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.
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