athlyne had one other day almost similar to the last. this time he came to ambleside a little earlier; fortunately so, for joy had got up early. when he came into the square she was standing in the window looking out. not in his direction; did a woman ever do such a stupid thing when at the first glance she had caught sight of the man far off. no, this time she appeared to be eagerly watching two tiny children toddling along the street hand in hand. he had time for a good look at her before she changed her position. this was only when the children had disappeared—and he had gained the shelter of the lilacs.

love is a blindness—in certain ways. it never once occurred to athlyne that joy might have seen him, might have even known of his being at ambleside or in its neighbourhood. any independent onlooker or any one not bound by the simplicity and unquestioning faith of ardent love would at least have doubted whether there was not some possible intention in joy’s movements. his faith however saved him from pain, that one pain from which true love can suffer however baseless it may be—doubt. early morning took him to ambleside; he only went back to bowness when those windows of the hotel which he knew were darkened for the night.

the second day of waiting and watching was just like the first, with only the addition that the hearts of both the young people were more clamant, each to each; and that the rising passion of each was harder to control. the same routine of going out and returning was observed by the ogilvies, and each of the lovers had tumultuous moments when the other was within view. more than once athlyne was tempted to put his letter in the post or to leave it at the hotel; but each time joy’s chance phrase: “if i ever fall in love” came back to him as a grim warning. he knew that if he once declared himself to colonel ogilvie the whole truth must come out, and then his title and fortune might be extraneous inducements to the girl. whenever he came to this point in his reasoning he thrust the letter deeper into his pocket and his lips shut tight. he would win joy on his mere manhood and his manhood’s love—if at all!

by the post next morning colonel ogilvie and joy both got letters from italy. that of the former was from his wife who announced that they were just starting for london where they wished to remain for a few days in order to do some shopping. when this was done she would wire him and he could run up to london and bring them down with him. this pleased him, for he was certain that by then he would have his automobile. he felt in a way that his pride was at stake on this point. he had told his women folk that the car would be ready, and he wished to justify. he wired off at once to the agents, in even a sterner spirit than usual, as to the cause of delay. for excuses had come in a most exasperating way. long after it had been reported that the car had started and had even proceeded a considerable distance on the way he was told that there had been an error and that by some strange mistake the progress made by a car long previously ordered by another customer had been reported; but that colonel ogilvie’s esteemed order was well in hand and that delivery of the car was daily—hourly—expected; and that at once on its receipt by the writer it would be forwarded to ambleside either with a trusty chauffeur or by train as the purchaser might wish. colonel ogilvie fumed but was powerless. he wanted the car and at once; so it was useless for him to cancel the contract. he could only wait and hope; and console himself with such attenuated expressions of disapproval as were permissible in the ethics of the telegraphic system.

joy’s letter was from judy. it was in her usual bright style and full of affection, sympathy and understanding, as was customary in her letters to her niece. judy had of late been much disturbed in her mind about the future, and as she feared joy might be taking to heart the same matters as she did and in the same way, she tried to help the other. she knew from colonel ogilvie’s letters to his wife which they talked over together that he was seriously hurt and pained by the neglect of mr. hardy. indeed in his last letter he had declared that in spite of the high opinion he had formed of him from his brave and ready action he never wished to see his face again. to judy this meant much, the most that could be of possible ill; joy’s happiness might be at stake. the aunt, steeped through and through with knowledge of the world and character—a knowledge gained from her own heart, its hopes and pains and from bitter experience of the woes of others—knew that her niece would suffer deeply in case of any rupture between her father and the man who had saved her life. it was not merely from imaginative sympathy that she derived her belief. she had had many and favourable opportunities of studying joy closely, and she had in her own mind no doubt whatever that the girl’s affections were given beyond recall to the handsome stranger. so in her letter she tried to guard her from the pain of present imaginings and yet to prepare her subtly for the possibility of disappointment in the future. her letter in its important part ran:

