“LOOK AT ME!”
When on Tuesday afternoon “Mr. Hardy” visited at the Holland House
he found only the single ladies at home. Colonel Ogilvie had gone out
in the morning to see after several matters of business, both in
connection with Air and relating to the forthcoming visit to Europe.
He had said he would probably not be back till dinner time. Mrs.
Ogilvie had gone out after lunch for a drive and would pay some visits
before returning home. Joy pleaded headache as an excuse for remaining
at home. Indeed her excuse was quite real; no one can pass so
melancholy a part of a night as she had done without suffering the
next morning. As the day wore on, however, the headache insensibly
departed; something else had taken its place. Joy would not admit to
herself what that something was; but that afternoon she took unusual
pains with her toilet. Judy noticed it with her usual acute
observation, understood it with her understanding sympathy; with her
wonted discretion she remained silent. She felt, and rightly, that the
time had not yet come when she could either be serious with Joy or
jest with her on the subject nearest to her heart. One thing she did
which can never be out of place, especially when it is true: she
showed pleasure in her niece’s looks, taking care, however to put her
own reason for it on a non-offensive basis.
“Joy,” she said “that terrible experience of Sunday has not told on
you a bit. You are looking simply lovely.” Ordinarily Joy would have
known it, and would not have shrunk from admitting it to herself, or
possibly even to her aunt; but to-day she was full of self doubting.
Her very flush of happy excitement when her aunt spoke would have
betrayed her secret to a much less sympathetic or experienced person
than Judy.
It is love more than any other cause or emotion or feeling which
creates self-distrust with the young. And sometimes with the old, for
the matter of that.
When she found that Aunt Judy did not “chaff” her or ask her
questions, which she rather feared would happen, Joy beamed. Indeed it
looked to Judy’s loving eyes as if she visibly blossomed. Judy spoke
of her dress, remarking how well the dark full-coloured green silk
became her slender figure; but she was careful not to overdo her
praise, or to suggest any special cause for so elaborate a toilet.
But Judy was of a distinctly practical nature. She took care to send a
message to the hall that if any visitors should come, though both
Colonel and Mrs. Ogilvie were out, Miss Ogilvie and Miss Hayes were at
home.
Athlyne found both ladies busily idle. Joy was reading a novel; which
by the way she put down hurriedly without as Judy noticed, marking the
place. Judy was knitting; that sort of heavy uninteresting knitting
which is manifestly for the poor! She was used to say that such was
the proper sort of occupation for an old maid. She, too, put down the
cause of her occupation, but deliberately; thereby giving time for the
guest to salute her niece without the need of interruption. It did not
matter, then, if Joy’s hand did remain an instant longer in his than
formality demanded, nor if--when released--it was white in patches as
when extra force is applied to delicate flesh. For a few minutes Judy
joined in the conversation with her usual brilliancy. But to-day she
was distinctly restless, sitting down and jumping up again; moving out
of the room quietly and coming back noisily--the proper way as she
said on an after occasion for all old maids to move. Whenever she came
back she would join in the conversation in a sort of butterfly fashion
till she flitted away again.
In one of these trios when Mr. Hardy happened to remark that he would
like to know what the movements of the Ogilvies would be, and what
address they gave for letters when they were away, Joy answered:
“Daddy always has our letters sent to Brown Shipleys in Pall Mall. But
we shall be moving about a good deal I expect. Mother has to take
baths at Ischia again, and one of us will stay with her; but Daddy
wants to go about a bit and see something of England. He is set on
seeing the Border counties this summer.”
“Then how am I to know where you are?” he asked impulsively. With a
bright smile Joy nodded over to Miss Hayes:
“You had better ask Aunt Judy. She might keep you advised. She’s the
letter-writer of the family!”
When in her turn Joy had moved away on some little domestic duty he
turned to Judy and said:
“Won’t you let me know the moves on the board, Miss Hayes. It would be
very kind of you.” He looked so earnest over it that she felt her
heart flutter. She said at once:
“Of course I shall, if you will let me have an address to write to.”
