TRUE HEART’S-CONTENT
Athlyne’s one idea was now to get away quickly. The crowd was
gathering closely and were beginning to ask questions. One big,
intelligent-looking sergeant 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 confidential
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 beckoned 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 bruise or two an’ the
skin from off iv his nose.”
“Good! You’ll tell the lady, she is sure to be distressed about him.
Give him this for me, please. And here is my card. I am at the
Manhattan.”
“Thank you again, sorr. ’Tis mighty 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 chauffeur 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 gratitude 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, impulsively holding out his hand.
“You’re a soldier aren’t you--a cavalry man?”
“No. Field Artillery 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 deception. Silently he
handed his card. “Mr. Hardy” 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 mumbled 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 kindly 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 concealed 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 hearty 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 galloping.
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
suite. 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 consternation 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 gracefully to such an overt 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 yeast 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 valiant stranger
was so handsome and of so distinguished 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 gallant rescue
of her dear niece. She finished up with an uncontrollable sob 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 incisive humorous phrases or her ringing laugh. The
effect on Athlyne was peculiar; without analysing the intellectual
process too closely, he felt in his mind with a secret exultation 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 ordination of things. This is the true
heart’s-content. It is the rapture of hearts, the communion of souls.
Passion may later burn the rapture into fixed 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 Platonic 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 constraint 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 alias, their kindness only emphasised to him his own
chagrin. Colonel Ogilvie conscious, rather by instinct than from any
definite word or action, that his guest was more reticent 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
gallantly it was true--he found his friendly interest in his new
acquaintance was not received with equal heartiness. The truth was
that Athlyne was afraid. He felt instinctively 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 tangle
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 determined at any cost not to let anything
interfere with this. At first Colonel Ogilvie’s allusions to his home
and his place in the world were purely 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 strings 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
unfamiliar part; that of an exuberant man.
Joy was constrained, 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 passionate
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 placid 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 lashes; 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 worthiness of “Joy’s man”--that is how she tabulated
him in her own mind. She felt quite satisfied as to her own judgment,
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 inquisitive; 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
kindliness so full of pitfalls, 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 lustre, 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 perpetuated something of the spirit of
subordination--some survival of old feudal 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, struts 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 uncommon; 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 faculties
which wait on the intelligence are already braced 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 thoroughly understand either the purpose or the
end. Now she spoke:
“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 tuned 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
intentional 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 nonchalance 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 grizzlies; 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 reassured him.
“What a pity you have to give up your hunting,” said Colonel Ogilvie,
heartily. “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 _Graphic_ 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 ardent 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 delightful people existed. … But
until that … that accident I had no such knowledge. I must not say
that ‘happy’ accident for it was fraught 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 genial influence.
It was quite a sign of his existing attitude that he now took on
himself to say just what he had reprehended 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.