Athlyne did not feel safe till the French vessel¹ was dipping her nose into the open Atlantic seas, and the Long Island Hills were a faint blue line on the western horizon. The last dozen hours of his stay in New York had been as though spent in prison. He knew well now that he really loved Joy; that this was no passing fancy, no mere³ desire of possession of a pretty woman. All phases of the passion of love, from the solely⁴ physical to the purely⁵ spiritual, have their own forces commanding different sets of nerves. Any one of these many phases may be all-compelling—for a time. But it is rather the blind dogged reckless pursuit of an immediate⁶ purpose than the total abandonment to a settled conviction. All the passions—or rather the phases of one passion—are separate and co-ordinate. Inasmuch as they are centred in one physical identity they are correlated. Nature has its own mysteries; and the inter-relations of various functions of a human being form not the least of them. As there are broad divisions of them—Christians accept three, the ancient Egyptians held to eight—so must we accept their uses and consequences. “Body and soul,” so runs the saying of the illiterate⁷, not seldom used in objurgation. “Body, mind and soul” says the quasi-thinker who believes that he has grasped the truth of the great parcelling-out of qualities. “Heart, soul and flesh” says the lover who knows that he understands. The lover alone it is who knows as distinguished⁸ from believing. For his world is complete; in it there is no striving after knowledge, no vain desire of many things, no self-seeking. For the true lover’s one idea is to give. In such a world there can be no doubting, no fearing, no hoping. Before its creation Pandora’s box has been emptied to the last. It may be that the lover’s world is only a phantasm, a condition. It may be that it is a reality which can only be grasped by those who have been gifted with special powers. It may be that it is an orb⁹ as real as our own world, whirling in space in darkness, and can only be seen by those who have a new sense of vision. Surely it is not too much to believe, following the great analogies, that the soul as well as the body has eyes, and that all eyes of all sorts and degrees have vision of one kind or another; that there may be even a power of choice. We know that in the great manifestation¹⁰ which we call Light are various rays, each with its own distinctive¹¹ powers and limitations. When these are all classified and understood, then science may take breathing time for its next great effort at investigation¹². Why, then, may not certain visual organs be adapted to specific purposes! We know through our sensoria that there is response in various ways to seekings of our own; whatever be the means of communication; whatever it be—electrical or magnetic, or through some other of the occult root forces, the message is conveyed. Why may it not be, again following the great analogies, that two forces of varying kind coming together are necessary for creation of any kind. We know it of lightning, we know it of protoplasm, and of whatever lies between them of which we know anything. We find or have ground for believing that the same conditions hold in all the worlds which germinate¹³ and increase and multiply. May it then not be that in love—“creation’s final law”—the meeting of the two forces of sex may create a new light; a light strange to either sex alone; a light in which that other world, spinning in the darkness through ether, swims into view in that new-created light.  
In physical life when flesh touches flesh the whole body responds, provided that the two are opposite yet sympathetic. When ideas are exchanged, mind come forth¹⁴ to mind till each understands with a common force. When soul meets soul some finer means of expression comes into play. Something so fine and of condition so rare that other senses can neither realise nor conceive.
 
But in the lover all the voices speak, and speak simultaneously¹⁵; the soul and the mind and the body all call, each to its new-found mate. What we call “heart” gives the note for that wonderful song of love; that song of songs whose music is as necessary in a living world as light or air, and which is more potent¹⁶ in the end than the forces of winds or seas.
 
To Athlyne this new world had dawned. In the light which made it visible to him other things looked small; some of them base. And this, though the consciousness of love was still wanting; it had only spoken instinctively¹⁸. The completeness only comes with that assurance of reciprocity which need not be spoken in words. Athlyne had been very close to it. The yearning¹⁹ of his own nature had spoken in that call out of the depths of his heart: “Joy look at me!” And if there had been time for the girl’s new-wakened love to surge up through the deep waters of her virgin²⁰ timidity his happiness might have been by now complete. As yet he only believed that there might yet be happiness for him; he did not know! Had he seen in Joy’s beautiful eyes the answering look which he hoped for, he would have been justified²¹ in a change of his plans. He would then have spoken to her father at the earliest possible opportunity, have told him the entire story of his visit to America under an assumed name, and trusted to his good feeling to understand and absolve²² him. As it was he had to accept existing circumstances; and so he prepared himself for the future. First he would get rid of his alias²³; then he would try to see Joy again and form some idea of his fate. After that he would make his confession²⁴ to Colonel Ogilvie; and if the latter still remained friendly he would press his suit.
 
If some impartial²⁵ reasoner, like Judy for instance, had been summing up the matter for him the same would have said: “What are you troubling yourself about. You are as good as he is, you are a suitable match for the girl in every way. You have a title, a large estate, a fine social position personally. You have a more than good record as a soldier. You are young, handsome, strong, popular. You saved the girl’s life at the risk of your own. Then why, in the name of common sense, are you worrying? The old man is not an ass²; he will understand at once that you had a good reason for assuming another name. He will see that the circumstances of your meeting were such that you had no time to undeceive him. He owes you already the deepest debt of gratitude²⁶ that a father can owe. The girl owes you also her life. What in the world better chance do you want? You love the girl yourself …”
 
Aye! there it was. He loved the girl! That hampered²⁷ him.
 
