Athlyne’s one idea was now to get away quickly. The crowd was gathering¹ closely and were beginning to ask questions. One big, intelligent-looking sergeant² of police had out his note-book.  
“May I ask your name, sorr?”
 
“Is that necessary, my good man?”
 
“Well, we have to report, sorr, but” this he said with a confidential³ look “it mayn’t be necessary to make it public. You see, the lady’s all right, and no one is goin’ to make trouble over a dead horse. Though why any man would want to keep his name out of the papers for a deed like that, bates me!” Athlyne beckoned⁴ him aside; they leaned against the parapet with their faces towards the river. He had by now taken out his pocket-book and handed the sergeant a bill with a yellow back. The man’s eyes opened when he saw it; and there was more than respect in his voice as he said: “Thank you very much, sorr! Be sure I’ll do all I can. An’ I don’t know that we can’t pull it off nayther; but ye must look out for them blasted kodaks!”
 
“All right sergeant. I’m much obliged for the hint. By the way wasn’t one of your men tumbled over?”
 
“Yes, sorr; but I’m tould he wasn’t hurt, only a bruise⁵ or two an’ the skin from off iv his nose.”
 
“Good! You’ll tell the lady, she is sure to be distressed⁶ about him. Give him this for me, please. And here is my card. I am at the Manhattan.”
 
“Thank you again, sorr. ’Tis mighty⁷ kind of ye. An’ sorr if I may make so bould. If ye want not to be in all the paapers to-morra betther not ride back. There’ll be a million kodaks on the Boulevard.”
 
Just then a tall man raised his hat to Colonel Ogilvie and said:
 
“My motor is here, sir, and I shall be very happy if you will use it for the lady. The chauffeur⁸ will leave you where you wish.”
 
“Thank you exceedingly. I shall be very grateful. I dare say I can get somebody to bring my horse to the stables; I couldn’t leave my daughter alone after such a shock.”
 
“I’ll see to it, sorr,” said the sergeant, who had come close. Colonel Ogilvie gave him his card and said:
 
“We are at the Holland House. Come up and see me some time to-morrow morning. I have some gratitude⁹ to express to you and your men!”
 
Whilst this conversation was going on a slim young man came up to Athlyne and raising his hat said:
 
“Can I do anything for you, sir. It will be a pleasure I assure you.” Athlyne summed him up a glance as a soldier.
 
“Thanks, old fellow,” he said, impulsively¹⁰ holding out his hand. “You’re a soldier aren’t you—a cavalry¹¹ man?”
 
“No. Field Artillery¹² 27th Battery. But we’re all cavalry at West Point. I knew you were a soldier when I saw you ride—let alone what you did. What can I do?”
 
“If it wouldn’t trouble you too much I wish you’d get some one to bring my horse to the Exchange in Seventh Avenue. You see I want to avoid all this fuss and kodaking.”
 
“I should love to; what a noble animal he is. But I shan’t send him. If you don’t mind I’ll ride him myself. Catch me missing a ride on a horse like that. May I come and see you after.”
 
“Delighted. Manhattan Hotel.” They bowed and parted. Athlyne went to Colonel Ogilvie, he felt it would be indecorous to leave without a word.
 
“I hope your daughter is all right, sir.”
 
“Thanks to you, my brave friend. I am Colonel Ogilvie of Airlville. Joy this is Mr. ——” Athlyne felt in an instant like a cad. He realised now, in all its force, the evil of deception¹³. Silently he handed his card. “Mr. Hardy¹⁴” her father said. Joy held out her hand and he took it.
 
“I’m not able to thank you, now and here!” she said, raising to him her glorious grey eyes. He mumbled¹⁵ out a few words in reply and raised his hat to part. As he was turning away Joy whispered to her father:
 
“Daddy, won’t you ask him to come to see us. Mother will want to thank him too. Ask him to come to dinner to-night.”
 
“My dear, you will be far too upset. Better——”
 
“Nonsense, Daddy dear. I’m all right now. Indeed, dear, it will seem strange if you don’t, after what he has done for—for you, Daddy dear—and for me.”
 