He had evidently thought over this part of the matter, for he took
from his pocketbook a card on which he had written below his printed
name: care Jonathan Goldsworth, Solicitor. 47B Lincoln’s Inn Fields,
London, W. C. “That will always find me. I may be away or travelling;
but my letters are sent on every day.”
Judy thanked him, and seeing that Joy was out of earshot added on her
own account:
“It is only right that you, who did so much for my dear niece--and so
for us all--should know at least where she is.”
“Thank you very, very much!” said Athlyne impulsively. He had all an
Irishman’s instinctive knowledge of woman’s character and felt that
Judy was to be trusted, that she was heart-wholly devoted to her
niece. On her part Judy _knew_ that he could be trusted to the full,
especially where Joy was concerned. And from that moment she began to
take an interest in the love affair; an interest quite personal to
herself and independent of her love for the girl. She felt that she
was a participant in all schemes which were to be; and that, she came
to the conclusion, was about all the real romance that an old maid
could share in. “Thank God there’s that left at any rate!” was her
prayer of gratitude.
Athlyne felt a powerful impulse to make a _confidante_ of her. This
was the first chance he had of disclosing the reality of things, and
he was just about to begin when Joy returned. Once again did that
self-distrust, incidental to his state of mind, cramp him. He fancied
that it might be premature. Not knowing how deeply Joy cared for him
already, he was unwilling to take any chance which might militate
against his ultimate success. There was also another hampering feeling
coincident with the self-distrust: he thought it might be possible
that a confidence made to Judy might be embarrassing to her with her
own folk. Already his devotion was deep enough and pure enough to
prevent his doing intentionally anything which might cause her pain.
Could Aunt Judy have looked into his heart, as she could and would
have done had he been a woman, she would have been satisfied of the
genuineness of his affection; and so she would have had no doubts at
all as to the end of Joy’s love affair.
Joy’s return, however, brought somehow a sense of restraint. She had
herself originated or initiated a mechanism of correspondence and she
feared that Mr. Hardy might notice that she had done so. In her
present state of feeling towards the man, the very idea of such a
thing was fraught with humiliation. It is extraordinary how much
people take to heart the belief on the part of others of that they
have intended. Truth, truly, is a bright weapon; even the flash of it
has its own terrors!
Judy did not comprehend exactly what the trouble was. She could see
that there was restraint on both sides, and was wondering whether it
had been possible that he had been speaking too impulsively--“going
too quick” was the way she put it to herself--and that Joy had
resented or feared it. Not the fact but the rapidity. Well Judy knew
that in her youth a woman most holds back when the wildest desire of
her heart is to rush forward; that the instinct of woman being to draw
man on, she will spend the last ounce of her strength in pushing him
back. Judy had once said:
“A woman wants a man to be master, and specially to be her master. She
wants to feel that when it comes to a struggle she hasn’t got a chance
with him, either to fight or to run away. That’s why we like to make a
man follow when in truth we are dying to run after him--and to catch
him up!” Some of her circle to whom the heterodox saying had been
repeated professed to be very indignant as well as horrified. This was
chiefly noticeable in such of the most elderly of the good ladies as
had a lurid past or a large family, or both.
If, however, Judy had any doubts as to the cause she had none whatever
of the fact. There was no mistaking the droop of Joy’s eyes, or the
sudden lifting and quick dropping of the lids which makes the densest
man’s heart flutter; no mistaking his eager look; the glowing eyes
ranging over face and form when the windows of her soul were closed,
and entranced in their light when they were open. Judy herself knew
the power of those gray, deep eyes. Even when her niece had been a
baby there seemed something hypnotic about them. They could disarm
anger, or change the iron of theory into the water of fact. Often and
often after some such episode when she had thought the matter over she
had said to herself:
“Lord! if she’s like that as a baby with me, what will she be with a
man when she’s a woman!” Judy who was a self-observer knew
instinctively that in Joy was an inherent influence over men. There
was some very subtle, delicate force which seemed to emanate from her;
some force at once compelling and tranquillizing, for the explanation
of which mere will-power was insufficient. The power was now in active
exercise; but it was turned inwards. Joy was in love! Judy knew it as
well as if she had herself acknowledged it; indeed better, for the
acknowledgment of such a secret, except to the man himself, is given
with reserve. And so she made up her mind to further the affair; but
to prevent Joy betraying herself unduly during such furtherance. By
“unduly” Judy really meant “unwisely” as to ultimate and most complete
efficacy.