“your father is undoubtedly very angry with mr. hardy; and though i believe that his anger may have a slight basis it is altogether excessive. we do not know yet what mr. hardy’s limitations of freedom may be. after all, darling, we do not know anything as yet of his circumstances or his surroundings. he may have a thousand calls on his time which we neither know nor understand. for all we can tell he may have a wife already—though this i do not believe or accept for a moment. and you don’t either, my dear! of course this is all a joke. we know he is free as to marriage, though i don’t believe his heart is—eh! puss! but seriously if you ever get a chance tell him to try to be very nice to your father. old men are often more sensitive in some things that young ones, more sensitive than even we women are supposed to be. so when he does come to see you both—for he will come soon (if he hasn’t come already)—don’t keep him all to yourself, but contrive somehow that your father can have a little chat with him. you needn’t go altogether away you know, my dear. don’t sit so far away that he can’t see you nor you him (this is a whisper expressed in writing) and i dare say you will like to hear all they say to each other. but if he says a word about seeing your daddy alone for a moment, if he begins to look ill at ease or to get red and then pale and red again, or stammers and clears his throat do you just get up quietly and go out of the room without a word in the most natural way in the world, just as if you were doing some little household duty. i suppose i needn’t tell you this; you know it just as well as i do, though i have known it by experience and you can not. you know how i know it darling though i never told you this part of it. women are cowards. we know it though we don’t always say so, and we even disguise it from others now and then. but in such a time as i have mentioned we are all cowards. we couldn’t stay if we would. we want to get away and hide our heads just as we do when it thunders. but what an awful lot of rot i am talking. when mr. hardy and your father meet they will, i am sure, have plenty to talk about without either you or me being the subject of it. they are both sportsmen and fond of horses—and a lot of things. it is only if they don’t meet that i am afraid of. i am writing by the way to mr. hardy this post to know where he is at present and where he has been. i shall of course write you when i hear; or if there be anything important i shall wire. we are off to london and it is possible that whilst we are there we may have unexpected meetings with all sorts of friends and calls from them. i hope, darling, that by the time we reach ambleside we shall find you blooming, full of happiness and health and freshness, the very embodiment of your name.”

the letter both disquieted joy and soothed her. there were suggestions of fear, but there was also a consistent strain of hope. judy would never have said such things if she did not believe them. moreover she herself knew what judy did not; her aunt hadn’t peeped from behind window blinds at a tall figure behind lilac bushes or sitting in the darkness with only a fiery cigar tip to mark his presence. poor judy! the girl’s sympathetic heart, made more sympathetic by her own burning love, ached when she thought of the older woman’s lonely, barren life. she too had loved—and been loved; had hoped and feared, and waited. the very knowledge of how a woman would feel when the man was asking formally for parental sanction disclosed something of which the girl had never thought. she had always known judy in such a motherly and elderly aspect that she had never realised the possibility of her having ever been in love; any more that she had given consideration to the love-making of her own mother. now she was surprised to find that she too had been young, had loved, and had pleasures and heart-pains of her own. this set her thinking. the process of thought was silent, but its conclusion found outward expression; the girl understood now. the secret of her life—the true secret was unveiled at last:

“poor aunt judy. oh, poor aunt judy!”

athlyne’s letter reached him a day later, having been sent on from london. it was a fairly bulky one, with a good many sheets of foreign post, written hastily in a large bold hand.

“my dear friend:

i have been, and am, much concerned about you. i gather from his letters that colonel ogilvie has been much disappointed at not having heard from you. and i want, if you will allow me to take the liberty, to speak to you seriously about it. you will give me this privilege i know—if only for the fact that i am an old maid; for the same powers that made me an old maid have made me an old woman, and such is entitled, i take it, to forbearance, if not to respect. you should—you really should be more considerate towards colonel ogilvie. he is an old man—much older than you perhaps think, for he bears himself as proudly as in his younger days. but the claim on you is not merely from his years; that claim must appeal to all. from you there is one more imperative still, one which is personal and paramount: he is under so very deep an obligation to you. a matter which from another would pass unconsidered as an act of thoughtfulness must now, when it is due to you, seem to him like a studied affront. i put it this way because i know you are a man of noble nature, and that generosity is to such even a stronger urge than duty—if such a thing be possible. in certain matters he is sensitive beyond belief. even to a degree marked in a place where men still hold that their lives rest behind every word and deed, every thought or neglect towards another. i have some hesitation in mentioning this lest you should think i am summoning fear to the side of duty. but you are above such a misunderstanding, i am sure. oh my dear friend do think of some of the rest of us. you have saved the life of our darling joy—the one creature in whom all our loves are centred. naturally we all want to see you again—to make much of you—to show you in our own poor way how deeply we hold you in our hearts. but if colonel ogilvie thinks himself insulted—that is how he regards any neglect however trivial—he acts on that belief, and there is no possible holding him back. he looks on it as a sacred duty to avenge affront. you must not blame him for it. in your peaceful english life you have i think no parallel to the ungovernable waves of passion that rage in the hearts of kentuckians when they consider their honour is touched. ah! we poor women know it who have to suffer in silence and wait and wait, and wait; and when the worst is made known to us, to seal up the founts of our grief and pretend that we too agree with the avenging of wrong. for it is our life to be silent in men’s quarrels. we are not given a part—any part. we are not supposed to even look on. it is another world from ours, and we have to accept it so. please god may you never know what it is to be in or on the fringe of a feud. well i know its dread, its horror! my own life that years ago was as bright and promising as any young life can be; when the love that had dawned on my girlhood rose and beat with noonday heat on my young-womanhood made it seem as if heaven had come down to earth. and then the one moment of misunderstanding—the quick accusation—the quicker retort—and my poor heart lying crushed between the bodies of two men whom i loved each in his proper way… think of what i say, if only on account of what i have suffered.