In his own formal and kindly¹⁶ way Colonel Ogilvie gave the invitation. Athlyne answered with equal kindly ceremony; and they parted.
 
By this time the stranger’s motor had been taken in through the broken barrier. Colonel Ogilvie insisted that their host should not leave them, and they drove off together.
 
In the public excitement at their going Athlyne escaped unnoticed. He took the street at right angles and shortly got a down-town West-End Avenue car.
 
An hour later he had a call from his military friend, who announced himself as “Lootenant R. Flinders Breckenridge.” Athlyne had now made up his mind how to meet him. He said at once:
 
“I am going to try your patience, old chap, and perhaps your friendship; but I want you to keep a secret. I can’t deceive a comrade; and we military men are that to each other all the world over. I am here under a false name. I had reasons for keeping my identity concealed¹⁷ as I came for a special purpose. So I want you to bear with me and keep even that much a secret between you and me.”
 
“That’s all right!” said the boy with a hearty¹⁸ smile. “On my honour I’ll keep your secret as my own.”
 
“And when I can I’ll write and let you know!” And so a friendship began.
 
“Mr. Hardy” left word at the desk that he would not see any one, especially any newspaper man. But on the Riverside Drive the kodaks had been hard at work; the black horse was recognised, and the morning papers had many execrable likenesses of Lootenant Breckenridge as he appeared galloping¹⁹.
 
 
 
In the hall of the Holland House Lord Athlyne found Colonel Ogilvie waiting for him with that old-fashioned hospitality which is still to be found in the South. He cordially greeted his guest, and when they had come from the elevator took his arm to lead him into his own suite²⁰. Athlyne was quite touched with the greeting extended to him. He had not for years been in the way of receiving anything of the nature of family affection. But now when his host’s warmth was followed by a tearful gratitude on the part of his wife which found expression of a quick bending forward and kissing the hand which she held in hers—to the great consternation²¹ of the owner thereof—he was sensible of feeling foolish.
 
“Oh, pray! pray!” he said, and then remained silent; for what could he do but submit gracefully²² to such an overt²³ outcome of the feelings of a grateful mother. Joy was a girl in whom were the elements of passion; was it strange that the same emotional yeast²⁴ worked in her as in her mother’s nature.
 
The introduction to Miss Judith Hayes was a relief. She too felt strongly; no less strongly when she realised that the valiant²⁵ stranger was so handsome and of so distinguished²⁶ an appearance. But after all the matter was not so vitally close to her. An aunt, howsoever loving her nature may be, cannot be actuated by the overwhelming impulses of motherhood. This very difference, however, made speech easier; she it was who of all the grateful little party gave best verbal expression to her feelings. In frank phrases, touched with the native warmth of her heart and emphasised by the admiring glances of her fine eyes, she told him of the gratitude which they all felt for his gallant²⁷ rescue of her dear niece. She finished up with an uncontrollable sob²⁸ as she said:
 
“If it hadn’t been for your bravery and resource and strength there would be no more sorrowful band of poor souls in all the wide world than—than” she turned her head and walked over to the window. Athlyne could see that for quite a minute or two afterwards her shoulders shook. When at last she did turn round, her glassy eyes but ill accorded with her incisive²⁹ humorous phrases or her ringing laugh. The effect on Athlyne was peculiar³⁰; without analysing the intellectual process too closely, he felt in his mind with a secret exultation³¹ that he had “found an ally.” It may have been the soldier instinct, to which he had been so long accustomed, working in his mind; or it may have had another basis. Anyhow he was content.
 
His meeting with Joy surprised whilst it satisfied them both. They looked into each other’s eyes for an instant, and to them both the whole world became crystal. The “whole world” to them both—their world—the only world that was to them at that moment, that ever could be, that had been since the ordination³² of things. This is the true heart’s-content. It is the rapture³³ of hearts, the communion of souls. Passion may later burn the rapture into fixed³⁴ belief, as the furnace fixes the painted design on the potter’s clay; but in that first moment of eyes looking into answering eyes is the dawn of love—the coming together of those twin halves of a perfect soul which was at once the conception and realisation of Platonic³⁵ belief.
 