She had an idea that Joy herself would approve, at present, of such
discretion. It seemed a direct confirmation of such idea when
presently the girl said to her in a faint whisper:
“Don’t go away again Aunt Judy!”
When, however, in the course of conversation as the three sat chatting
together happily, Mr. Hardy mentioned that his ship sailed in the
early morning and she saw the colour leave the girl’s cheeks for a
moment, just as a white squall sweeps a sunlit sea, Judy’s heart
softened. She understood that retreating wave of colour. Nature has
its own analogies to its own anomalies; there is a white blackbird,
why not a white blush! So when the time drew near for the departure of
the visitor Judy slipped away for a minute. When she had gone the two
sat still. Athlyne’s eyes were on Joy, eager, burning. Her eyes were
down, the black lashes curling against her cheeks. In a voice rather
husky he said in a low tone:
“Won’t you think of me sometimes till we meet again?” Her answer was
given in what she wished to be a matter-of-fact tone, but the slight
quaver in it told another story:
“Of course I shall! How can I help it? You saved my life!” There was
an entrancing demureness in the downcast eyes. But it was not enough
for the man. He wanted to see the eyes, to gaze in them, to lose
himself in them once again. There is for each individual nature some
distinctive way of expressing itself. Sometimes it is the mouth which
tells the story; sometimes it is by simple existence such as the lines
of the nose or forehead, by the shape and movement of the hands;
sometimes by a characteristic habit. Joy’s nature spoke through the
eyes; perhaps it is, that intention is best given by the eyes. Anyhow
the lover wanted to see them.
In a low voice--not a whisper--that thrilled with intensity he said:
“Joy, look at me!” He spoke her name, though it was for the first
time, quite unconsciously. As she heard it Joy’s heart beat so that
she feared he would notice it, and all the self-protective instincts
of womanhood rose at the thought. For an instant her face glowed; then
it grew pale again. She did not hesitate, however. She raised her eyes
and looked him full in the face. Her cheeks were flaming now, but she
did not heed it. In the face of nature what, after all, is convention.
As Athlyne lost himself in those wonderful eyes he had a wild almost
over-mastering desire to take her in his arms and kiss her straight on
the beautiful mouth. He was bending towards her for the purpose, she
was swaying towards him, he believed; but for long afterwards he could
not be sure of the matter.
But suddenly he saw a change in the girl’s face, a look of something
like terror which seemed in an instant to turn her to stone. It was
but a momentary change, however. The spasm passed, and, just as though
it was to his eyes as if he had waked from a dream, she was her
easeful self again. At the same moment the outer door of the _piece_
opened and Mrs. Ogilvie’s voice was heard as she entered:
“Judy, I am so glad! I am told he has not gone yet. I should have been
so sorry if I had not seen him!” When she entered the room, three
seconds later, she found the two young people talking quietly
according to the demure common-place of convention.
Mrs. Ogilvie was very hearty in her manner; a little more hearty than
usual, for she had a sort of feeling as if something extra in the way
of civility was due to him after the way her husband had spoken of
him. This was illustrative of two things. First the woman’s
unconscious acceptance of an unfavourable criticism of an absent
person, as if it had been made to and not merely of him; second the
way the sternness of a man’s judgment is viewed by the females of his
family. She insisted that Mr. Hardy should stay for tea and asked Joy
to ring and order it.
