met on the _Mauretania_, attacked and knocked down in the street, by the
"Difficult Young Man to Approach."
* * * * *
Now, at last, Loveland understood everything that had happened to him in
New York, even to the mystery of the bank. Again he seemed to see
Cadwallader Hunter bending to talk with the good-looking, dark young man
who had dined with the Coolidges. Mr. van Cotter had doubtless been one
of those who had received the warning cablegrams, and naturally he had
passed on the interesting news to the Coolidges and Miltons. Cadwallader
Hunter, who had stopped to chat with the party, had been just in time to
glean the information, and had taken revenge for the Englishman's
rudeness of the morning by advising the hotel people to get rid of an
undesirable client.
Oh, yes, it was easy enough to see it all now, even the reason why his
mother and the London bankers had failed to answer his appeals for
money. They had thought that Foxham was cabling, and had accordingly
refused to be taken in. Apparently Foxham had absconded--somewhere--and
his misdoings had been discovered on the other side before his late
master had found him out. Perhaps Foxham had taken the ticket for the
_Baltic_ which he--Val--had instructed him to sell, and used it for
himself, booking as a passenger for America in the name of Lord
Loveland.
In that case the fellow had doubtless arrived in New York by this time,
on the _Baltic_--the ship on which his master had originally intended
to sail; and Heaven alone knew what new mischief he might have been
working on this side of the water.
The thought of what might have happened was almost as infuriating as the
knowledge of what certainly had happened. It all came from accepting the
chance offered by Jim Harborough to sail on the _Mauretania_; but in
spite of everything he had suffered, Loveland told himself that he would
not have it different. If he had come over on the _Baltic_ he would
probably by this time be engaged to some American heiress, and would
never have met Lesley Dearmer.
Just now, his acquaintance with her, combined with all the other
extraordinary results of his sailing on the _Mauretania_, was putting
him to the torture; and he was gloomily convinced that nothing would
ever make things come right; nevertheless, he was dimly, subconsciously
aware even in this bitter moment that he wouldn't choose release from
torture at the price of not knowing the girl.
"All this is a surprise to you, then?" her voice broke into the midst of
his reflections over the newspaper cutting.
"Completely."
"How very odd that you didn't read the papers," exclaimed Lesley.
"I was so disgusted with the way New York was treating me that I wasn't
very keen to see what it was saying of me. Besides, as I told you, I
thought I _did_ know. I supposed it was all about the hotel fuss, and my
knocking down that man Milton."
"Why _did_ you knock him down?"
"I slapped him in the face, and he fell down."
"But why did you slap him in the face?"
"I can't tell you that, Miss Dearmer."
"Well," said Lesley, looking at him always from under her lashes to see
how he was taking her words, "you've been dreadfully punished, at all
events."
"I don't think I deserved punishment for that."
"Don't you? Of course I don't know anything about _that_, but you used
to be--well, rather arrogant."
"I'm not arrogant now." Loveland smiled faintly. "I'm almost inclined to
think I never shall be again."
"If you're not really Lord Loveland----"
"Not really----" He almost gasped, as he would have repeated her words.
It had not occurred to him, even while he read the cutting, that Lesley
Dearmer could possibly think him a fraud. "What--you--you--don't believe
in me?" he stammered. "_You?_"
Apparently she was untouched by the reproach, the actual consternation
in his voice.
"Why should _I_ believe, more than anyone else?" she asked with a little
dainty, sidewise turn of her head. "I was only a ship acquaintance, you
know--like the others."
"Like the others who threw me over," he said.
"Yes, like the others. There was no difference--was there?" she
challenged him.
But Loveland was in no mood to take up the gauntlet, if it were a
gauntlet that she threw down.
"I suppose not," he answered from the depths.
"You valued almost all your other acquaintances on board more than you
did me," the girl went on. "You were quite frank about that. By your own
admission, you were a bit of an adventurer, coming over to my country
to see what you could devour. I used to hate that in you--all the more
because I thought you a _titled_ adventurer. There was less excuse for a
well brought up man, with every advantage of birth and education, than
for----"
"Say it, Miss Dearmer. Say what you really think of me."
"I don't say I do think it. I say only, why should _I_ believe in you,
when other people don't?"
"I see now, there's _no_ reason. And I'm not going to ask you to
believe."
"You're not going to assure me that you are the real Lord Loveland?"
"No, I'm not. I'm not going to assert myself, or defend myself in any
way--to you. I want you to draw your own conclusions."
"Very well," said Lesley, with sparkling eyes. "I do draw them."
"May I ask what they are?"
"You may ask, but I'm not going to answer your question just now. There
are other questions to attend to, which we've dropped for this subject.
About 'Lord Bob,' for instance."
"I've no excuse to offer, even for stealing your friend's play, except
that--we were hard up, and we saw nothing else to do."
"Your people in England, if----"
"I've had no answer to my cablegrams. There's no time for answers to
have come to letters, yet."
"I see. Meanwhile?----"
"Meanwhile, we're on our beam ends."
"You say 'we.' You identify yourself with these people--these poor
little stranded actors?"
"Oh, yes, I'm one of them. A poor little stranded actor, too."
"You're not going to desert them?"
"No. We'll sink or swim together. You see, I've got rather fond of two
of the 'poor little stranded actors'--my companions in misery; Ed
Binney, who's very ill, really, and oughtn't to be acting--a good
fellow, if ever there was one; and Miss de Lisle, the star----"
Lesley's face changed slightly, and her lips opened, but she did not
speak.
"Who will perhaps some day marry a great friend of mine in New York."
"Oh! So you have a friend in New York?"
"Yes, one. He paints menus in the Twelfth Street Restaurant where I was
a waiter."
"How you have changed!" exclaimed Lesley. "But perhaps it's only
circumstances?"
"Perhaps," said Loveland.
"If I knew a way in which you could help your actor friends to escape
from here and go--wherever they want to go, would you take it, I
wonder?" asked the girl.
"I don't wonder. I'm sure," Loveland answered, thinking of poor little
Lillie, "Bill's gal," and Ed Binney.
"It's a way that would be very 'infra dig,'" Lesley hesitated.
Loveland laughed. "What is 'infra dig'? I've forgotten."
"Oh, if you have, I'll tell you the way at once, and perhaps that will
bring it back to your memory. Would you care to take a position in
somebody's house as--as--well, a paid position with an advance on your
salary, by which you could send all your friends happily away?"
"I'd do it like a shot--if anyone would have me," Loveland said quickly.
"Someone _will_ have you--shall we say, as secretary? Do you know
typewriting or shorthand?"
Loveland reluctantly answered that he did not.
"Dear me! The secretaryship won't answer then, I'm afraid. Are you
anything of a linguist?"
"Can't speak a word of any language but my own--except a hotch potch of
French. The little Latin I ever had is practically gone."
"What a pity! Are you good at mathematics?"
"I generally add up on my fingers. Never could remember the
multiplication table."
"History, then? Could you help a friend of mine who's writing a novel on
the fifteenth century?"
"All I know about the fifteenth century, that I can think of at this
moment, is that it wasn't the fourteenth--or the sixteenth. Oh, I'm
afraid I'm no good, after all, Miss Dearmer. You'll have to give me up
as a bad job, and chuck me into gaol for the theft of Cremer's play.
I've never had any proper education."
"Haven't you? I'm not so sure about that," said Lesley, with an
inflection in her voice that Val couldn't quite understand. "And I'm not
sure you haven't learnt your lesson rather well."
"Which one?" enquired Loveland, ruefully; but she could not have
understood the question, for she went on talking as if it had not been
asked.
"You must be able to do _something_," she said, her dimples well in
control.
"You've seen that I can't act, but--well, I can shoot pretty straight."
"Ah, I don't know anyone who keeps a shooting gallery."
"And ride decently."
"Nor anyone who wants a riding master. Oh, but--now can you drive a
motor-car?"
"Yes," said Loveland.
"Good. Do you understand the mechanism of cars?"
"Of two or three. As well as--or better than most chauffeurs, I think,
if that isn't being conceited again."
"I'm not finding fault with you tonight for conceit. Would you take
quite a temporary job as chauffeur, in--in a private family, with a
sal--oh, I might as well say wages! of $25 a week and your board and
lodging besides?"
"If I could get the first week in advance, I might send everybody to
Chicago--with what we've got out of the stolen play," Loveland said.
"Never mind the stolen play. In Sidney Cremer's name, I forgive you all,
now I know the circumstances. No more to be said about that."