At dinner Athlyne was placed between Mrs. Ogilvie and Joy, Colonel Ogilvie being next his daughter and Miss Hayes next her sister. Thus Aunt Judy, being opposite both her niece and the guest, could watch them both without seeming to stare. In the early part of the dinner she was abnormally, for her, silent; but later on, when she felt that things were going dully with some of the party, she manifested her usual buoyancy of spirits. She had in the meantime come to certain conclusions of her own.
 
Somehow there was an air of constraint³⁶ over all the party, but in different ways and from different causes. Athlyne was ill at ease because they all made so much of him; and as he was painfully conscious of his false position in accepting the hospitality of such persons under an alias³⁷, their kindness only emphasised to him his own chagrin³⁸. Colonel Ogilvie conscious, rather by instinct than from any definite word or action, that his guest was more reticent³⁹ than he would have thought a young man would be under the circumstances, was rather inclined to resent it. The Ogilvies had from the earliest times been very important people in their own place; and many generations of them had grown up to the understanding that their friendship, even their acquaintance, was an honour. Now when he had asked into his family circle a young man known personally to him only by his visiting card and by the fact that he had saved his daughter’s life—very gallantly⁴⁰ it was true—he found his friendly interest in his new acquaintance was not received with equal heartiness⁴¹. The truth was that Athlyne was afraid. He felt instinctively⁴² that he was not his own master whilst those great grey eyes were upon him—most certainly not when he was looking into the mystery of their depths. And so he feared lest he should become confused and weave himself into a further tangle⁴³ of falseness. In the background of his own mind he knew what he wished—what he intended; that this beautiful grey-eyed girl should become his wife. He knew that he must first get clear of his false position; and he was determined⁴⁴ at any cost not to let anything interfere⁴⁵ with this. At first Colonel Ogilvie’s allusions⁴⁶ to his home and his place in the world were purely⁴⁷ kindly; he thought it only right, under the circumstances of his great obligation, to show such an interest as a man of his age might with another so much his junior. But he could not help feeling that though his guest’s manner was all that was winning and that though his words were adequate there was no loosening of the strings⁴⁸ of self-possession. Such a thing was new to the Colonel, and new things, especially those that he could not understand, were not pleasing to him. Still, the man was his guest; and only a few hours before had rendered him the greatest service that one could to another. He must not let him, therefore, feel that there was any constraint on his part. And so he acted what was to him an unfamiliar⁴⁹ part; that of an exuberant⁵⁰ man.
 
Joy was constrained⁵¹, for with her deep knowledge of her father’s character she saw that he was upset by something; and, as that something could only be in connection with the guest, she was uneasy. She knew well what her opinion of that guest was; and she had a feeling of what her hopes would be, dare she give them a voice. But that must be postponed—till when she should be alone. In the meantime she wanted to enjoy every moment when that guest was by her side. And now her breast was stirred with some vague uneasiness.
 
Mrs. Ogilvie had her own disturbing cause. She could not but see that her daughter was very much absorbed in this strange gentleman whom she had not ever even seen till that afternoon, and she wanted to know more of him before she could allow matters to become more definite. She knew that he was brave and she could see that he was a gentleman and a handsome one. But still—A mother’s heart has its own anxieties about her child. And this mother knew that her child was of no common nature, but had her own share of passions which might lead her into unhappiness. Too well from herself she knew the urging of a passionate⁵² nature. Joy had not been tested yet, as she had herself been. She had not yet heard that call of sex which can alter a woman’s whole life.
 
As to Judy her sympathy with romance in any form and her love for Joy acted like the two ingredients in a seidlitz-powder. Each by itself was placid⁵³ and innocuous, but when united there was a boiling over. It needed no spirit come from the grave, or from anywhere else, to tell her of the power which this handsome, gallant, young man had already over her niece. A single lifting of the girl’s eyes with that adorable look which no habit of convenience could restrain; a single lifting or falling of the silky black lashes⁵⁴; a single sympathetic movement of the beautiful mouth in its receptive mood as she took in her companion’s meaning told her all these things and a hundred others—told her a story which brought back heart-aching reminiscence of her own youth. She was not jealous, not a particle—honestly and truly. But after all, life is a serious thing, serious to look back on, though it seems easy enough to look forward to. The heart knoweth its own bitterness. “A sorrow’s crown of sorrow is remembering happier things.”
 