During the whole time of the voyage he kept to himself. He made no new friends, not even acquaintances; he had begun to feel that so long as he remained under the shadow of that accursed alias each momentarily pleasant episode of his life was only the beginning of a new series of social embarrassments²⁸. When the ship arrived at Havre he got off and went at once to London. There he stayed for a few days in the lodgings²⁹ which he had taken in the name of Hardy³⁰. He set himself gravely to work to wipe out from his belongings³¹ every trace of the false name. It was carefully cut or scraped from the new luggage, obliterated³² from the new linen³³ and underclothes by the simple process of scissors. The cards and stationery³⁴ were burned. It was with a sigh of relief that, having discharged all his obligations, he drove to his chambers³⁵ in the Albany and resumed his own name and his old life. He was, however, somewhat restless. He tried to satisfy himself with long rides, but even the speed of the Kentucky horse who got more than his share of work did not satisfy him. There was some new uneasiness in his life; an overwhelming want which nothing of the old routine, no matter how pleasant it might be, could fill.
 
 
 
When “Mr. Hardy” had said good bye to her, Joy’s new life began. New life indeed, for Love is a new birth, a re-creation. Whenever she thought of herself she seemed to be leading a double life. All the routine, the cares and the duties of the old life remained unchanged; but superimposed on it was quite a new existence, one of self-surrender, of infinite yearning, of infinite hope, of endless doubting as to whether she was worthy³⁶ of all that which she shyly believed really existed. She was all sweetness to those around her, to whom she seemed happy—but with a tinge³⁷ of sadness. Both her father and mother believed that she was feeling the reaction from the shock of the Riverside adventure. Her mother possibly had at first an idea that she had given some thought to the handsome young man who had saved her; but when she herself reviewed in her mind how quietly, not to say unconcernedly, the young man had taken the whole episode she was content to let it take a minor³⁸ place in both her concern and her recollection.
 
In due course the Ogilvie family set out on their European journey, and in due course without any occurrence of note they arrived at their destination.
 
Hotel Bellevue,
Casamicciŏla, Ischia.
 
Dear Mr. Hardy:
 
As I promised to write to you I now try to keep my word. I dare say you will think that an old maid is glad to get a chance of writing to a man! Perhaps she is! But I may say a word in your ear: the habit of personal reticence³⁹ begins younger and lingers longer than you would think. However this is not the time or place—or weather for philosophising. The scenery is far too lovely to think of anything unpleasant. We got here all right after a voyage which was nice enough, though rather dull, and with no opportunities of making new friends. We can’t have runaway⁴⁰ horses on shipboard! My sister will remain here for some weeks and I shall stay with her as it wouldn’t do to leave her all alone. It brought the whole caboodle of us hurrying over from America through a blizzard⁴¹ the last time! No, thank you! And Colonel Ogilvie doesn’t care to travel by himself. He is set on going up to Westmoreland which he says is the original Country of his branch of the Ogilvies. He is complaining of getting no riding here; and yet he says that when he gets to London he will hire a motor. Men are queer things, aren’t they? The rest of us are quite well and looking forward to our English visit where we may meet some friends. How are you? I suppose spending your time as usual galloping⁴³ about like a knight-errant on a big black horse rescuing distressed⁴⁴ ladies. And writing letters to a pack of women not all old maids! I suppose you will spare a moment to write to one in answer to this, just to say where you are and where you will be in the next few weeks. My brother’s section of our party leaves here next week. As I am an old maid I am shy of telling my sister, and most of the rest of us, that I am writing to a gentleman; but if they knew it they too would send their love. For my own part I must confine myself to kind remembrance.
 
Believe me,
Yours faithfully,
Judith Hayes.
 
P. S.—By the way, I forgot to say that the first contingent⁴⁵ will after a few days in London go on to Cumberland or Westmoreland—I know it is the “Lake” country!
 
Athlyne read the letter eagerly; but when he had finished he dropped it impatiently. There was not a thing in it that he wanted to know—not once the name he wanted to see. He sat for a while thinking; then he took it up again saying to himself:
 
“She’s no fool; it must have taken her some pains to say so little.” As he read it the second time, more carefully this time and not merely looking for what he wished to find, the letter told its own story, and in its own way. Then he smiled heartily⁴⁶ as he sat thinking it over and commenting to himself:
 
“Not a word about her; not even her name! And yet she must know that it would be of some interest to me to hear of her. I wonder if it would do to run over to Ischia. There seems to be a party of them …” He read over the letter again with a puzzled look, which all at once changed to a smile. “Good old Judy! So that’s it is it! That’s not the first letter Miss Judy has written with a double meaning in it. She hasn’t those fine eyes and that quick wit for nothing. Why it’s as clever and as secret as that sent to Basing at Pretoria.” For a good while he pondered over it, making notes on the back of the envelope. Then he read these over:
 
“We are at Ischia.
 
“I am writing because I promised.
 
“The habit of personal reticence (that means not saying a thing for yourself) is for both young and old.
 
“Our voyage was dull, no adventure, no meeting any one like you.
 
“Mrs. Ogilvie and Judy remain at Ischia some weeks.
 
“Colonel Ogilvie doesn’t like going alone and goes to the Lake County (who is to be with him but Joy............