“forgive me! but my anxiety lest any such blight should come across a young life that i love far far beyond my own is heavy on me. i have lost myself in sad thoughts of a bitter past… indeed you must take it that my earnestness in this matter is shown in the lurid light of that past. i have been silent on it always. never since the black cloud burst over me have i said a word to a soul—not to my sister—nor to joy whom i adore and whose questioning to me of my ‘love affair’—as they still call it when they speak of it—is so sweet a tightening bond between us. i have only said to her: ‘and then he died,’ and my heart has seemed to stop beating. be patient with me and don’t blame me. you are a man and can be tolerant. think not of me or any gloom of my life but only that makes me sadly, grimly, terribly in earnest when i see similar elements of tragedy drawing close to each other before my eyes. you may be inclined to laugh at me—though i know you will not—and to put down my thinking of possible great quarrels arising from such small causes as ‘an old maid’s’ fears. but when i have known the awful effect of a mere passing word, misunderstood to such disastrous result, no wonder that i have fears. it is due to that very cause that my fears are those of an old maid. i suppose i need not ask you to be sure to keep all this locked in your own breast. it is my secret; i have shared it with you because i deem such necessary for the happiness of—of others. i have kept it so close that not even those nearest and dearest to me have even suspected it. the rowdiness of spirit—as it seems to me—which other friends call fun and brightness and high spirits and other such insulting terms—has been my domino as i have passed through the hollow hearted carnival of life. judge then how earnest i am when i put it aside and raise my mask for you a stranger whom i have seen but twice; i who even then was but an accessory—a super on the little stage where we began to act our little—comedy or tragedy which is it to be?

“there! i have opened to you my memory, not my heart. that you have no use for. after such a letter as this i shall not pretend to go back to the proprieties, the convenances. if i am right in my surmise—you can guess what that is or why have you written to the old rowdy aunt instead… there is every reason why i should be frank. but remember that i hold—and have hitherto held—what i believe to be your secret as sacredly as i hope you will hold mine. and if i am right—and from my knowledge and insight won by past suffering i pray to god that i am—you have no time to lose to make matters right, and possibly to save the world one more sorrowful heart like my own. it is only a word that is wanted—a morning call—a visit of ceremony. anything that will keep open the doors of friendship which you unlocked by your own bravery. we are going in a day or two to ambleside. in the meantime we shall be in london at brown’s hotel albemarle street where my sister, and incidentally myself, shall be glad to see you. …

“won’t you let me have a line as soon as you can after you get this. i am torn with anxiety till i know what you intend to do about visiting colonel ogilvie. again forgive me,

your true friend,

judy.

“p. s.—i shall not dare to read this over, lest when i had i should not have courage to send it. accept it then with all its faults and be tolerant of them—and of me.”

athlyne read the letter through without making a pause or even an internal comment. that is how a letter should be read; to follow the writer’s mind, not one’s own, and so take in the sequence of thoughts and the general atmosphere as well as the individual facts. as he read he felt deeply moved. there was in the letter that manifest sincerity which showed that it was straight from the heart. and heart speaks to heart, whatever may be the medium, if the purpose is sincere. it was a surprise to him to learn that miss judy’s high and volatile spirits rested on so sad a base. his appreciation of her worthiness came in his unconscious resolution that when he and joy were married aunt judy should be an honoured guest in the house, and that they would try to lighten, with what sympathy and kindness they could, the dark shadows of her life.