So far, as to possibilities. Judith was much too clever and too sympathetic a person to go wrong as to facts on which they were based. She was a natural physiognomist, like other animals who have learned to trust their instincts; and within a very few minutes had satisfied herself as to the worthiness⁵⁵ of “Joy’s man”—that is how she tabulated⁵⁶ him in her own mind. She felt quite satisfied as to her own judgment⁵⁷, not always the case with her. In her own mind, living as she had done for so long in a little world of her own thoughts, she was in the habit of arguing out things just as she would were she talking with some one else, a man for preference. She always wanted to know the truth, even if she did not use it. She had once said to her sister when they were considering how they should act with regard to a scandal in a neighbouring family:
 
“Well, Sally, it’s all very well not being inquisitive⁵⁸; but you know, my dear, we can’t begin to lie properly till we know what we are to lie about. There’s nothing so destructive of after happiness—no kindliness⁵⁹ so full of pitfalls⁶⁰, as a useless lie.”
 
Now, her argument ran:
 
“You can’t be all wrong about a man. You have thought too much on the subject not to be able to form an opinion. And even if your old maid’s instinct—for you are an old maid, my dear, despite your saying that you are so to prove that you are not—warps your judgment in favour of the man. The pride that is in that man’s features never came out of merely one or two generations of command. It takes a couple of centuries at any rate to put that stamp on a face. He is bold—well we know that from to-day’s work; he is courtly—a man doesn’t do nice things unconsciously, unless it has been his habit. He’s in love with Joy—no doubt about that; and small blame to him for it. He’s in her father’s house, an honoured guest as he should be. He’s sitting next to her and she’s looking straight into his soul with those big lamps of eyes of hers. He saved her life a few hours ago, and now he can see—if he’s not a fool and he’s not that whatever else he may be—that she adores him—and yet he’s not at his ease… What is it? What does it mean? For Joy’s sake I must find that out. I may have to lie a bit; but at least I’ll know what I am doing!”
 
With this object in view she took, when the charm of the meeting began to lose its lustre⁶¹, the conversation in hand herself. She felt that the time had come. Well she understood when she saw on Colonel Ogilvie’s face the very faintest shade of a shadow of that dark look which in earlier years had meant trouble for some one. “Lucius is thinking!” was the way she put it to herself. To a woman of her bringing up, the acts of the men of the family, and especially of its head, were not within the women’s sphere. In the old slave-owning families there was perpetuated⁶² something of the spirit of subordination—some survival of old feudal⁶³ principle. This was especially so in everything relating to quarrels or fighting. It was not women’s work, and women were trained not to take any part in it, not even to manifest any concern. Indeed the free-spirited Judy having lived so many years in that particular atmosphere, before being able to look round her in wider communities, compared the dominance of view of a man in his own family life to that of a cock who lords it over the farmyard, struts⁶⁴ about masterfully, and summons his household round him with no other purpose than his own will. Woman-like she was content to yield herself to the situation.
 
“We’re all the same,” she once said to a farmer’s wife, “women or hens. When the master clucks we come!”
 
As it was quite apparent to her that both her sister and brother-in-law were uneasy, she began to take on herself the responsibility of action, even if it should have to be followed by the odium.
 
“What’s the use of being an old maid if you can’t do something!” she said to herself as a sort of rallying cry to her own nerves. Such gathering of one’s courage is not uncommon⁶⁵; it is, in unusual circumstances, to many men and to most women. It does not as a rule apply to professional or accustomed duties. To the soldier, the lawyer, the engineer, the man of commerce, each as such, the faculties⁶⁶ which wait on the intelligence are already braced⁶⁷ by habit. And to the woman in her hours of social self-consciousness the same applies. When a woman puts on her best frock she is armed and ready as completely as is the cavalry man with the thunder of the squadron behind him; as the artillery man when “Action!” has been sounded. Ordinarily Miss Judith was equal to all demands made on her; now she was engaging in a matter in which she did not thoroughly⁶⁸ understand either the purpose or the end. Now she spoke⁶⁹:
 
“Have you been staying long in New York Mr. Hardy?” At the moment Athlyne was talking with his hostess and did not seem to hear; but Joy heard and said gently: “Mr. Hardy!” He turned suddenly red, even to his ears.
 