"You must know him very well indeed, to speak for him so positively,"
broke in Loveland, gloomily.
"I do," said Lesley. "You can have the first week's wages in advance,
and the second, too. The car's a Gloria."
"My last was a Gloria."
"You mean--Lord Loveland's?"
"Oh, yes, I mean Lord Loveland's. Some men do make chauffeurs of their
valets and vice versa. And you know, the real Loveland was hard up--or
thought he was. I begin to see now, that he didn't know what being hard
up meant."
"Even English peers can live and learn--while they're young, I suppose,"
said Lesley, meditatively. "But we were talking about you, weren't we?
Do you accept the situation I offer you?"
"_You_ offer?"
"Well, for my friend, Sidney Cremer. Sidney has just bought a new car,
and sent it to us. I'm allowed to use it for awhile, as much as I like."
"He's coming, then?"
"We expect Sidney to be with us for some time--with my aunt and me."
"I'm hanged if I'll be his servant!" Val exclaimed, with something of
his old vehemence.
"Oh! Very well, Mr. Gordon. I thought you were really in earnest, or I
wouldn't have made the suggestion."
"So I am. But----"
"There's often a '_but_' in such cases, isn't there? I admit it wouldn't
be a particularly agreeable position for a man who has--er--"
"Posed as a peer," Loveland finished for her, bitterly.
"You put the words into my mouth. I was going to say--you seemed so
anxious to do something to help the others, and this is the only thing I
can think of by which you could make money quickly and----"
Ed Binney's pale face and Lillie's wistful eyes seemed to float in the
air before the unhappy Loveland. "Very well," he said, "I will be Mr.
Cremer's chauffeur. I've taken his play. I'll take his money; I'll take
his food; I'll live under his roof, and I'll serve him as well as I can.
And I'll only ask you to believe one decent thing of me, Miss Dearmer:
that it isn't for my own sake."
"It will be my food you eat," said Lesley, sweetly. "And my roof which
will give you shelter."
Loveland drew in his breath hard, as they looked at each other. Yes, it
would be her roof, and her food. That was the worse for him, because it
made it more and more plain that Sidney Cremer must be very near and
dear to her.
"It's quite settled, then?" she asked pleasantly.
"It's quite settled," he echoed. "For a fortnight."
There were no dimples at play in Lesley's cheeks; but one might almost
have said that her eyes laughed.
CHAPTER THIRTY-SEVEN
A Protégé of Miss Dearmer's
Lesley Dearmer and her aunt were staying that night at Ashville with
their friends, and next morning everything was arranged. Loveland
explained that, in a fortnight, at latest, he would certainly be
released from the bondage of his embarrassments, therefore he would take
service as Mr. Cremer's chauffeur only for that length of time, thus
giving his employers a chance to find a good man for a permanent
engagement. He received from Lesley the two weeks' wages in advance, and
the fifty dollars--a far larger amount than he had touched since
landing--seemed to him a respectable sum. Ten dollars he kept for his
own necessities, and the rest he divided among the members of the broken
company.
The profits from the three performances of "Lord Bob" paid the hotel
bills for all, and left a few dollars over. Lumped together, there was
enough to take Lillie de Lisle, Ed Binney, Miss St. Clare, and the
Winters to Chicago, leaving something to tide each one through a week or
two of idleness.
Lillie, Ed, and Miss St. Clare could hardly express their gratitude to
Loveland, and the words they said to him warmed his heart as it had
never been warmed before. There was a queer kind of happiness in
sacrificing himself for others that came as an absolutely new sensation
to Val. He wondered at it, feeling the glow of it, and was dimly
conscious that the hardships he endured had unexpected compensations.
As for Pa and Ma Winter, they were less openly grateful, seeming to take
what was done for them more or less as a right; and they would assuredly
have protested vigorously had Loveland favoured his friends, Miss de
Lisle and Ed Binney, beyond what they--the Winters--had received. Their
attitude, however, mattered little to Val. They were old and
unfortunate, and he was sorry for them, as he was learning to be sorry
for those upon whom the world was hard: besides, Lillie and Ed, and
perhaps Miss St. Clare, would have refused to accept anything beyond
what the Winters shared; and both assured Val that one day, before long,
they would repay him all.
Lillie was in touch with Bill again; therefore, in spite of the
uncertain future, she was not unhappy. She had written to Bill the day
after Loveland joined the company, had sent him a photograph of herself,
and a collar for Shakespeare, the best that could be bought for fifty
cents in Modunk. Bill had answered to Ashville, and though neither had
any prospects, both had unlimited hope, now that they were sure of the
love and loyalty which had outlived discouragements, absence, and
unprosperous years. Lillie was going to Chicago, and Chicago might have
something to offer. Bye and bye--who could tell?--she and Bill, "the
best man she ever knew," might come together. Meanwhile, they could go
on loving each other.
The girl went off buoyed up with hope; and Ed Binney had friends in
Chicago. He would rest a little, and be "all right," he said to Val,
shaking hands over and over again in the moment of goodbye.
To reach Lesley Dearmer's home it was necessary to travel for an hour in
a slow local train which lingered lovingly at each tiny station by the
way, and then to drive for six miles in a carriage. This last stage of
the journey ended at the Hill Farm, as Mrs. Loveland's place was called;
and the Hill Farm lay in charming country not far from Louisville.
Loveland was instructed to meet the two ladies at the train, and receive
his railway ticket, having seen his friends off for Chicago; and at noon
of the day after her surprise visit to the theatre, Miss Dearmer's newly
appointed chauffeur was waiting for his employer at the Ashville
station.
In his hand was the battered bag which had called forth the contempt of
Jack Jacobus, and in his heart were shame, rebellion, jealousy, and joy,
mingled with several other emotions, none of which he could have
defined--least of all the joy.
He reminded himself that there could now be no possible satisfaction in
his nearness to Lesley. She did not like him enough to believe in him.
She had practically admitted that she accepted the estimate of
strangers, and the circumstantial evidence which made him seem a fraud.
She had not denied her engagement to Sidney Cremer, whose servant
Loveland had pledged himself to be, and she even showed--or Val imagined
it--a mischievous pleasure in the situation. She had not had the grace
to say, "I know this is all horrid, and humiliating to you. I'm sorry,
and will try to help you make the best of it."
Why should she say so, indeed, when she believed him to be no better
than an adventurer, punished for a mean attempt at deceiving? Regarded
from that point of view, he ought to be grateful to Miss Dearmer for
trusting him far enough to take him on as a chauffeur. But he was not
grateful. He thought that, on the contrary, he was very angry; yet he
was not quite sure. And if he were angry, it was a strange kind of anger
that he felt.
He had to wait for some time on the platform before Miss Dearmer
appeared, and then she came towards him alone.
"Auntie is saying goodbye to our Ashville friends," she explained.
"I--they're not going to stop with us till the train goes. I thought for
several reasons it would be better not, and they quite understand.
Before you meet my aunt, I want a little talk with you. I haven't told
her, or the others, that you--that there's any connection between you
and the newspaper story about--the Marquis and his adventures."
"Thank you. That was considerate," said Val, somewhat sarcastically.
"What have you told Mrs. Loveland, then?"
"That's what I want to talk with you about. I said I'd met you before,
and was sorry to find now that you'd had misfortunes, losing your money,
and other things that had put you into an uncomfortable position. Auntie
was in her stateroom on board ship till the last morning, and then I
didn't point you out to her. If she saw you at all, she didn't notice
you particularly, and besides she's very near sighted. If there'd been
any danger of her recognising you, she would have done so at the theatre
last night, when you were playing 'Lord Bob.' She knows only that
you're Mr. Gordon, and that to help you a little, I've asked you to act
as chauffeur for a short time, till you can get something better."
"And till Mr. Cremer can get someone better," Loveland capped her words.
"You have to be tried first," smiled the girl, "before we can tell
whether you're good, better--or best. Meanwhile Aunt Barbara's just
trusting me. She always does, for she's used to what she calls my funny
ways, and she's found out that there's some sense in them. My
experiments generally turn out successes."
"Then I'm to consider myself one of your experiments?"
"Decidedly," laughed Lesley. "And I mean you to be a success--a great
success. Now I'm going to Auntie. I think we'd better travel in
different cars, for she hasn't quite got used yet to the idea of a
gentleman chauffeur. I've told her that they're the fashion, and she's
prepared to take you on faith. But the first time she travels in your
company you had better be in the motor."
With that, the girl pressed a railway ticket into his hand, and he was
left not knowing whether he were more inclined to laughter or to
cursing. But the train came at this moment, and he had no time to
analyse his mood.