he sat with the letter in his hand for some time. he was sitting in the window of the hotel at bowness looking out on the lake. it was still early and the life of the day had hardly begun. at bowness the life was that of the tourists and visitors and it would still be an hour or more before they began to move out on their objectives. he had very many various and whirling thoughts, but supreme amongst them was one: time was flying. he must not delay, for every hour was more and more jeopardising his chance of winning the woman he loved. he realized to the full that his neglect of colonel ogilvie, for so it was being construed, was making—had made—a difficulty for him. each day, perhaps each hour, was widening the breach; if he did not take care he might end with the door permanently closed against him. as he came to the conclusion of his reasoning he drew once more from his pocket the sealed letter to colonel ogilvie, and stood up. he fancied that his determination was made that he would see colonel ogilvie as soon as possible and broach the subject to him. as however he went towards the boat—for he was going to ambleside by water—he postponed the intention of an immediate interview. he would wait this one day and see what would turn up. if nothing happened likely to further his wishes he would whilst at ambleside the next morning put the letter in the post. then he would hold himself ready for the interview with joy’s father for which the letter asked.

at ambleside he took his place behind the lilacs in the garden and kept watch on the window where joy was wont to appear. a little before breakfast-time she appeared there for a brief space, and then moved back into the room. he waited with what patience he could till nearly eleven o’clock when the same carriage which they used drove up to the door; waiting became then an easier task. presently colonel ogilvie came out and stood on the steps. athlyne wondered; this was the first time that joy had not been before him. throwing his eyes around in vague wondering as to the cause he saw joy standing in the window dressed and pulling on her gloves. she was radiantly beautiful. her colour was a little heightened and her lovely grey eyes shone like stars. her gaze was fixed so that her eyes seemed to look straight before her but beyond him. the look made him quiver as though he felt it were directed at him, and his knees began to tremble with a mighty, vague longing. for quite a minute she stood there, till her eyes falling she caught sight of her father standing by the carriage below. she drew back quickly and almost immediately appeared at the hall-door, saying:

“i am so sorry, daddy. i hope i did not keep you waiting too long!”

“not a bit little girl. it is a pleasure to me to wait for you; to do anything for you, my dear. whatever else is the use of being a father.”

“you dear! may we go to-day up the mountain road where we can look over the lake. i want you to have a nice glimpse of it again before you go.”

here athlyne’s heart sank for an instant. this was the first idea he had of any intention of moving, and it actually shook him. joy had as usual a handful of sugar for the horses. she went to the off side horse first and gave him his share. then when she stood at the head of the other, her face toward the lilacs, she turned to her father and said in a low, thrilling tone:

“daddy, am i nice to-day? look at me!” she stood still whilst the old man looked at her admiringly, proudly, fondly.

“you are peerless, little girl. peerless! that’s it!” she was evidently pleased at the compliment, for her colour rose to a deep flush. her grey eyes shone through it like two great grey suns. whilst her father was speaking to the coachman she gave the other horse, now impatient, his share of the sugar and stood looking across the road. athlyne could hardly contain himself. the few seconds, although flying so fast, were momentous. past and present rushed together to the creation of a moment of ecstasy. the sound of the words swept him; the idea and all it rewoke and intensified, transfigured his very soul. and then he heard her say in a low, languorous voice which vibrated:

“thank you daddy for such a sweet compliment. i am glad i said ‘look at me!’” as she spoke it seemed to athlyne that her eyes fixed across the road sent their lightnings straight into his heart. and yet it did not even occur to him at the moment that the words could have been addressed to him.

during the drive joy kept her father interested in all around them. he saw that she was elated and happy, and it made his heart glad to that receptive mood which is the recrudescence of youth. in the girl’s mind to-day several trains of thought, all of them parental of action, went on together. she did not analyze them; indeed she was hardly conscious of them. the mechanism of mind was working to a set purpose, but one which was temperamental rather than intentional—of sex and individual character rather than of a studied conclusion. for that morning was to her momentous. she knew it with all her instincts. unconsciously she drew conclusions from facts without waiting to develop their logical sequence.

