AN ADVENTURE
With regard to his quest after his alleged wife the first conclusion
Lord Athlyne came to was that he must go incognito--“under an alias”
he expressed it to himself. Otherwise he would give warning of his
presence, and that was the very thing which he wished to avoid. The
woman must be an unscrupulous one or she would not have entered on
such a scheme of fraud; and she would naturally be quick to protect
herself by concealment or flight. An ordinary individual would have
left such an investigation to his solicitors who would have procured
the services of local detectives. But then Athlyne was not an ordinary
individual. He liked to do things for himself in most matters which
interested him; and in this case there was so distinctly a personal
bearing that he would not have been satisfied to leave it to any one
else.
When, however, he began to work out details of his alias he found that
he had landed in a perfect hornet’s nest of difficulties. The mere
matter of clothing and luggage was, he found, almost enough to turn
his hair prematurely grey. What was the use of taking a false name
when his true one was engraved on the brass plates of his portmanteaux
and bags so that every porter would know everything about him within
five minutes of his arrival; the chambermaid and laundress would see
the marking of his linen. He very soon found that he would have to set
about this branch of his effort very systematically if he did not want
to give himself away hopelessly even before he started. He had already
come to the conclusion that he must not take a valet with him. It
would be quite enough to support an alias amongst his equals, whose
habits and breeding had at least a certain amount of reticence,
without running the risk of the world of servants who were much more
inquisitive than their employers and much more skilled in matters of
suspicion and detection.
First he had to decide on the name, and to get familiar with it in all
sorts of ways; speaking, writing, and hearing it spoken. The latter he
could only effect by hearing his own voice; he was conscious that he
must, for some time at all events, be open to the danger of a
surprise. He shrank in a certain way from using a name not his own; so
he salved his conscience by selecting two of the simplest of his many
names. Thus he became for his own purposes Richard Hardy. He fixed his
domicile as “Sands End,” a small place in the middle of Wiltshire
which he had inherited from his mother. It was too small to be
included in his ‘list of seats’ in Debrett, and thus answered his
purpose. Then he got quite fresh store of linen from a new shop and
had it marked ‘R. Hardy’ or ‘R. H.’ He bought new trunks and kit of
all kinds. He had them marked with the same letters, and sent to a
lodging which he had taken for the purpose under his new name. He had
cards printed and got plain notepaper as he had to avoid a crest. Then
he found that all his sporting things, which had already been packed,
had to be unpacked and overhauled lest the real name should remain
anywhere. When all this was done, and it took weeks to complete, he
began to feel an unmitigated fraud and a thorough scoundrel. To a man
who takes honour to be a part of a gentleman’s equipment any form of
dissimulation must always be obnoxious.
One person alone he took into his confidence: his solicitor. It was
necessary that he should have a bank account opened in New York. Also
that in case of any unforeseen accident it would be at least advisable
to be able to explain his actions. When the solicitor remonstrated he
explained his purpose and made a special request that he should not be
subjected to any opposition. “I go to protect myself” he said. The
other shrugged his shoulders and remained silent. He arranged before
he terminated the interview that his letters should be sent to him
under cover to his new name at his bankers in New York. In due time an
account for a large sum was opened there. Then, when all was as
complete as he could think of, he took a cabin in one of the French
boats as he thought that in a foreign ship he would run less risk of
running up against some acquaintance than would be likely on a British
or American vessel.
He had hardly got clear of land when he began to realize in what a
false position he had placed himself. He felt that any
acquaintanceship which he could make might possibly lead to some
imbroglio. To those who took him in good faith and made friends he
must either reveal his purpose or accept a false position from which
he might never be able to extricate himself. As the former was
impossible, without creating a suspicion which would destroy his
purpose, he had to take chance for the latter. The result was that had
to be aloof and unresponsive to any of the proffered friendlinesses of
the voyage; and seeing this the other passengers did not press
friendliness on him or even repeat their overtures. He felt this
acutely, for he had been always in the habit of making friends. Such
is one of the delights of travel, as all know who have been about the
world. Those who once “rub shoulders” in a casual way often make
acquaintanceships which ripen into friendship and are life-long.
Perhaps this is from the fact that in such cases each is taken from
the first on his personal merits. There being no foreknowledge there
cannot be any premeditation of purpose of gain of any kind. Like meets
like, recognises natural kinship; and union is the result.
When after a somewhat tedious and uneventful voyage he landed in New
York he was altogether in a disappointed and a discontented frame of
mind. The acute cause of this was the filling up of the immigration
paper which is so exhaustive as to details as to become inquisitorial.