At Louisville a carriage was waiting for Mrs. Loveland and Miss Dearmer.
It was a brougham, and there was room in it only for themselves and
their handbags. The chauffeur was told off to a hired vehicle, for which
his employers would pay.
Once outside the suburbs of the big town, the country was pretty, and
reminded Val so strongly of England that it brought on an attack of
homesickness.
The Hill Farm might almost have been an English farm, with its rambling,
red-brick house, apparently of the Georgian period, its square-paned
windows and its pillared porch draped with a tangle of grapevine and
Virginia creeper. Val had seen farm-houses at home, converted by the
younger sons of gentlemen into pleasant if modest mansions; and the
gracious elms, the sturdy old oaks and generous apple trees might all
have been transplanted from an English landscape.
Val arrived only a few minutes later than Lesley and Mrs. Loveland; and
the girl was waiting for him in the open door-way when his hack drove
up.
"This is a big, old house," said Lesley, coming out into the porch--"at
least, it's old for America. It's stood for about a hundred and fifty
years, and there's lots of room in it. You will live in the west wing.
In a few minutes Uncle Wally will show you where to go. Already we've
given directions to have your quarters got ready, but while the servants
are busy there you may as well come out with me, and have a look
at--at--Sidney's new car. I hope you'll like it. Here, Uncle Wally, take
Mr. Gordon's bag."
This order was a surprise to Loveland. He had supposed that the "Uncle
Wally," who was presently to be his guide, would turn out to be a
relative of Miss Dearmer's, perhaps the master of the house; but it was
a very ancient and very black darkey, dressed in a sombre old-fashioned
livery, who came forward, all white grin and low bows.
The knuckly black hand relieved Loveland of the shabby bag, but there
was no contempt either for the bag or its owner on the mild old face of
the grey-headed negro, who was as perfect and well trained a servant in
his way as any butler in an English country house. Evidently he, too,
had been told that this was a "gentleman chauffeur," to be treated like
a gentleman; and Loveland was grateful to his hostess, feeling a sudden
impulse towards happiness, until with a shock, he remembered Sidney
Cremer.
"When will Mr. Cremer arrive?" he asked Lesley, as they walked together
across a sloping lawn, towards the stables.
"Oh, Sidney's very much at home here," she answered lightly, "you may
see him at any time. Meanwhile, you won't mind driving the car for me,
will you?"
"I think you know whether I'll mind that or not," said Loveland, almost
more to himself than to the girl. "If only there were no Sidney
Cremer----"
"I have an idea you won't dislike Sidney when you meet him," Lesley
said, kindly.
"A man's chauffeur has no right to an opinion about him--at least,
that's what I used to think myself," said Val.
"And now--and now are your ideas changing? Do you begin to feel just a
tiny bit, that 'rank's but the guinea stamp,' and 'a man's a man for a'
that'? For if you do, after all it won't have done you any harm to come
to America," said Lesley.
"It's riches here, not rank, which counts apparently," Loveland
retorted. "And that's just as bad."
"Riches don't count with me," said Lesley.
"Cremer must be very rich," grumbled Loveland, apparently apropos of
nothing.
"Sidney makes a good deal of money out of novels and plays--at least, it
seems a good deal to me, but maybe it wouldn't to you. Perhaps Sidney's
earnings amount to about twelve or fifteen thousand of your English
pounds a year--and he's saved quite a lot, too, for he's been popular as
a playwright and novelist in America and England for several years now."
"By Jove!" exclaimed Loveland. "What a lucky beggar!"
"That just expresses it--a 'lucky beggar'--for he was almost a beggar at
the time he made his first success. He was dependent on his relations
when a child, for his father and mother died when he was a baby, leaving
him not a penny, and he was brought up with the idea of being a school
teacher, which he would have hated."
"Success like that often spoils people," said Val, frankly ungracious in
his jealousy.
"I don't think it's spoiled Sidney," replied the girl. "He has heaps of
faults, but I shouldn't call him conceited or vain."
"Shall you be married soon?"
Lesley smiled, and her dimples twinkled. "It isn't decided yet. But I
daresay it will be soon. Now, I suppose with the grand ideas you used to
talk to me about, twelve or fifteen thousand pounds a year, and a few
loose thousands lying around would seem like shabby genteel poverty to
you."
"Don't hit a man when he's down," said Loveland. "If I had only half as
much as Mr. Cremer, I could do the things I want most to do."
"What are they?" asked Lesley. For it was still some distance to the
stable which was also, for the present, garage as well, and she walked
slowly on the moist grass, picking her way, step by step, with leisurely
daintiness.
"Nowadays, the things I feel I should like most to do are to restore our
poor old tumbled-down home, and get rid of my debts."
"You say 'nowadays.' Have you changed your mind lately?"
"I've changed almost everything--except these everlasting tweeds! I
know, of course, that my affairs will come right in _one_ way,
presently. I shall get back to England before my leave's up: but I
shan't go back the same man. The things that pleased me most before,
won't be the things to please me most in future. I feel that, somehow."
"Things will come right only in _one_ way, for you?" she echoed.
"Only in one way. I've lost the chance of all that's the best worth
having--if I ever could have had such a chance."
"You're too young to give up hope. Almost as young as Sidney Cremer."
"What?--he's younger than I am?"
"Sidney is twenty-three."
"And has been a successful novelist and playwright for three years? He's
a sort of infant phenomenon."
"Think of Pitt," Lesley reminded him, smiling.
"Once you said you didn't like men under twenty-six--they seemed so
raw."
"I ought to be flattered that you should remember my sayings of 'once.'
You see, though, Sidney's quite different from--other men, especially to
me. But here we are at the stables. We'll talk about Sidney's car,
instead of Sidney."
"Just one question first!" exclaimed Loveland, stopping short in front
of the old-fashioned but neatly kept stables, and spacious Southern
barn. "I know I haven't any right to ask it, but--were you engaged to
Cremer when we crossed together on the _Mauretania_?"
"My relations with Sidney were then exactly what they are now," replied
the girl, with a pretty primness that made her mouth look as if she had
just said, "prunes, prisms, propriety."
His last hope gone--since Lesley had not accepted Cremer out of
pique--Loveland was silenced.
A darkey groom, who came forward grinning, opened the doors of an
inverted loose-box, and showed a fine black and scarlet motor-car,
glittering with varnish, brass, and newness.
Deeply interested, or feigning interest, Lesley made Loveland lift the
shining bonnet and explain detail after detail of the mechanism.
"It sounds fascinating!" she said at last. "The monster only arrived
three days ago, though it--or ought I to say 'she'?--was on order months
and months ago. Two or three chauffeurs have come in from Louisville to
be interviewed (you see, Sidney trusts my judgment just as Auntie does!)
but I wasn't satisfied with them."
"Perhaps you won't be satisfied with me?" suggested Val.
"Oh, you're only a temporary chauffeur," she answered. And though it was
rather cruel to remind the lonely young man in a strange land how soon
he was to lose his only friend, the girl smiled as she spoke. "I must
just put up with you as you are. You've quite impressed me with what you
know about the machine part. I daresay you can drive. Your manner and
appearance are _quite_ nice; and besides----"
"Besides--what?" Val almost snapped at her.
"It seems as if it was _meant_ to be, as Uncle Wally says when he breaks
a dish. And I'm wondering whether I shall be brave enough to let you
teach me to drive. Sidney will want me to know how, I'm sure."
Loveland suddenly felt a wild longing to kill Sidney Cremer, the
successful novelist-playwright, and to smash Sidney Cremer's beautiful
new car.
CHAPTER THIRTY-EIGHT
Sidney Cremer's Chauffeur
No letter was forwarded to the Hill Farm from the theatre at
Bonnerstown, for the very good reason that Miss Moon, having found one
for Mr. P. Gordon, opened, read, and out of sheer spite, destroyed it
with its several enclosures.
The envelope was addressed in Bill Willing's inappropriately beautiful
handwriting, and there was a short note from him, saying that he had
great pleasure in enclosing two letters just arrived from England; also
that he sent his "undying love to Lillie de Lisle."
One of the English letters blazed to the actress's dazzled eyes with a
gilded coronet, and began, "My own darling Val, how can you ever forgive
me for not answering your poor, dear cablegram, but of course I thought
it was from that horrible wretch Foxham. It seems now, he _sold_ your
ticket for the _Baltic_, and sailed for Australia. All sorts of reports
came in about him directly after you must have sailed, and I learn now
that even before you left, James Harborough suspected him, because of
some forged cheque he'd heard of--I'm really too confused and upset to
remember how or when or what. But in any case it was _most_ remiss of
James not to have instantly warned you against the man, even on the
slightest suspicion."