Joy had been at once relieved and disappointed by the sudden entry of
her mother. The maidenhood in her was glad of the postponement of the
necessity for her surrender; the womanhood in her was disappointed by
it. She was both maid and woman; let the female reader say, and the
male reader guess, which feeling most predominated. She was glad that
_he_ was staying a little longer; for so she might at least feast her
eyes on him again; but it was at best a chastened gladness, for well
she knew that that thrilling moment would not come again--during that
interview. And he was going away next morning!
Athlyne, too, was ill at ease. He, too, knew there would be no more
opportunity now to follow up his declaration. The chagrin of his
disappointment almost made him cross, such being the nature of man.
Here, however, both his breeding and the kindliness of his nature
stood to him; the shadow quickly passed. Later on in the evening, when
he was thinking the matter over, he came to the conclusion that the
interposition, though he did not attribute it to any divine origin,
was after all perhaps best. It could not, or might not, suit him to
declare himself so quickly. He felt that under the circumstances of
his false name it would be necessary, or at any rate wise, to take
Colonel Ogilvie into his confidence before declaring himself to his
daughter.
It is thus that we poor mortals deceive ourselves. He had been just
about to declare himself in the most passionate and overt way a man
can; by taking the girl in his arms and kissing her, without even a
passing thought of her father. But now, from some other cause, quite
outside the girl and not even within her knowledge, he found his duty.
One might with this knowledge easily differentiate the values of
“necessary” and “wise” in his mind regarding his confession to her
father.
Joy found a very distinct, though shy, pleasure in handing him tea and
cake. Judy as usual presided at the tea-table. She did not interfere
unduly with her niece’s ministrations, but she took care that she had
plenty of opportunities. “Joy dear won’t you see if Mr. Hardy will
take more tea?”--“has Mr. Hardy enough sugar?” and so forth. She had
noticed those sudden liftings of the girl’s eyes, and knew what they
meant to a woman--and to a man. Athlyne did not as a rule make tea a
“square” meal, but this time he got in that direction. He refused
nothing she offered. He would have accepted death at her hands now, if
it would have pleased her; and it was only the girl’s discretion which
saved the situation.
In due time he made his adieux and took his leave. With Joy there was
no more than a handshake. It was perhaps part of a second longer than
customary, but the force with which the squeeze was given lingered
long in her memory. Perhaps it was the pain inflicted in the operation
which made her often during the evening, when she was alone, caress
the possibly wounded hand! That night she went to sleep with her right
hand pressed to her heart.
Judy had a wild impulse to tell Joy to go to the door with the
departing guest, but in the presence of her mother she did not dare to
suggest it. Had she been alone she would probably have done so.
Athlyne walked away with his mind in a whirl. In his heart was ever
surging up through all other thoughts that one sublime recognition
which comes to every man at least once in his life: that which Sir
Geraint voiced:
“Here, by God’s rood is the one maid for me!” To this all other
thoughts gave way. It obsessed him. When he came to Forty Second
Street he did not turn towards the hotel but kept straight on up Fifth
Avenue till he reached Central Park. He felt the need of movement. He
wanted to be alone in the open. At Central Park his steps took him
seemingly of their own accord towards the Riverside Drive. When he
came to a place amongst trees seeming to hang over the river he sat on
a seat and gave way to his thoughts. There was no one near him. Below
him was the quiet river with its passing life; beyond, the Jersey
shore so distant that details of life were not apparent. He took off
his hat, more in reverence than for ease, as he thought of the
beautiful girl who had so strangely come into life. Over and over
again he said to himself in endless repetition:
“Joy! Joy! Joy! Joy!” He sat till the light began to fail and for long
after the sudden darkness of the American night had swooped down. Then
he went home.
In the hotel he found a visitor waiting for him. Mr. Breckenridge had
come to say good-bye. He did so with so much heartiness that Athlyne
could not bear to be aught but hearty himself. Though he longed to be
alone he insisted on the young fellow coming up to his own rooms.