The answering of each question seemed to him like telling a lie--as
indeed it was. As, however, he had nothing to declare and was without
obvious objection he had no trouble. The only effect from the Customs
examination that he noticed on himself was that when he drove out of
the gates he felt somewhat as he had done when he passed from the
prison pen at Pretoria into the cheering ranks of the victorious
British army. He was lucky enough to escape from the ranks of the
journalists who make copy out of any stranger of distinction who
lands. His name was not sufficiently striking to even attract
attention. He took quiet rooms high up in the “Manhattan,” and for two
days kept his own company.
The third day he went out. He walked through street after street; took
trolley-cars now and again; went “up town” and “down town” on the
road. Crossed the ferries to New Jersey and Long Island. Lunched at
Martin’s and dined at Delmonico’s; and returned to his hotel without
having made so far as he knew a step towards discovery. The only thing
which he brought back was a slight knowledge of local geography. He
had seen something of New York--from the streets; but except to ask
his way from policemen or for food from foreign waiters he had not
spoken to anybody.
The next few days he spent in walking about the streets. In summing up
this afternoon he came to the conclusion that there was, for him,
nothing so bad in Pretoria. All the time he felt with increasing force
that he was a fraud, and constantly found himself evolving schemes as
to how he could shed his incognito. The question of clubs alone made
him unhappy. He had always been a clubbable man; in London he belonged
to a number of the best. Whenever he had been in any city where there
was a club its doors had always through the forethought of some friend
been thrown open to him. Here was a city so full of those masculine
refuges that it might be called the “City of Clubs.” In every
fashionable street was at least one, palatial places where men who
were of the great circle met their friends. And yet he felt like the
Peri outside the gates of Paradise. The feeling grew on him that he
could not enter any one of them, even if he got the chance. How could
he explain to men that he was not what he seemed--what he professed to
be. Club-land is in some ways to men holy ground. Here they can afford
to be natural--to be true. Except the club laws, written or unwritten,
there is no conventional demand. As a man who had grown old knowing
little of any other life put it; “In a club you can afford not to
lie.” (It is to be presumed, by the way, that the speaker did not take
a part in the conversations regarding episodes of fishing or _bonnes
fortunes_!)
He could not see any way in which he could even _begin_ to make his
inquiry; or he could get honestly within any house he had seen. He
became sorry he had ever thought of making the inquiry himself--that
he had ever come at all. Dimly at the back of his thoughts was an
intention to go back to London, resume his proper name, and then
perhaps return in an upright way--as a gentleman should. Still he was
a masterful man and did not like giving up… He thought a ride would
do him good; it would clear his mind and freshen him up. A horseman is
never lonely so long as he has a horse.
He asked the hotel clerk where he would get one. The man gave him
several addresses. Then he added:
“By the way do you want to buy or only to hire?”
“Either. I should buy if I could get something exceptionally good.”
“Then take my advice. Go up to Seventh Avenue right at the top near
the Park. There is an auction there this morning of fine horses. You
will I daresay get what you want; but you will doubtless have to pay
for it.”
“I don’t mind that!” he smiled as he spoke; he did not remember that
he had smiled since he left London. The very prospect of a horse
brightened him up.
Before going to the Auction he called at the bank and drew out a
handsome sum. In horse buying ready money is often a matter of
importance.
At the Horse Exchange there was a good show, some of the horses being
of real excellence. Prices ran high for these, and competition was
spirited. But he got what he wanted: a big “Blue Grass” thoroughbred
well up to his weight. His warranty was complete. The Auctioneer at
his request brought to him presently a livery man on whom he might, he
said, depend; and with him he arranged for the proper keeping of the
horse.
For a few days Athlyne was really happy. His horse was as good as it
looked, and had evidently been trained by some one who understood him.
His mouth was as fine as possible and he realized an inflexion of the
voice. Lord Athlyne rode well, and he knew it; and the horse knew it
too from the first moment when his hand touched the bridle. After the
first ride up the Riverside Drive the two became understanding
friends.
The effect of the exercise on Lord Athlyne was to do away with his
intention of trying to discover the identity of the offending lady. He
would start soon for the Rockies and get after the grizzlies. Or
better still he would go home, shake off his alias, and return--a free
man.
On the Sunday afternoon he went for a ride in the direction he liked
best, up the Riverside Drive. He went quietly till he got near the
University where there was a long stretch of proper riding ground.