a telegram had arrived from mrs. ogilvie saying that she and judy were now ready to leave london and, as her husband had said that he wished to escort them to ambleside, they would be prepared on his coming to leave on the next morning or whatever later time he might fix. after a glance at the time-table he had wired back that he would go up on that night, and that they would all start on the following morning. joy had offered to accompany him, but he would not have it: “no, little girl,” he said. “travel at night is all very well for men; but it takes it out of women. i want your mother to see the bright, red-cheeked girl that has been with me for the last week, and not a pale, worn-out draggled young woman with her eyes heavy with weariness. you stay here, my dear, and get plenty of air and sunshine. you will not be afraid to be here alone with your maid!” joy smiled:

“not a bit, daddy! i shall walk and drive all day and perhaps go down the lake in a boat. if i do the latter i shall take eugenie with me and we shall lunch down at newby bridge. we shall be home here in good time to drive over and meet you all at the station at windermere.”

from that moment joy hardly left her father out of her sight. instinctively she knew that the chance of her life had come. she had a conviction—it was more than a mere idea or even a belief—that if she were alone whilst her father was up in london or on the way down, that figure which even now was hidden by the lilacs would abandon secretive ways and come out into the open where she could see him close, and hear the sound of his voice—that voice whose every note made music in her ears. it was the presence of her father which kept him hidden. it was imperative, both in accordance with his wishes as well as from her own apprehensions of what might happen if they should meet unexpectedly before she had time to warn him, that no mischance should prevent an early meeting, free from any suspicion between herself and mr. hardy. when daddy was well on his way. … here she would close her eyes; definite thought was lost in a languorous ecstasy. the coming day would mean to her everything or. …

the drive was a fairly long one and they did not get back till nearly one o’clock. colonel ogilvie had said to joy:

“i shall have a good time to-day, have plenty of fresh air and be ready for sleep when i get into the train. as i shall arrive early in the morning i shall have time to express my opinions on their conduct to those automobile people. they won’t expect my coming and be able to get out of the way. i fancy it will do me good to say what i feel; or at any rate enough to give them some indication of what i could say, and shall say if there is any further delay in the matter.”

when they arrived joy went at once into the hotel leaving her father to tell the coachman at what hour to be ready for the afternoon drive. she went straight to the window and, keeping as usual behind the curtain, looked over at the lilac bushes. she could see through the foliage that there was some one there, and that satisfied her. she would have liked to have instructed the driver herself so that she would have been sure that he knew; but on this occasion a wave of diffidence suddenly overwhelmed her. times were coming when she would not be able to afford the luxury of such an emotion, so she grasped it whilst she could.

colonel ogilvie was to catch the train from windermere at nine o’clock, so the second drive should come after lunch and not after tea; and when she was in her own room, joy feared that he might miss them. when, however, before going downstairs she looked out of the window she saw that he was still at his post. athlyne’s campaigning experience had had its own psychology. seeing that there was some change in the ogilvie day he had arranged his own plans to meet it. whilst they had been taking their morning drive he had provided himself with some sandwiches; he had determined not to leave his post until he knew more. joy’s words had all day rung in his ears, and he was now and again distracted with doubts. was it possible that there had been any meaning or intention in her words more than was apparent? was the spontaneity consequent on some deep feeling which evoked memory? could he believe that she really. … he would wait now before sending the letter, whatever came. in that he was adamant.

during the drive joy was mainly silent. it was not the silence of thought; it was simply spiritual quiescence. she knew that the rest of the day was so laid out that it was unlikely it could be marred by an untoward accident. there was this in his persistent waiting that she had come to trust it. there was some intention, so manifest, though what it was was unknown to her, that it was hardly to be disturbed by any sudden exigency. she lived at the moment in a world of calm, a dream-world of infinite happiness. now and again she woke to the presence of her father and then poured on him in every way in which a young woman can all the treasures of her thought and affection. this made the old man so happy that he too was content to remain silent when she ceased to speak.

when they got back to the hotel, she spoke to the driver:

“you will be here at eight o’clock please, as you will have to drive colonel ogilvie to the station at windermere in good time to catch the nine o’clock train. i shall not want you in the morning as i intend to take a walk; but you must be at windermere to meet my father at five o’clock. if to-morrow afternoon there is any change in his plans he will wire the hotel people and they will let you know. perhaps you had better call here on your way to windermere as i may go over in the carriage. but if i am not here do not wait for me; i may possibly walk over. when you have left colonel ogilvie at windermere to-night you will have to leave me back here. i am going to the depot with him.”

then she went into the doorway, and hurried to the sitting-room where she looked out into the garden—where the lilacs grew.