This was only the beginning of the coroneted letter, which had no
paragraphs and very few punctuations. Jealous still, Miss Moon was
relieved to see that the signature was "Your adoring mother," but she
was at a loss to understand allusions to duchesses and other persons of
title. Indeed, it would have appeared to her like a "property" letter to
be read on the stage by an aristocratic hero of melodrama, had it not
been for the post office order for three hundred dollars, which it
contained. It was a genuine order, as Miss Moon might have been inclined
to prove for herself, if she had had any hope of obtaining the money,
which she had not; therefore the next best thing was to throw the
document into the fire, that Gordon might not benefit by it.
The other letter enclosed had no coronet, not even a crest; but the
paper was very nice, smelled faintly of spring flowers, and had for an
address a number in Park Lane, which Miss Moon had read of in English
novels as a street mostly inhabited by elderly millionaire villains who
persecuted poor, but beauteous heroines. The writing was pretty, and the
letter was signed "Your affectionate cousin, Betty." At the end was a
postscript in a different hand, which seemed somehow to suit the rather
dashing signature--"Jim."
This second letter was even more difficult than the first for an
uninitiated person to understand, and it irritated Miss Moon to a high
pitch of nervousness.
"Cousin Betty" seemed to be explaining and justifying a thing that "Jim"
had done.
"It was partly a joke, and partly earnest, but it had a good motive,"
wrote Betty. "I guessed, the morning your really very conceited letter
about the New York introductions came, that Jim had something quaint up
his sleeve, to spring upon you when you'd arrived in America, but I
didn't know what. To tell the truth, Val, I was even more disgusted than
Jim, by your cool way of assuming that you had only to show yourself on
the other side, to pick and choose among all the nicest as well as
richest girls. I should have _loved_ to box your ears, and I said 'Of
course we won't give him any letters, and I'll tell him just what we
think of him. Then maybe he won't go.' But Jim said 'Yes, we _will_ give
him the letters, and he shall go. We may find another way of teaching
him a lesson, a way that will do him good if he's worth being done good
to.'
"That was all, and as Jim didn't refer to the subject again after we
posted the letters of introduction, the conversation slipped my mind. I
didn't think any more about it until weird things began to be copied
into London papers from New York ones, and your mother wired Jim to ask
what, if anything, could be done to punish Foxham. You see, she thought
you were on the _Baltic_.
"Jim soothed all her worries, so you needn't be anxious about her, as of
course you would if you thought she'd been alarmed. When I saw
paragraphs in the papers I talked to Jim, and it was only then that he
told me what he'd done; how it was all his fault really, and he was very
sorry, because everything had turned out a lot worse for you than he'd
ever dreamed of wanting it to be. 'Fate took a hand in the game, and
played it for all it was worth,' Jim said.
"It seems that Foxham, your man, asked Jim to cash a cheque signed by
you, one night not long ago (don't you remember when he and I were at
Battlemead, and you came down for Saturday to Monday?). Jim suspected
something wrong, but wouldn't speak to you till he'd made sure, because
that wouldn't have been fair, and Foxham was such an invaluable valet. A
few days later, when Jim was making enquiries about the man, he found
out that the horrid creature had actually impersonated you at two or
three hotels, and run up bills in your name. It was the very evening
before your letter about America came that Jim got the first part of
this information, and day by day more kept coming in, up to the time
when we heard Foxham had given you notice. All along Jim was thinking
out the idea of that lesson for you--the joke that was to be half in
earnest--and then, when Mr. VanderPot couldn't sail in the _Mauretania_,
the whole plan was mapped out, without a word being said, even to me.
"Of course, I want to assure you again (and Jim will write a postscript)
that he meant nothing worse to happen to you than a disappointment, and
a blow to your conceit. He telegraphed to several of the people to whom
you had letters, saying that if a person turned up calling himself by
your name, _before_ the _Baltic_ landed, they'd better wait and make
sure before being nice to you, that _you weren't your own absconding
valet sailing under false colours_. He didn't say it _wouldn't_ be you,
and he supposed that his friends would simply hang back for a few days,
making no sign, thus giving you to think that you weren't as important
in America as you'd fancied. He imagined, too, that the _heiress_
business wouldn't come off _quite_ as easily as you expected, and that
altogether you might be a little sobered down. As for your trouble with
the bank, we know now, that _this_ is what happened: It turns out that
Henry van Cotter has lately become a partner in the bank which
corresponds with yours in London, and having got Jim's wire about the
valet (probably at the same time when instructions arrived from the
London and Southern), naturally he told his people to be prepared, and
not to pay. How could Jim think of such a thing happening--or that Mr.
van Cotter and the others would run about gossiping of what he told them
as a mere _supposition_? It must have been too dreadful for you at the
hotel!--and as for that Mr. Milton, I'm sure he is a _horror_.
"Then, it was another _contretemps_ that neither Jim nor I saw the
newspapers at first. We'd gone off on a motor trip, as the weather was
lovely, and were darting all about Cornwall and Wales, starting so early
every morning, and not arriving at hotels till so late at night, that we
didn't bother with the papers for nearly a week. Of course the minute
Jim knew what had been going on, he wired everywhere, and wrote long
letters of explanation, too (a little earlier than he'd originally
meant), to put an end to the misunderstanding he'd set in motion. But
meanwhile you'd disappeared from New York. Poor dear, my heart quite
bleeds for you! And yet--and yet--I wonder if all that you've gone
through is _entirely_ a matter for regret?"
It was here, after the "Affectionate Cousin Betty" signature, that the
other handwriting began.
"I wonder, too? I want to know what you think about it. Now it's all
explained, and you see just where and how much I'm to blame for what's
past, you may or may not be inclined to forgive me for trying to play
Providence, that good might come of evil. But if there are any things
which you don't regret, perhaps you'll partly understand--yourself and
me. Anyhow, I apologise, having now done my best to atone, in case you
want to go back to New York in a blaze of glory and be made a lion of.
Meanwhile, I await your verdict, and am--as the writers of anonymous
letters are supposed to sign themselves--'your friend and well-wisher,'
Jim."
Again Fate had "taken a hand in the game," and used Miss Moon as
catspaw. Into the fire in her bedroom at Bonnerstown went all those
elaborate explanations; and Loveland did not dream that he had only to
communicate with the bank in New York to receive apologies and a sum of
money which, after his vicissitudes, would have seemed a fortune. He had
not even a prophetic "pricking in his thumbs" while his mother's post
office order for three hundred dollars--sixty pounds--gaily burned in a
Bonnerstown stove. He had no suspicion that New York Society--or an
important section of it--was wearing sackcloth and ashes on his account.
No instinct told him that even while the letters and money order were
being reduced to ashes, Tony Kidd was concocting a glorious "story"
about the Marquis of Loveland, which would ring through the country;
neither did he know that Lesley Dearmer, whether believing him a genuine
article or not, had sent him an anonymous donation which lay unclaimed
at the Waldorf-Astoria.
Of all these things was he ignorant, and Lesley (sure that he had never
received her offering) would have seen Sidney Cremer's forty horse-power
Gloria burnt before her eyes rather than confess what she had done.
Nevertheless, she was enjoying herself very much, and if Cremer's
chauffeur went about with an unsmiling face it did not depress her
spirits, unless for a minute at a time when she was particularly and
foolishly soft-hearted. She knew that all the chauffeur's bodily wants
were being well cared for at the Hill Farm. He had a comfortable bedroom
and a little sitting-room attached, in the far corner of the west wing,
which was the newest part of the old red brick house. She did not
suggest his wearing the costume of a chauffeur, but sent him by Uncle
Wally a fur-lined overcoat and motoring cap which she said, Sidney
Cremer had ordered for the future driver of his car. Mr. Gordon's meals
were served in his own small sitting-room, and he had plenty of books to
read. Had it not been that Miss Dearmer wished to drive Cremer's
automobile, Val would have seen little of her; but she took two lessons
a day.
Her aunt, Mrs. Loveland, sat in the tonneau, dutifully, perhaps
cheerfully, playing the part of chaperon, after Lesley had experimented
a little, and become proficient enough not to be a public danger. But
the girl sat in the driver's seat, with Mr. Cremer's temporary chauffeur
beside her, and they could talk of what they chose (if they chose to
talk at all) without being overheard by Aunt Barbara in the snug shelter
of the Limousine.