There he let the black horse go, and the noble beast went along at a
splendid pace. It was still a little early, and though there were a
good many pedestrians there were but few persons in carriages or
“horsebacking” and so the “ride” was fairly free. Horse and man were a
noble pair. The one jet black, full of fire and mettle, every movement
charged with power and grace; the other tall and slim, hard as nails
with his long spell of South African soldiering, sitting like a
centaur. Man and horse together moved as one. All eyes were turned on
them as they swept by, with admiring glances from both women and men,
each in their respective ways. Two park policemen, a sergeant and a
roundsman, both finely mounted, were jogging quietly along. As the
black horse came dashing up the roundsman said:
“Shall I stop him, sergeant?” The other looked on admiringly and
answered quietly:
“Guess not! ’Twould be a burnin’ shame to stop them two. An there
won’t be any need neyther, _they_ know what they’re doin, Halloran.
They ain’t goin’ to ride down nobody. Did ye iver see a finer seat.
I’d bet that’s an English cavalry man. Look at the spring of him. Be
the Lord I’d like to be in his shoes this minute!”
Amongst the few riders Athlyne passed on his course were an old man
and a young woman. The man tall with a big white moustache, a haughty
bearing, and steely eyes under shaggy white brows. The girl tall and
slim and graceful with black hair and big gray eyes. Both were fairly
well mounted, but the girl’s mare was restive and shying at anything.
As the black horse came thundering along she had to use considerable
skill and force to keep her from bolting. Athlyne had just time for a
passing glance as he swept by; but in that instant the face and figure
became photographed on his memory. The girl turned and looked after
him; she was in the receptive period of her young womanhood when every
man has a charm, and when such a noble figure as was now presented is
a power. With a sigh she turned and said to her companion:
“That is the horse that we saw sold at the Horse Exchange. I was
jealous of whoever bought it then. I’m not now; a man who can ride
like that deserves him. Daddy, don’t you think he is something like
what a man ought to be? I do!”
“You’re right, little girl! But you’d better not say things like that
to any one else but me; they mightn’t understand!” Joy made no answer
but she smiled to herself. During the hour or two that followed she
chatted happily with her father. They had occasional canters and
gallops until the road got too crowded when they went along more
sedately. Whenever her father suggested turning homeward she always
pleaded for one more turn:
“Just one more, Daddy. It is so delightful here; and the river is so
lovely.” Of course she had her way. The old man found more true
happiness in pleasing her than in any other way. In her heart, though
she did not tell her father for she felt that even he mightn’t
understand, she had a wish that the man on the black horse would
return the same way. She had a feeling that he would.
After his gallop Athlyne went quietly along the road past Grant’s Tomb
and followed the course of the Drive. Here the road descended,
circling round the elevation on which the Tomb is erected. Below it is
the valley of some old watercourse into the Hudson. This valley has
been bridged by a viaduct over which the Drive continues its course up
the side of the river for many miles. To-day however, it was necessary
to make a detour, descend the steep on the hither side of the valley
and rise up the other side. Some settlement had affected the base of
the up-river end of the bridge and it had given way. The rock on which
New York is based is of a very soft nature, and rots slowly away, so
that now and again a whole front of a house will slide down a slope,
the underlying rock having perished. Not long before, this had
actually happened to a group of houses in Park Row. Now the bridge had
fallen away; the road ended abruptly, and below lay a great shapeless
mass of twisted metal and stone. The near end of the viaduct was
barred off with wooden rails, and in the centre was a great board with
a warning that the thoroughfare was closed.
Athlyne rode up as far as the Up-Town Club, sat for awhile amongst the
trees on the river bank and thought of many things. Amongst these of
the girl with the gray eyes who looked so admiringly at his horse--or
himself. Perhaps he accepted the latter alternative, for as his
thoughts ran he smiled and stroked his big moustache.
When he rode towards town again he kept a sharp look out,
unconsciously slackening speed when any old man and young woman riding
together came in sight. He had ascended the eastern side of the
valley, over which lay the broken viaduct, and commenced to traverse
the curved slope leading up to Grant’s Tomb when he heard a sudden
shouting on the road in front and saw a rush of people to both sides
and up the steps to the Tomb. An instant after a mounted constable
appeared urging his horse to a gallop as he cried out:
“Clear the road! Clear the road! It’s a run-a-way!” Instinctively
Athlyne drew to the roadside, a double purpose in his mind; to keep
the way clear as directed, and to be able to render assistance if
possible. The noise and cries drew closer and there was on the hard
road a thunder of many hoof strokes. Then round the curve swept a
brown mare dashing madly in a frenzied gallop--the neck stretched out
and the eyes flaming. The woman who rode her, a tall girl with black
hair and great gray eyes, sat easily, holding her reins so as to be
able to use them when the time should come. She was in full possession
of herself. She did not look frightened, though her face was very
pale. Behind her but a little way off came two mounted policemen and
the old man with the big white moustache. Other men variously mounted
came hurrying in the background; beyond them a whole long series of
horse vehicles and motor cars.