The boy was not quite at ease so Athlyne said to him:
“There is something on your mind. What is it?”
“Well, look here, sir,” he answered gravely. “You have treated me like
a comrade, and I want to treat you like one!”
“Go on, old chap. I’m listening.” Not without some nervousness the
other proceeded:
“I saw in the _Journal_ last evening that you had dined on Sunday
evening in the Holland with Colonel Ogilvie.”
“Those damned reporters!” interrupted Athlyne, but at once told him
with a wave of his hand to proceed:
“That hung in my mind from something you said to me the other evening.
That confidence which I shall always value.” Athlyne nodded. He went
on:
“I know something of that family. I’m from Kentucky myself; and I was
there for a while--that time of the nigger disturbance you know--and I
was quartered not far from Airlville. I have met Colonel Ogilvie; but
it was on duty and amongst a good many others so he would not remember
me. I never met any of his family; but I need not tell you that I fell
in love with Miss Ogilvie. No fellow could help that; one glimpse of
her is enough---- However---- I heard a lot down there about the old
man, and as I was keen about the girl I took it all in and remembered
it. I want to tell you this, because he is a very peculiar man. He is
a splendid old chap. As brave as a lion, and as masterful as Teddy
Roosevelt himself. But all the same he has his ideas which are hardly
up to date. He is as stern as Fate in matters of--of--well, social
matters. They told me a story of him which when I recalled it has
troubled me since I saw you. It was about a man whose identity he
mistook and who for a jest allowed the error to go, and kept it up. He
was a Northern of course, for a Southern would have understood, and
our boys are sometimes very keen on a joke. But it was no joke when
the old man tumbled to it. He called it an unforgivable outrage and
insisted on fighting over it. I tell you it nearly cost the joker his
life. He was drilled right through, and only escaped death by a
miracle. I tell you all this, sir, because of your confidence in me.
If I might make a suggestion--you won’t think it beastly presumptuous
of me will you?” Athlyne held out his hand; the other after shaking
it, went on: “I would venture to suggest that--of course if you have
not done so already--you should take him into your confidence before
leaving here. It might be awkward if the old man were to find out for
himself. He would think it a want of trust, and he might never forgive
it. I am sure you would like to meet him and his again--you know you
can’t save the life of a girl like that every day----” He stopped
there, confused and blushing.
Athlyne was touched by the young man’s kindly frankness and sincerity.
He thanked him heartily but in a regretful way added:
“Unfortunately I didn’t tell him. It was all so quick, and there was
no opportunity when we did meet; and now I may not have the chance for
some time. It would not do to write; I must see him and explain. And I
go away early to-morrow. But be sure of this: the very first chance I
get I shall tell him. I do wish for the friendship of him and his; and
I should be main sorry if any foolishness hindered it. I shall have to
do it carefully, I can see from what you tell me that he may construe
my accepting his hospitality in my assumed name as an offence.” He
went to the door with his friend, but before parting he said:
“By the way I should like you to do something for me if you don’t
mind. I have asked the Horse Exchange people to get me another mount
of the same strain as my black, a mare this time. I have given them
full instructions, and if you will, I shall tell them that they must
have your approval. I want some one who knows a good horse; and as I
have given them carte blanche as to price it is right I should have
some one to refer to. They are to send it to England for me.”
When Breckenridge was gone he set about his preparations for his early
start. Strange to say he never thought of dinner at all that day; the
omission may have been due to his hearty tea! As he worked he thought
gravely over what his young friend had told him. He could see good
cause for concern. Colonel Ogilvie’s attitude towards
misrepresentation only echoed his own feeling. He came to the
conclusion that there lay before him much thought; and possibly much
action.
But all the same this branch of the subject did not monopolise his
thoughts that night. As he lay awake he kept repeating to himself
again, and again, and again:
“Joy! Joy! Joy! Joy!” He fell asleep with the words on his lips. The
thought continued in his heart.