home. Joy pleaded headache as an excuse for remaining at home. Indeed her excuse was quite real; no one can pass so melancholy a part of a night as she had done without suffering the next morning. As the day wore on, however, the headache insensibly departed; something else had taken its place. Joy would not admit to herself what that something was; but that afternoon she took unusual pains with her toilet. Judy noticed it with her usual acute observation, understood it with her understanding sympathy; with her wonted discretion she remained silent. She felt, and righty, that the time had not yet come when she could either be serious with Joy or jest with her on the subject nearest to her heart. One thing she did which can never be out of place, especially when it is true: she showed pleasure in her niece’s looks, taking care, however to put her own reason for it on a non-offensive basis.