As he saw her Athlyne’s heart leaped. This was the girl whose face had
attracted him; his time had come quicker than he had dared to hope. He
shook his reins and started his horse, spurring him with his heels as
he did so. If he was to be of service he should be able to keep at
least equal pace; and that would require a quick start, for the
runaway was going at a great pace.
And then a great fear fell on him, not for himself but for the girl.
He knew what perhaps she did not, that the viaduct was broken, and
that her course lay down the steep roadway to the bottom of the little
valley. He rode in earnest now; the sloping curved road was so short
that if he was to stop the mare the effort should be made at once. He
rode close by her, his powerful horse keeping pace almost without an
effort, and said quietly to the girl:
“Try to hold her in if ever so little, there is a steep road which you
must go down. The viaduct is broken and the road barred.”
“I can’t,” she said “she has the bit and I am powerless.”
He struck his heels sharply and the black horse bounded forward. The
girl saw the movement and understood:
“Take care” she said quickly. “One policeman tried that and was thrown
over, he may be killed.” As she spoke, the words died on her lips;
they had rounded the curve and the danger ahead lay open to them. It
was a choice of evils: a dash down the steep incline with a maddened
mare, or a crash against the barrier cutting off the viaduct.
But the woman had no choice; the maddened mare took her own course.
Down the curving slope she dashed and went straight for the barrier.
This was made of heavy balks of timber below, but the rails above were
light. These she broke through as she leaped; hurling a cloud of
broken rails and splinters right and left. The girl had nerved herself
to the effort when she had seen what was coming and held up as at a
jump on the hunting field.
The moment that Athlyne had realized the situation he too was ready.
Seeing that the mare was making for the right side of the barrier he
went for the left, and they leaped together. The instant they had
landed on the other side he was ready and rode alongside the mare.
Ahead of them was the chasm--with death beneath. The girl saw it and
her pale face grew ashy white. Athlyne, riding level and holding his
reins in his left hand, hurriedly cried:
“Loose your stirrup and when I get my arm round you take hold of my
collar with your left hand. Then try to jump to me as I pull you
towards me.”
The girl loosened her boot from the stirrup and let go her rein,
bending towards him as his arm went round her waist and catching his
collar as directed.
“Go!” he cried and she sprang towards him as well as she could. He
drew her towards him with all his strength, and in a second the girl
was landed on the pommel of his saddle. She knew what she had to do:
to leave his right hand free, so she clasped both her arms round his
neck. He pulled at his reins with all his might--it was two lives
now--and cried to the horse. The noble animal seemed to understand and
threw himself back on his haunches.
He stopped only a few yards from the open chasm, into which the mare
went with a wild rush.
Athlyne slid from the saddle, holding the girl in his arms. As the
terrible danger came to an end her eyes closed and she sank senseless
to the ground.
Then the deluge!
Through the barrier, which appeared to melt away before them, came a
rush of people. Some were on horseback, some on foot, others in
buggies, carriages, motor cars. Foremost came Colonel Ogilvie who
leaped the broken barrier; then after him a policeman whose horse had
manifestly been trained to timber. At last several mounted police
fearing that some terrible accident might occur from the crowding on
the viaduct ranged themselves in front of the opening and protected it
till the coming of a sufficient number of policemen, on foot and
panting, had arrived to hold it.
Colonel Ogilvie threw himself from his horse and knelt down beside
Joy. When he saw that she was only fainting he stood up and lifted his
hat to her rescuer:
“I don’t know how to thank you, sir,” he said in a voice broken with
emotion. “’Twas a gallant act! Some day, when you have children of
your own, you may understand what it is to me!” Athlyne who was
kneeling, still holding up Joy’s head, said in the disconnected way
usual to such circumstances:
“Do not mention it! It has been a pleasure to me to be of any
service,” and so forth. Then, seeing signs in the girl’s face of
returning animation, he said aloud so as to divert some of the
attention:
“Has any one seen after the mare? The poor brute must be mangled, if
it has not been killed; it ought to be put out of pain.”
The poor brute was indeed a pitiable sight; there was a sigh of relief
from the crowd round it down below when a policeman put it out of pain
with a revolver shot.
Seeing that the lady was now recovering and in the charge of her
father, Athlyne wanted to get away. He hated all such fuss and
publicity. He could not let her go lest she should be hurt, but he
signed to her father who took his place; then he arose. The girl’s
eyelids quivered and she gave a heavy sigh. Then the eyes opened and
she stared wildly at the sea of faces around her. She seemed to recall
everything in an instant, and with a shudder and a violent movement
sprang to her feet.
“Where is he?” she said anxiously. Then, recovering her full presence
of mind and seeing her father, she turned to him and putting her arms
round him began to cry on his shoulder.