Loveland wrote to the theatre at Bonnerstown, asking the manager to
forward anything that might arrive; but days passed on, and nothing
came. This was not strange, considering Miss Moon's bold treatment of
Bill's fat envelope with its important contents. But it seemed strange
to Loveland, who had allowed more than enough time for letters to his
mother and Betty Harborough to be answered and forwarded.
Everything in his life of late was so extraordinary, however, that to
find his expectations fulfilled in a commonplace way would have
surprised him almost more than having them blighted.
Besides, his disappointment at not hearing from home was not as poignant
as it had been. He had kept ten dollars for himself, out of his advance
of salary, therefore he was not entirely penniless, and he had few, if
any, expenses at the Hill Farm, where all his needs were as carefully
considered as if he had been a member of the family.
Though Sidney Cremer's speedy arrival dangled over his head, like a
sharp sword, which might fall at any moment and cut short the thread of
his happiness, while it lasted the thread was of glistening gold.
He could not be sure whether Lesley Dearmer believed in him as Lord
Loveland, or whether she really thought him a repentant impostor, whom
she was befriending and trying to reform; but she was unvaryingly kind,
and the subject of his true identity was not further discussed. He was
too proud to allude to, and force it upon her, after the doubts which
she had hinted, and she seemed to have no wish to bring it up. As to
that sweet and kindly lady who was chaperon and aunt, she appeared to
take Mr. Gordon trustfully for granted as an unfortunate but talented
young gentleman rescued from a run of bad luck. She spoke to him
pleasantly when necessary, asked polite questions now and then about the
car, or his personal comfort in the house, but otherwise seemed to
regard him with no very lively interest.
Lesley was everything to her. She adored Lesley, and whatever Lesley did
or wished to do was perfect in her eyes. Therefore it was not odd that
she should accept the transplanted actor as "one of Lesley's lucky
finds."
In the house, he and Miss Dearmer had no intercourse, and he did not
even know what the girl's daily occupations were, or what visitors she
saw. But at least three hours out of every twenty-four gave her to him
as an intimate companion, near in mind and body; therefore until the
hateful Cremer should fall out of a clear sky, Val was not eager for
home news which would leave no excuse for lingering at this old
homestead in the Blue Grass country.
Though he was a paid employé, the Hill Farm seemed to him the
pleasantest place in which he had ever lived, not excepting any splendid
and well ordered country mansion where he had been a flattered member of
a house party.
Ways at the Hill Farm were simple ways, and there was no grandeur, no
display in the quaint, rambling red brick house. All the servants were
coloured, and were either elderly men and women who had served "the
family" before the war which freed them from slavery, or else young,
happy-go-lucky sons and daughters of the old servitors. There were a
great many of them about the place, indoors and out, so many that
Loveland could hardly tell one face from another, but they were all
kindly, dark faces that brightened into glittering grins at sight of the
English chauffeur.
Everything was done on a lavish, though far from pretentious, scale, but
the ordering of the establishment might mean wealth, or might mean no
more than a comfortable competence. The furniture was good, and in the
best of taste, but it was almost all antique, brought from England by
ancestors of Mrs. Loveland's or Lesley Dearmer's perhaps, in that good
time when Chippendale and Sheraton treasures were regarded as ordinary
possessions.
In the stables were a couple of beautiful hunters, Lesley's property,
for Loveland soon discovered that a true daughter of Kentucky considers
it a disgrace to the county for every girl not to be a fearless and
accomplished rider. There were two fat old carriage horses, also, and
other animals for the farm work which was carried on by a middle-aged
married couple. Altogether it was clear that Mrs. Milton's and
Cadwallader Hunter's estimate of the ladies' circumstances had been
unjust. Mrs. Loveland and her niece were not "teachers taking a holiday
while their money lasted." Perhaps the farm and the money were all Mrs.
Loveland's; but Lesley had told Val on ship board that she earned enough
for self-support by writing stories. Therefore she was not in any case
entirely dependent upon her aunt, and it was evident that the girl and
the elderly lady were very content in that state of life to which it had
pleased God to call them.
It seemed to Val that Lesley was always happy; and because she was happy
herself she could not bear to see others sad or unfortunate. Though she
asked no questions about her chauffeur's English past, she showed frank
interest in his American experiences. She led him on, as they spun
through the country side by side, to talk of Bill Willing, of Lillie de
Lisle, of Ed Binney, and even of Isidora, the almond-eyed. Of the fire
at Alexander the Great's she had read in the papers, and she deigned a
few words of praise for Loveland's behaviour. She was curious, also, to
hear "what happened afterwards"; and though Val was silent as to
Isidora's part in his next move, woman's wit supplied the missing link.
Too delicate-minded to put her suspicions into words, Lesley,
nevertheless, contrived tactfully to pluck from Loveland some scanty
information concerning Miss Alexander's semi-engagement to the Jewish
commercial traveller.
"She'll never marry him," the girl announced authoritatively.
"I wish I could think you were right," said Loveland. "Poor Isidora has
a warm, generous heart, and it would be a beastly shame to waste her on
the oily creature. But Alexander's hard to beat, once he makes up his
mind."
"When I first knew you, it wouldn't have occurred to you that the
affairs of a common little person like that might be worth bothering
about!" exclaimed Lesley. "But now I believe you're really interested."
"I really am," admitted Val. "I hope that doesn't disgust you?"
"Exactly the other way," Lesley assured him. "But you needn't be
anxious. An only daughter, spoiled by her father, is just as 'hard to
beat' as the most obstinate and tyrannical old parent. Isidora won't
marry the Cohen man--after all that's happened. She won't marry anyone,
for a good long time, but bye and bye she will, and then it will be
somebody of her own choosing, not her father's."
"What makes you think so?" asked Loveland.
"Oh--because I'm a woman myself." And then she would say no more on that
subject; but she talked eagerly of Bill Willing and his Star.
Sidney Cremer would play fairy godfather to the two, she said, speaking
with that happy certainty of her lover's mind which invariably depressed
and irritated Loveland.
There were numerous country companies "on the road," touring with
Sidney's pieces in very good towns. Sidney would take "Mr. Gordon's"
word for Lillie de Lisle's ability as a soubrette, and would offer her a
part shortly to be open, owing to the marriage of the girl now playing
it. As for "that perfect lamb of a Bill," a place should be found for
him in the same company, that Lesley would promise. He could travel as a
sort of handy man, to repaint and freshen up the scenery and as Sidney
would doubtless guarantee the pair a permanent engagement together, they
could marry at once on the strength of it.
"You had better wait and hear what Mr. Cremer says," suggested Loveland
almost bitterly, when Lesley had instructed him to write the good news
at once to Lillie and Bill. Ed Binney was also to be provided for, sent
to a convalescent home, and given hope for a chance as "property man"
with one of Sidney's plays, when he should be strong enough to go on
tour again.
"Oh, Sidney and I always think alike. Haven't I told you that before?"
was Lesley's answer. "There's no need to wait. I know all about Sidney's
business. And I thought it would be a pleasure to you to write, and be
the means of making your friends happy."
"So it would, if I _were_ the means," muttered Loveland. "But I'm not.
It's Mr. Sidney Cremer. Everything is Sidney Cremer, and he is
everything."
"Some day I may remind you of that speech," said Lesley. Then she
laughed in a mysterious little way she had. But she was determined that
Loveland should write the letters she desired written; and learning the
lesson of unselfishness, he tried to rejoice sincerely in his friends'
good luck.
"It's a long lane that has no turning," he said to himself as he sealed
letters which would change the face of the world for three persons.
"Their turning has come at last, and I'm glad. But my lane is blocked.
Whatever happens, that brute Sidney Cremer will always stand at the end
and bar my way out."
CHAPTER THIRTY-NINE
In the Car Together
It was the day after Val had sent off the joyful tidings to his friends
in the big world beyond the Hill Farm that tidings from the big world
came to him.
Thanks to Miss Moon, the letters from home were lost; but greatly as
that lady would have delighted in so sweeping a measure, it was
impossible to keep P. Gordon for ever in the dark, by destroying whole
issues of New York journals.
Uncle Wally was in the habit of bringing the gentleman chauffeur his
breakfast, and with that meal--which consisted of delicious Southern
dishes--the morning paper.
Loveland did not find American news particularly exciting, and, as a
rule, merely glanced through the paper as he ate; but "New York Light"
had a special interest for him. He associated it not only with his first
American adventures, but with Tony Kidd, for whom he felt a queer,
friendly sort of regard since their work together and their short chat
afterwards at Alexander the Great's. If Val were to be "righted" in the
eyes of New York, he had the idea that it would be through the pen of
Tony Kidd, which had once blackened him with so scandalous a spatter of
ink.