“I beg your pardon, I didn’t …” There he stopped, suddenly realizing that he had almost betrayed himself. The fact was that he heard the question but forgot for an instant the part he was playing. His ears had been tuned⁷⁰ to the music of Joy’s voice, and he did not wake at once to the less welcome sound. Partly it was of course due to the fact that as yet he had heard but little of Aunt Judy’s speech; her intentional⁷¹ silence had a drawback as well as an advantage. He stopped his explanation just in time to save suspicion from the rest of the family, but not from Judy, who having an intention of her own was alert to everything. She made a mental note to be afterwards excogitated: “I didn’t—what?”
 
She repeated the question. He answered with what nonchalance⁷² he could:
 
“No. Only a few days.”
 
“Do you remain long?”
 
“I am sorry to say that I cannot. I had promised myself a few weeks after grizzlies⁷³; but that has to be foregone for the present. Something has happened which requires my going back at once. But I hope to renew my visit before long.” He was pleased with himself for the verbal accuracy of the statement, and this reassured⁷⁴ him.
 
“What a pity you have to give up your hunting,” said Colonel Ogilvie, heartily⁷⁵. “You would find it really excellent sport. I haven’t had any of it for twenty years; but I’d dearly like to have another turn at it if I could.”
 
“What boat do you go by?” asked Mrs. Ogilvie.
 
“By the French boat. The Mignonette which sails on Saturday.” He answered with confidence for he had spent a quarter of an hour looking it up before he had dressed; and had already posted a letter to the Office asking to have the best cabin open kept for him.
 
“What a pity,” said Joy. “We are going on the Graphic⁷⁶ on the Wednesday after; you might have come with us.” She coloured up as she became conscious of the dead silence—lasting for a few seconds—of the rest of the party.
 
“H’m!” said the Colonel.
 
“Perhaps dear, Mr. Hardy has reasons of his own for choosing his own route,” said Mrs. Ogilvie, determined that her daughter should not appear to be too ardent⁷⁷ in pressing the new acquaintanceship.
 
Athlyne hastened to set matters right, as well as he could. He knew from his own bringing up that such a request should come rather from the parents than from the girl herself; but he understood and tried to protect her. He addressed himself therefore to Mrs. Ogilvie and not her daughter as he spoke:
 
“It would I assure you, be a delight to me to go on your ship. But unhappily it would not be possible. Some business matters, not altogether my own, are dependent on my arriving in England. If I had only known that you were going—Indeed I may say,” he added with a smile which all three women accepted as “winning” “that if I had known, to begin with, that such delightful⁷⁸ people existed. … But until that … that accident I had no such knowledge. I must not say that ‘happy’ accident for it was fraught⁷⁹ with such danger to one whom you hold dear. But, that apart, it was a happy accident to me that has given me the opportunity of making friends whom I already value so highly!” This was for him quite a long speech; he breathed more freely when it was over.
 
When the ladies had gone, he and his host had a long chat over their cigars. He was now more at ease, and as the conversation was all about sport and horses, matters in which he was thoroughly at home, he could speak more freely and more naturally than he had yet done. There was not any personal element which would require him to be on guard and so cause constraint. The result was that Colonel Ogilvie got quite over his stiffness and began to warm to his genial⁸⁰ influence.
 
It was quite a sign of his existing attitude that he now took on himself to say just what he had reprehended⁸¹ in his daughter:
 
“I am really sorry you can’t come on the Graphic with us. It would make the voyage a new pleasure for us all!” As he spoke he took the young man’s arm in a most friendly way; and to Joy’s secret delight, they came in this wise into the drawing-room.