Miss Dearmer, or Mrs. Loveland, subscribed for the Sunday edition of
"New York Light," and today was Monday. The paper had arrived: and as
Loveland rose early to attend to the car (with far more alacrity than
he had ever risen for guard mounting at home) it appeared that he was to
have first chance at the news.
His eyes lighted with a certain interest as he saw the paper laid
conspicuously on the breakfast tray; for this was his first Monday at
the Hill Farm, and consequently his first sight of the New York Sunday
paper.
"I suppose the ladies won't be wanting this for a few minutes yet?"
"No, sah, ole Miss nevah looks at de papahs till a'tah brekfus, and
young Miss was writin' late las' night, so she won't be ringin' yet
awhile, I reckon," said the grey-headed darkey who had been a slave when
Mrs. Loveland was a child.
Val laid aside the Louisville Monday paper, and began to read "New York
Light."
Suddenly he cried out an excited "By Jove!" and forgot that he had not
finished his breakfast: but as by this time Uncle Wally had gone, there
was nobody to be surprised by his emotion.
Yes, it had come at last--his justification, and even his triumph; for
the story as told by Tony Kidd made it seem almost a triumph. Indeed, he
had hardly realised himself how dramatic it all was, until he saw the
printed account of what he had gone through. Bill Willing had been
interviewed at the Bat Hotel, of which a graphic sketch and description
were given. Alexander the Great had been interviewed, and thus secured
another free advertisement for the red restaurant. Isidora had been
interviewed, and photographed in her best hat. And last, though far from
least, Mr. Henry van Cotter had been interviewed. From him, it seemed,
Tony Kidd had got on the trail of the truth. Mr. van Cotter's friend,
Jim Harborough, had wired from London that it was all a mistake about
the valet impersonating the Marquis of Loveland, a mistake which had
partly arisen through the sailing of Lord Loveland on the _Mauretania_
instead of the _Baltic_, as expected. The valet had sailed for
Australia, but would be arrested at the first port, and it was the
Marquis of Loveland himself whom Fate and Society had hounded out of New
York.
"Where is Lord Loveland?" was one of the several sensational headlines,
with which Tony had ornamented his two-column article, for though Bill
Willing had told of the barn-storming episode, he did not yet know, and
therefore could not tell (even if he would) his "swell friend's" present
address.
So great and even touching was Tony's eloquence, that tears had fallen
from bright eyes for Loveland's sorrows, and the most tears from the
brightest eyes were those shed by Fanny Milton. Never had she liked Tony
half as well as on that Sunday morning when she read what Loveland read
the following day. And as Tony had shrewdly guessed at her feelings, he
thought that he could not make a wiser move than to call at Mrs.
Milton's house on Sunday evening. Mrs. Milton was out, but Fanny was at
home; and such was her gratitude to the journalist for his championship
of her hero, that before Tony left her he had won more than half the
promise he wanted.
Loveland, however, was not thinking of Fanny Milton, but of Lesley
Dearmer.
Now that he had come into his own again, he could no doubt somehow get
money almost at once, on that unlucky letter of credit, pay back the
advance Miss Dearmer had made him, cease to be a gentleman chauffeur,
leave the Hill Farm, and return to New York to be a gentleman at large.
But there was no joy in the thought of ceasing to be a chauffeur, and
still less in that of leaving the Hill Farm.
The play was played out, and the adventure was over, but life could not
be as it had been for Loveland. He could not take up the old life or the
old self where he had dropped both, one night in Central Park. He was a
different man in these days, caring for different things; and
unfortunately the thing he cared for most was the one thing he could not
have: Lesley Dearmer's love.
He had wanted it from the first, though not enough just at the first to
try for it at the risk of great self-sacrifice. Now, he would have
counted no sacrifice too great if it could give him that which once he
had not known how to value worthily. Being once more Lord Loveland, and
having a repentant New York at his feet, would not give him Lesley
Dearmer.
By this time, his mother must have written, he thought, and Betty, too.
Though the Bonnerstown secret was hidden from him, he believed letters
had been sent. All ought soon to be right with him, in the best of
possible worlds; but because there was also a Sidney Cremer in that
world, nothing could be wholly right even for Lord Loveland. While he
was thinking how good it would have been--were Fate a better stage
manager--to justify himself to Lesley, Lesley sent for him by Uncle
Wally.
To her he was still the chauffeur; and the darkey who politely delivered
the message, announced that "Young Miss would be obliged to Massah
Gordon if he would take her out in the car as quick as possible."
Loveland flung aside "Light," and Uncle Wally let it lie neglected where
it fell. Probably he thought that "young Miss" was too impatient for an
early motor-spin to care about wasting a moment on a newspaper.
As Loveland looked over the Gloria, making her purr pleasantly in
preparation for the run, he tried to decide definitely what to do next.
If he flaunted his public justification in Lesley's face, there would no
longer be an excuse to remain a chauffeur, and no doubt the girl would
think as much, if he did not propose to leave. Because of her engagement
to Sidney Cremer, he could not beg Lesley to let bygones be bygones, and
go to England with him as his wife; yet the thought of going back
without her, of never seeing her again in this world, impaled Loveland
on the sharp prongs of pain.
Since he had known the girl in her own home, it seemed that his first
love for her had hardly deserved the name of love, so much more did he
love her now. Face to face with the certainty of separation, and her
marriage with another man, every hour spent with the loved one became a
priceless treasure. He resolved not only to be silent about the article
in "New York Light" but to go back to his room, and carefully hide the
newspaper.
This he did, delighted to find the big budget lying on the floor where
he had left it.
Of course, Lesley or Mrs. Loveland might enquire for "Light" and learn
that it had last been seen on his breakfast table. But it would not seem
a miracle that a newspaper should be mislaid; and there was a chance
that Louisville journals might not have space to "feature" Lord
Loveland's affairs. As Lesley had elected to make an early expedition,
it was almost certain that she would not have looked at a paper; and if
she had skimmed one over, she might easily have missed a paragraph here
and there. At worst, Loveland felt sure of this morning with her on the
old terms. If she said nothing afterwards, he, too, would simply be
mute, until Sidney Cremer's arrival. When Cremer was in the house, he
would be glad to go, and glad to prove to Lesley before going that he
was all he had once claimed to be.
When the car was ready he drove to the front door, and found Lesley
tying on her motor veil, a charming picture set in a rustic frame.
Loveland's spirits rose when he saw that she was alone. "Auntie" in the
Limousine was the least obtrusive of chaperons; still, there was joy in
having the girl to himself.
"For a wonder I couldn't sleep last night," said Lesley, "and I thought
an early spin in the car would clear my brain of cobwebs. I hope you
don't mind being routed out at an unearthly hour."
Loveland would have liked to answer that it was unearthly only because
it gave him the companionship of a being divine. But chauffeurs, even
gentlemen chauffeurs, do not make such remarks to their employers, still
less to the fiancées of their employers. He merely said, therefore, that
he was sorry to hear Miss Dearmer had not slept, and was pleased to take
her out at any hour. "Uncle Wally told me," he added, "that you'd been
writing late last night."
"Not exactly writing," explained Lesley, finishing the chiffon bow
under her chin with dainty elaboration. "I was looking over an act of a
new play which Sidney has begun. Perhaps that excited me. Anyway, I
tossed for hours thinking of a thousand things, when I might better have
been dreaming. And then I was waked at seven by a telegram, and couldn't
sleep again."
Something in her eyes, gleaming like fairy jewels under an enchanted
lake, as they shone through the filmy veil, made Val miserably sure that
Cremer had sent the telegram.
But he was becoming (outwardly) quite a well-trained servant, and only
under the greatest provocation could he be goaded into asking
impertinent questions.
"Shall I drive this morning, Miss Dearmer, or will you?" he enquired,
trying to erase all expression from his face.
"Perhaps you'd better, at first. I'm almost too nervous," she said. "Bye
and bye, we shall see."
She let him help her into the car, and even the touch of a thick,
knitted mitten was electric for Loveland. Then he took the chauffeur's
seat by her side, and sent the Gloria spinning down the avenue towards
the gate.
"You've heard nothing from your people yet?" asked Lesley, after a few
minutes' silence, while they flew along a road smooth as if it had been
made for generations.
"Not yet," replied Val. "But I daresay something will be forwarded from
Bonnerstown theatre in a day or two. I told you I'd written to the
manager there, giving this address, for Bill would have sent on to
Bonnerstown anything that came for me to his care in New York."
"Yes, you told me," said Lesley. "But I was wondering if you'd had good
news, because----"
"Because of something in your telegram?" Loveland could not resist
breaking into the slight pause she made.
"Yes, indirectly. Dear me, Mr. Gordon, don't you think you went round
that corner too fast?"
"Did I?" asked Loveland. "I'm sorry. I didn't notice."
"What an alarming confession from one's chauffeur! Oh! and that
_chicken_! you nearly ran over it. I believe your nerves must be a
little 'jumpy,' too. I think I could drive almost as well as that
myself."
"I deserve to be scolded," said Loveland. "I'm afraid I was
absent-minded for an instant, though the chicken didn't seem worried
about itself."
"Kentucky chickens never do. They're so high-spirited. Take _care_ of
that baby pig, Mr. Gordon! I think I will drive for awhile after all, if
you don't mind."
"Delighted," said Loveland, in a mood to rejoice if the girl upset the
car and killed them both, because it would be so much more agreeable to
go out of the world with her than to remain in it while she became lost
to him as Mrs. Cremer.
He put on the brakes and stopped the car, which panted impatiently by
the roadside, while Lesley and he changed places. The way was straight
and fairly level, with no sudden risings and fallings, or intricate
twistings and turnings; therefore no reason existed why Lesley should
not show her newly acquired skill. She began cautiously, but in a few
moments put the forty horse-power Gloria on fourth speed, throttling her
down to a pace within reason.
"There! Aren't you proud of your pupil?" the girl asked, gaily.
"Very proud," answered Loveland.
"And do you think I should be able to get on without much more teaching
from a real expert?"
"Oh, yes. With a decent sort of chauffeur to do your repairs, you can
drive the car through country like this, without danger----"
"Unless I get absent-minded."
"Yes, unless you get absent-minded. But why should you be absent-minded,
when so soon you'll have the person you care for most sitting beside
you, where I sit now? Oh, I ought to beg your pardon for saying such
things, Miss Dearmer. But you see, you and I were once friends, not
employer and servant, so I forget myself sometimes. And besides, I can't
help thinking this morning that you're leading up to saying something
which perhaps you find it a little difficult to say. Yet, why should it
be difficult for you to tell me if you've heard that Mr. Cremer's coming
at once and bringing another chauffeur."
"My telegram didn't say that, but it made me feel that I shan't be able
to keep you very long at the Hill Farm," said Lesley.
Gone was the elaborate scheme for staying on at any cost! She wanted him
to go. She was hinting for him to go.
"I can leave whenever you like to get rid of me," returned Val, his tone
roughened, made almost brutal by his effort to hide the sharp pain he
suffered.
"Oh, don't think I feel like that!" exclaimed Lesley, eagerly--so
eagerly that in her excitement she did the very thing she had reproached
Loveland for doing. She forgot that a person controlling a powerful
motor-car is ill advised to be in earnest about anything except the
business in hand.
They were approaching a somewhat abrupt turn in the road at the moment
Lesley chose to assure Loveland that she didn't mean to hurt his
feelings. Being genuinely sorry for the effect her words produced, she
did not realise until too late that the corner would expect her to slow
down before turning it. Had she been an experienced driver, the right
action would have been mechanical; but as it was, she discovered with a
quick rush of blood to her heart that she could not check the speed in
time. She tried to make up for her mistake by a feat of accurate
steering, but the task was beyond her powers. The big Gloria swung round
the curve on two wheels, refused to take the new direction, and bounded
gaily off the road, across a ditch and into a meadow.
CHAPTER FORTY
The Other Side of the Moon
The next thing that Loveland knew, he was sitting in a bog, which felt
quite soft and comfortable, so comfortable that he at first believed
himself to be in bed, waking out of a bad dream. Then with a flash he
remembered all that had happened, and scrambled up in a cold sweat of
fear for Lesley.
He was dripping with water and mossy mud, but though his limbs felt
heavy and he staggered a little, his temples throbbing as if his brain
were propelled by a steam engine, he was hardly conscious that his own
body still existed. His one thought was of the girl.
A cataract of sparks which showered before his eyes dimmed his sight at
first, but in a moment he saw a slight, grey-clad figure lying limply on
the ground not far away. As for the motor-car which rested on its side
at a little distance, its pleasant purring stilled, Loveland had
forgotten all about it.
"Lesley!" he cried, as he ran to her. "Lesley!"
But she neither stirred nor answered.
Down he dropped on both knees beside her, and raised her head upon his
arm. Her eyes were closed, and through the chiffon veil he could see the
long lashes dark on the pallor of her cheeks.
[Illustration: "_Down he dropped on both knees beside her, and raised
her head upon his arm_"]
The ground where she lay was spongy after a day of heavy rain which had
soaked through the thick carpet of dead grass, deeply into the earth.
The girl's position was easy, giving Loveland the hope that no bones
were broken, and there was no stain of blood on the white face or the
soft brown hair. But she lay very still; there was no flutter of the
eyelashes, no faint gasping for breath.
Sick with fear that she might be dead, Loveland's memory refused the
barrier between them. He was conscious only of his love for her, and his
passionate remorse for the wish, harboured for a moment--the wish that
she might let something happen to the car, and that they two might go
out of the world together. There was no torture which he would not have
prayed to suffer now, if through it he could even hope to bring her back
to life.
"Dearest--precious one--darling!" he called her. "For God's sake wake
up. Speak to me--only speak to me. I love you so!"
Instantly she opened her eyes wide, shivering a little in his arms, and
looked up at him--half dazedly at first, then smiling as a woman might
who has dreamed of a distant lover and wakes to find him near.
"Thank God you're not dead!" he stammered.
"And that--_you're_ not!" she answered faintly. "You--you're not much
hurt?"
"Not at all, and if I were it wouldn't matter," Loveland assured her
fervently. "If only I hadn't let you drive--or if I hadn't talked to
you!--it's all my fault. What shall I do if you're injured?"
"I--I'm all right, and--and rather happy," whispered Lesley. "I don't
think anything's the matter at all--except a little shock."
"Let me lift you up for a minute, so that we can make sure whether you
are hurt," said Val. "I'll do it so gently----"
"No. I'd rather lie still--just as I am," the girl answered.
"Would you be more comfortable if I laid your head on the ground?"
"No, keep it on your arm, please. I like it there," said Lesley; and
Loveland was made so happy by the words and by the sudden revulsion from
despair to hope that he could have broken down and sobbed.
"I feel as if I'd been dreaming," she murmured on. "I dreamed that
you--that you called me--_your darling_: that you said you loved me."
"Forgive me!" exclaimed Loveland. "I couldn't help it. I was half mad."
"Then it wasn't a dream?"
"No. It wasn't a dream," he confessed. "Even though you think me an
impostor, you can't believe me a wholly unredeemed villain, or you
wouldn't have taken me into your house--for charity's sake, though it
was. So you must know now that you've nothing to fear from my love."
"Is it real love--tell me?" she asked, her head nestling comfortably
against his arm.
"It's the realest thing about me--it's grown to be the whole of me,"
Loveland broke out. "Nothing else matters. That's why I should have had
to kill myself if you'd been hurt--or--but I can't speak of it. Thank
God, you're alive and not injured. Yes, that's enough for me--it's got
to be enough, and I ought to be happy though you're going to belong to
another man."
"_You_ wouldn't have wanted to marry me, any way," said Lesley.
"I wouldn't have wanted to--when it's the thing I'd give all but one
year of my life for--the one year I'd keep to be happy in with you."
"Just a poor little humble story writer--and you would really like to
marry It?"
"Don't torture me," said Loveland. "I've had about all I can stand. If I
were the impostor you think me----"
"I _don't_ think you an impostor," replied Lesley, beginning to speak in
quite a natural tone of voice again, though she kept the support of
Loveland's arm. "I never said I did. I only asked you once, why I should
have more faith in you than others had? But I'd be ready to take you on
faith, if you were ready to take me without a fortune."
The blood rushed to Loveland's face, which had been pale and drawn. "Is
it true--do you mean it?" he stammered. "_Do_ you care for me a little?"
"A great deal," said Lesley. "Too much, I used to think on the ship; but
I don't think so now, because you're different. It's the real you I
loved all the time. The miracle's happened, you know. _I'm seeing the
other side of the moon._ But wouldn't it be doing you an injury to marry
you, when you and your family counted on a great heiress?"
"It was the other _Me_, who hadn't the sense to see what a beastly,
caddish thing it would be to marry a girl just because she was rich--a
girl I didn't love," Val hurried on. "Oh, Lesley, you're not playing
with me, are you? I couldn't marry any other woman but you."
"What about the old family home that's tumbling to ruin?"
"It will have to tumble."
"And your family?"
"There's only my mother, and what she wants most is my happiness. My
love for you has somehow shown me how to appreciate her more. But,
Lesley--what about Sidney Cremer? Do you care enough for me--a man you
say you're 'taking on faith'--to give up all Cremer's money and to throw
him over for my sake?"
"I can't throw him over."
"Then how can we be married?"
"And I can't give up his money," she added.
"Lesley! Have you raised me up only to let me fall deeper into the pit
than ever?"
"We both fell into the pit together, didn't we?" she said, laughing a
little. "If you go deeper, I'll go deeper, too, for we're going to stand
or fall together now."
"Then, what do you mean?" asked Val. "You'll have to send one of us
away--me or Sidney Cremer."
"Let me sit up, and we'll talk it over," said Lesley, with a quaint
cheerfulness and matter-of-factness that utterly bewildered Loveland. "I
feel so well and so happy now, that I believe I can find my way out of
any entanglement so long as we go hand in hand." And sitting on the wet
grass in her thick fur coat she twisted herself so lithely about that
there could no longer be any fear of obscure injuries.
Val, resting on one knee, took the little grey mitten that she held out
to him, and pressed the hand in it. But there was bitterness in his
voice as he answered. "This is an entanglement that you'll find no way
out of. You can't keep us both."
"You don't trust me," Lesley reproached him. "Just wait before deciding
to give me up, until we've thoroughly thrashed things out, beginning at
the beginning, and going right on to the end."
"I shan't decide to give you up; nothing can make me do that now,"
Loveland said. "It's Cremer who'll have to go to the wall."
Lesley laughed. "Like his motor. Poor, _poor_ car--I'm sorry for it, but
it hasn't sacrificed itself in vain. I was beginning to wonder how on
earth to bring all this about. That was what kept me awake last night,
if I'm to tell the whole truth. It _had_ to come some way, and it had to
come soon. Well, Sidney's motor-car has solved the difficulty, and
Sidney will be glad, for my happiness is the same to him as his own. And
now I've gone so far, I may as well confess that from the very minute I
saw you play 'Lord Bob,' in that dingy little hall at Ashville, I
hoped--oh, but hoped more than _anything_, that you would ask me to
marry you. Please, please, don't be shocked, but I invited you to come
here just for that."
Loveland was utterly at sea, or would have been if her hand had not lain
in his, and if she had not begged him to wait and trust her.
"Yet, you were engaged to Sidney Cremer," he said, half to himself.
"I was bound to Sidney just as I am now, and just as I have been for the
last three years. And I wasn't tired of him then, not a bit, and I'm
not, even at this minute. But I love _you_--the Real You."
"Darling!" exclaimed Loveland. Yet he marvelled at her. This was a phase
of the girl's character--her true and noble character--which he was at a
loss to understand.
"You were very cold to me that night at Ashville," he ventured to say.
"I was trying you. I wasn't quite sure, you see, which side of the moon
I was looking at; and if after all it was only the same old side, I
didn't want to let myself be dazzled by it, as I couldn't help being at
first. Oh, but don't misunderstand me! It wasn't the reflected
light--the light of a high position--that had dazzled me. That never
mattered. It was a different light--a light that never shone on land or
sea, but shines just once, they say, in every woman's life. That means
what I said before: that I was in love with you on the boat, even when I
laughed at your talk of love. I felt more like crying than laughing,
though, because the sort of love you gave me in return for mine wasn't
worth my having. I was too good for it."
"Heaven knows you were," Val admitted, humbly.
"But I'm not too good--no, not good enough, for what you give me now;
and that's why I'm so frightfully happy, and delighted that Sidney's
motor jumped over conventionalities instead of my having to take the
leap myself. Instead, I just leaped with the car, and you leaped,
too--and everything is going to be Heavenly for all the rest of our
lives."
"I don't quite see how, if you're not tired of Cremer," said Loveland.
"Don't be jealous of Sidney any more; I liked making you a little
jealous of him at first--after I saw how you felt. It was fun for
me--and I thought it was good for you. But now it's different. I'm
sure--_sure_--about the other side of the moon, and I want you to be as
happy as I am. Oh, don't speak yet! I must go on a little further. You
know, I told you I had a telegram this morning?"
"Yes--yes."
"Well, you thought it was from Sidney Cremer, and I didn't contradict.
Lots of things you've thought lately I let you go on thinking, without
contradicting. The telegram was from little Fanny Milton--about you."
"About me?"
"She knew from a journalist who is a friend of hers that you'd come to
this part of the country with a theatrical troupe, and they'd found out
that the actors were playing pieces of Sidney Cremer's at Ashville. They
talked it over together--Fanny and this Mr. Kidd. He wanted to know for
his paper's sake where you'd disappeared to when the company broke up.
Last evening he suggested that she should telegraph to me. They both
thought I might have heard about you. So that's why I felt that you
wouldn't be stopping on as my chauffeur very long."
"Did Miss Milton say in the telegram that New York had discovered its
mistake about me?"
"No, she didn't say that, though it was a long telegram. I expect she
thought I would have seen the newspapers. Well, I haven't; but I can put
two and two together quite nicely, and I was sure that you'd come into
your own again with the great American public--perhaps partly through
Fanny Milton's Mr. Kidd. I'd be willing to wager all the profits of
Sidney Cremer's next play or novel--if I had them--that you can now go
back, if you like, and get without any difficulty the heiress you came
across the water for."
"I'm sick of the very word heiress!" protested Loveland, with complete
sincerity.
"That's the new You. And what a very new You it is, when one comes to
think of it! Only a few weeks old. But it's the only real one. The other
was a shell which has broken."
"You broke it," said Val.
"I cracked it a little, maybe, on the boat; but it took a big hammer to
smash it, and now I've swept all the fragments away. There's just the
real you and the real me in the world--with the wonderful light from the
other side of the moon shining on us two--and Sidney Cremer."
"Oh, Sidney Cremer!" cried Loveland. "He still stands between us."
"No, he doesn't. If you love me you'll have to love Sidney, too, because
Sidney Cremer and I are one, and his money is mine; because I earn it,
and _don't_ I enjoy it, too! Haven't I enjoyed it for three whole years,
since all of a sudden from being a poor girl, dependent on Aunt Barbara,
I waked up to find myself a rich one--oh, not rich in your meaning of
the word, not rich enough to line castle walls with gold and diamonds,
but rich enough to do nice little things for an old Kentucky farm-house,
and perhaps even to help restore ancient British strongholds if the lord
of them and of my heart will give me so much happiness.
"You--you are Sidney Cremer?" Loveland could only stammer the words
stupidly.
"Yes. Are you so surprised that I'm clever enough to make a success with
my brain and my pen? I often wondered when you'd begin to suspect--but
you never did. And I was wondering, too, whether Sidney Cremer would
have to propose to you in the end. It's been great fun keeping my secret
from the world, never letting anyone know the real truth except Auntie
and the Ashville cousins--though Fanny Milton and lots of other
acquaintances thought I was a _friend_ of Sidney Cremer's--perhaps even
a poor relation of his. But the most fun of all has been keeping the
secret from you till the time was ripe to tell. Do you remember saying
the other day, '_Sidney Cremer is everything?_' I told you I'd remind
you of that some time, and ask if you could say it again. Can you now?"
"Sidney Cremer is everything," repeated Loveland. Whereupon Lesley gave
one of her little soft, cooing sighs, and let him take her into his
arms.
They were both very muddy and mossy, and rather bruised and shaken, if
they had not been too deeply absorbed in the feelings of their hearts to
think of the feelings of their bodies. And perhaps a boggy field with no
shelter save a motor-car lying rakishly on one side, was a queer place
for an engagement between a young English Marquis and a celebrated
American novelist-playwright. But for Lesley and Loveland it was
perfect. Sidney Cremer's vivid fancy had never created a more enchanting
scene for the love-making of hero and heroine. And though, if there had
been an audience, it would have seen the stage lit up only with pale
rays of wintry sunshine, for the girl and the man it was illumined with
ineffable light from the other side of the moon.
THE END
* * * * *
BOOKS BY
C. N. and A. M. WILLIAMSON
SET IN SILVER
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ETC., ETC.
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